Frameline 2009: Drool, Rückenwind, Pornography

Read my previous Frameline post here.

In writing about the films I’ve seen during this year’s festival, I’ve looked for unifying themes. I figure my posts are scattered enough as it is—might as well try for some semblance of cohesion. Luckily for me, the three movies I saw after Dare have one element in common. You know, other than the whole gay thing.

OK, I won’t keep you in suspense any longer. I’m talking about fantasy. Now these are vastly different movies: Drool (2009) is a dark comedy; Rückenwind (2009)—or Light Gradient—is a surreal drama; and Pornography (2009) bills itself as a thriller, but I’d label it horror. All three, however, contain some level of fantasy, whether in terms of plot or execution.

In some ways, Drool is a fairy tale. Well, a fairy tale with an abusive husband, homicide, and lesbian sex, but that’s not any more extreme than what you’d find in Grimm’s. (Seriously, have you read any of those stories lately? Pretty damn rough.) Anora (Laura Harring) is a belabored housewife who dreams of a better life. Her life takes a turn for the interesting when she meets the vibrant Imogene Cochran (Jill Marie Jones) and, uh, shoots her asshole husband.

Warning: mildly NSFW, minor spoilers for Drool, Rückenwind, and Pornography.

Frameline 2009: Little Joe, Dare

Frameline! I can’t tell you how excited I am to be covering the annual LGBT film fest for this blog—this is the first time I’ve reviewed exclusively for Foreign Steamy Romance. Also, the festival is especially awesome this year. At least, from what I’ve seen so far. But it’s been over two weeks since I last posted, so before I launch into anything, let’s talk blog changes:

• More direct post titles. I know you all love my clever post titles, most of which probably make sense only to me. But in the interest of making things more Google-friendly, thereby allowing new readers to find this blog, post titles will now get straight to the point. You’ll have to actually read on for my terrible puns and obscure references.
• More frequent posting. That’s right—no more unannounced two-week hiatuses.
• Less frequent posting. Wait, what? Well, I think it’s safe to assume I generally won’t be posting more than once a week either. With my other writing commitments (in addition to my positions at CultureMob and the SF Bay Guardian, I’m occasionally contributing to the Chronicle), I may not have the energy/motivation for anything more frequent than that.
• Same amount of shameless self-promotion. What can I say? Don’t worry, I’ll get this out of the way quickly. Read my 11 Things on vampires from last Thursday’s Chronicle! Follow me on Twitter! Become a fan of Foreign Steamy Romance on Facebook! See, that wasn’t so bad.

Anyway. Let’s talk about movies and sex!

Warning: mild spoilers for Dare.

Am I My Sister’s Keeper?

Did hell freeze over? Did I actually like a Catherine Breillat movie? That’s right, I watched and enjoyed À ma soeur! (or Fat Girl, as it’s known here). OK, maybe “enjoyed” isn’t really the right word, given that it’s about a miserable, overweight 12-year-old watching as her prettier 14-year-old sister loses her innocence. But still. After suffering through Romance and Anatomie de l’enfer, I wasn’t expecting much, so I was pleasantly surprised by the depth and relative subtlety of À ma soeur! It’s not even that pretentious! The reason this film worked for me was that the focus was on the relationship between Anaïs (Anaïs Reboux) and her sister Elena (Roxane Mesquida), rather than on, you know, tampon tea. Sure, there’s loads of explicit erotic imagery and plenty of cringe-worthy scenes, but Breillat shows a fair amount of restraint here. This is a movie about sisters and body image and sexual development. The best part is, I can say that without feeling like I’m totally talking out of my ass. These themes are obvious but they’re not shoved down your throat, and rather than build a flimsy movie around them, Breillat creates an actual story that speaks for itself. (Don’t worry—I’ll surely go back to hating her work soon.)

Warnings: NSFW, spoilers for À ma soeur!

Bad Sex: You Make My Heart Sing

OK, first order of business: shameless self-promotion. Did you know you can be a fan of Foreign Steamy Romance—this blog, not the genre—on Facebook? Well, you can, and you totally should, even if you’re only a fair-weather reader. I’ll wait.

Also, I’m now the San Francisco City Editor for the CultureMob blog. If you just can’t get enough of my writing (aww, shucks), or you want a heads-up on what’s going on in the city, check us out.

But enough about me. I’m about to unveil a new feature on this blog, and in order to prepare yourselves, I recommend watching this trailer for Wild Things (1998):

Awesome, right? I’ve mentioned Wild Things before, because it’s probably my favorite trashy movie of all time. It’s also the perfect film with which to introduce Bad Sex, a feature in which I look at the sex in terrible movies. I’m not talking about awkward sex scenes in otherwise good films; I’m talking about sexually explicit movies that are just all-around awful. I mean, yes, I love Wild Things, but let’s not shit ourselves—it’s a total train wreck.

Warnings: NSFW, spoilers for Wild Things.

You Can Look, But You Can’t Touch

Several nights ago, a friend and I found ourselves in Esta Noche, a gay bar in the Mission. Now, there’s plenty of ridiculousness to relate, but for the purposes of this blog, I’ll just mention the enormous self-portrait of a naked Joe Dallesandro on the wall. “How perfect!” I declared. “I just rented Flesh so I could write about it on my blog.” “Wow,” my friend remarked, still staring at the painting. “That’s a huge penis.” And, in his defense, it was.

Yesterday, I finally sat down and watched Flesh (1968). I’m not really sure where to begin. I enjoyed it, sure, but it’s really less a film and more a 90-minute ode to Dallesandro, who spends most of his time completely naked. In the spirit of the movie’s scattered, plotless meandering, I’m going to offer my own non-linear commentary. (Yeah, it’s is a cop-out because I couldn’t figure out how to approach this post. There will be lots of titillating screencaps, so bear with me.)

First shot of the movie, and it does a good job of letting you know what you’re in for. Keep in mind this is held for two whole minutes. If you’re not comfortable with staring at Joe Dallesandro for that long, you might as well move along now.

Warning: NSFW.

Reunited and It Feels So Good

It’s kind of surprising that I haven’t written extensively on Y tu mamá también (2001) yet. I guess I was waiting for the right moment. In part, I was inspired by Rudo y Cursi, which I got a chance to see a few nights ago. The film isn’t a romance and it’s hardly steamy—aside from a couple locker room scenes. It does, however, reunite Gael García Bernal and Diego Luna, so it’s hard not to think of the movie that made them both famous. I was also inspired by Little Ashes, which I wrote about in my last post. One of the (many) things wrong with that movie was the lack of chemistry between the main characters, who were supposed to be caught in a torturous, impossible love affair. Watching García Bernal and Luna together, I was impressed by how naturally they play off one another. In Rudo y Cursi, they’re brothers, so no sexual tension there. (I mean, it’s not a French film.) In Y tu mamá también, however, there’s plenty of subtext as the actors portray a complicated and dynamic relationship between two exceedingly sex-starved friends. And, more to the point, they make it real.

Now, OK, the actors deserve much of the credit, but naturally the script has a lot to do with the plausibility of these films. Little Ashes is kind of lousy, aside from the performances. And while Y tu mamá también certainly relies on its leads, it’s also a strong movie in its own right. Point is, I’m going to focus more on the progression of the relationship between Julio and Tenoch in the film rather than on the actors, despite the fact that their chemistry is the key asset. As I discussed in my last post, that spark is largely inexplicable. Why do Robert Pattinson and Javier Beltrán always seem uncomfortable in Little Ashes? Why do García Bernal and Luna seem made for each other? Those aren’t really questions I can answer.

Warning: NSFW, spoilers for Y tu mamá también.

Oda a Salvador Dalí

I’m back! Apologies for the extra-lengthy hiatus. First there was Europe, then there was jetlag, and then there was the whole search for a real job thing. (I’ll let you know how that last one works out.) But I’m finally ready to dive back into the exciting world of foreign steamy romance! I only wish I weren’t about to talk about a movie that’s, well, dreadfully boring.

When I say that Little Ashes (2008) is the worst movie about the homoerotic relationship between surrealist painter Salvador Dalí and poet Federico García Lorca I’m probably being a bit unfair. As far as I can tell, Little Ashes is the only film that touches on the topic. Still, it’s … not good. This is a movie that manages to explore a contentious and controversial relationship between two world-famous artists—one of whom is renowned for his unparalleled eccentricity—and manages to make it dull. Frankly, I can’t think of a bigger crime. In fact, if Dalí were to see Little Ashes, he’d be less offended by the overt physicality between Lorca and himself (something he vehemently denied), and more bothered by his portrayal. This Dalí, played by Robert Pattinson, may be a genius, but he comes across as an insufferable tool.

Warning: spoilers for Little Ashes.

A Foreign Steamy Romance Hiatus—Emphasis on the Foreign

I realize I have been seriously lagging when it comes to keeping this blog updated. Rest assured, I am not giving up on my quest to bring readers the most gratuitous screencaps and explicit commentary on the steamiest foreign romances. I have, however, been somewhat occupied with real-life stuff, namely my impending trip to Europe.

Yes, Europe! I’m off to have a foreign steamy romance of my own. Well, maybe. I’ll be gone till May 5, so don’t expect any new content until next month. Please don’t give up on this blog, though! While I can’t promise a documentation of my European adventures, I do assure you that I’ll be back with the stunning content you’ve come to know and tolerate, just as soon as I get over my jet lag.

Until then, I wish you all well. And if I run into foreign steamy favorites Louis Garrel or Catherine Deneuve while I’m in Paris, you’ll be the first to know!

I Like It Better When It Hurts

Over a week without a post? What crazy excuse will he come up with this time? I know, I know, I’m not the most consistent blogger, but I really have been very busy! On Saturday, Sunday, and Monday, I spent most of the day (and much of the night) as an extra in All About Evil, the campy horror comedy written and directed by Peaches Christ. Sadly, it’s not a foreign steamy romance, but I’m fairly certain it’s going to be awesome—and if you squint really hard, you might be able to spot me during the finale! Anyway, I’ll be sure to plug that again when it’s released.

For now, let’s return to the subject at hand. Histoire d’O (1975) is one of those films I decided I had to watch for this blog, against my better judgment. Next time I’ll go with my intuition rather than loyalty to my readers. I barely made it through this movie. I can deal with softcore porn, despite how grating the music is. And I can accept pretension, because it’s often worth a laugh. Boredom, however, is a deal-breaker, and Histoire d’O is one of the dullest movies I have ever watched. I literally struggled to keep my eyes open for what may go down as the longest 90 minutes of my life. I know the standards of what is and isn’t sexy have largely changed since the ’70s, but I have a hard time believing there was ever anything titillating about this. Sure, there’s a lot of female nudity, but I can point you to about 50 other films with just as much—and without a score that makes you want to stab yourself in the ear. (Have I mentioned the music is bad? Moving along then.)

Warning: spoilers for Histoire d’O.

It’s a Bird, It’s a Plane, It’s—a Penis?

I finally saw Watchmen on Sunday. Loved, loved, loved it. I’m not surprised by the critical reaction, which has been all kinds of mixed—and I can certainly see the film’s faults. On the other hand, I’m a fan (albeit recent convert) of the comics, and it’s a pretty pitch-perfect adaptation. But this is a blog about sex in movies, which means I’ll spare you my long-winded review of the film. Instead, I’ll focus on the same thing everyone else is focusing on: Dr. Manhattan‘s big blue penis. I think the graph above—which, sadly, I cannot take credit for—pretty much says it all.

So what’s the big deal, eh? In the comics, Dr. Manhattan is frequently naked, so it figures that the film adaptation would follow suit. Was I a bit surprised by how frequent and prominent his dick was? Sure. Was I shocked? Hardly. Then again, I watch a lot of foreign steamy romance, where full-frontal male nudity is the norm. And this is America, damn it. Graphic violence is one thing, but an actual onscreen penis—that’s crossing the line. A while back, I wrote a post on the absence of manparts in mainstream U.S. cinema, so, you know. It makes sense that the American public wouldn’t embrace Dr. Manhattan’s ample smurfcock with open arms.