Behind the Velvet Curtain

Jules Feiffer: “Kill My Mother”

At the age of 86, Jules Feiffer still has the ability to reinvent himself and stretch in surprising new directions. Knowing how I love him, the Mad Marchioness got me his new graphic novel Kill My Mother for Christmas. While the graphic novel is a relatively new art form, the book brings Feiffer back to his origins as an apprentice working for Will Eisner on the dark, hard-boiled comic The Spirit. Kill My Mother is a gritty noir, set in the 1930s and 40s, drawing from Hammett and Chandler and Billy Wilder and Howard Hawks and James M. Cain. What grim humor it contains is comedy of character. The secretary of a sleazy private eye is drawn into a missing person’s case, with a series of Chandlersque coincidences also drawing in her teenage daughter (who is motivated by the titular Elektra Complex) and her boyfriend, and others, on a twisty, turny journey that takes us from “Bay City” (isn’t that wear Starsky and Hutch are from?) to Hollywood to the war-torn South Pacific. Most impressively, the story is driven entirely by its female characters, including (spoiler alert) some we could have sworn were male. If you only know Feiffer’s children’s books, or those political cartoons with philosophizing dancers, then you may not realize how brutal he can be. This is the same Feiffer who could create Little Murders and Carnal Knowledge….paired with that New York kid who was raised on a diet of pulp. His draftsmanship is still in fine form, and this looks like a hell of a lot of work for a man of his age. Most impressive. I wonder what the tough old bird is cooking up next?

Trav S.D.’s Guide to the Fred and Ginger Pictures

It may shock you to learn that I hadn’t seen any of the Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movies until less than ten years ago. I had previously seen clips of their dancing, but apparently that had been an insufficient inducement to watch the movies. Many people familiar with my vaudeville book are shocked to learn that I’m not a “musicals person”. The truth is (despite the fact that my favorite movie The Wizard of Oz is a musical) I primarily became interested in vaudeville as an outgrowth of my love for classic comedy. But a few years ago I undertook a project to self-educate myself about musicals (to overcome my own prejudice, and to learn more about many of the folks I had written about in No Applause). I am fairly well versed in them at this point, and can now finesse my earlier position: it’s not that I hate musicals per se; it’s that I don’t indiscriminately love them as a genre. In sum, I am extremely finicky;  I only hate most of them.

I actually watched the Fred and Ginger ones a bit earlier than that project though — when I was researching No Applause. And of course I love them. People go on so about their dancing, it’s seldom mentioned how funny they are. Fred and Ginger are terrific light comedians, charming singers (and these movies contain some of the greatest songs in the American popular canon), the scripts are sophisticated and witty, and I have truly grown to appreciate their dancing.

Two of my favorite people in the world: Jules Feiffer and the Mad Marchioness are Fred and Ginger fans. Neither one can go wrong in matters of taste.

Unlike Astaire, Rogers had already been in over two dozen movies at the time they teamed, including the seminal 42nd Street and Gold Diggers of 1933. Though Astaire had been a star of vaudeville and Broadway, he was the cinema newbie at the time.

Flying Down to Rio (1933)

The first pairing of Astaire and Rogers, although they do not star—they are about 5^th and 6^th in the billing. But their personalities shine far brighter than those of the leads (Dolores Del Rio, et al). A bandleader (slash songwriter slash amateur pilot) falls in love with a Brazilian heiress he met at a Miami hotel, and books his band down in Rio. It turns out she is set to marry a landowner, so various schemes ensue. But that’s not the important part. This is the movie with the famous set piece of several dozen chorus girls doing their dances on the wings of flying airplanes. It also has the song “Rio by the Sea-o”. Character actors include Eric Blore and Edward Everett Horton as (what else?) hotel managers. Fred plays one of the musicians, Ginger the band’s singer. They dance together on one of the numbers. It was on the basis of this, and their chemistry in acting together, that they were made into a screen team.

The Gay Divorcee (1934)

Fred and Ginger’s first starring vehicle, adapted from the Broadway show The Gay Divorce Astaire had appeared in the previous year. Contains songs by various songwriters, including Cole Porter’s gorgeous “Night and Day”, and a dance craze song called “The Continental”. The plot is farcical and actually quite dumb—has a million holes in it and is completely illogical, but who cares? It starts in Paris. Fred is a musical comedy star and his friend Edward Everett Horton a lawyer. He meets Ginger on the ship to London and accidentally rips her dress. he wants to see her again but she totally brushes him off. He finally finds her again in London and gets the same treatment. It turns out she is married and seeking a divorce. The lawyer arranges for Ginger to be seen meeting with a gigolo so there will be grounds for the divorce. She mistakes Fred for the gigolo. The film remains hugely entertaining for all the usual reasons, the performances (including these plus the delightful Eric Blore), the songs, the art deco art direction etc., etc, etc. It (like most of the Fred and Ginger musicals) was directed by Mark Sandrich, a former silent film director who was also the father of TV director Jay Sandrich.

Roberta (1935)

The original Broadway stage production (with songs by Jerome Kern and Otto Harbachi) featured Bob Hope in his breakout role, the one that took him from vaudeville to stardom. It must have been galling to him not to have been cast in the film! In the film version Fred and Ginger share the limelight with Randolph Scott (who’s perfectly cast as a lumbering Midwestern football player) and Irene Dunn. It’s a perfect, magical 30s comedy. Fred is a bandleader stranded in France in want of a gig. Scott is just his friend, tagging along, but he suddenly remembers that his Aunt Minnie is the most sought-after dress-maker in Paris (under the name “Roberta”). They go and seek her patronage. She turns out to be a delightful character…having all these American virtues, appreciation for the down-to-earth, honesty, heartiness…but at the same time able to function in the glamorous world of Paris fashion. Irene Dunn plays her assistant and near-partner in the shop, definitely being groomed for succession. Rogers is masquerading as a French countess, but is really a singer and Astaire’s old flame. It’s obvious Scott and Dunn’s characters have chemistry but they’re slow in realizing it. Then Roberta dies, bringing Scott’s former fiancé, a gold-digger out of the woodwork, so now he’s confused. He and Dunn should be partners in the shop but now she’s mad at him. Then it turns out Dunn is a Russian princess! Somehow they all get together in the end. The awesome songs include “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” (which is just kind of shoehorned in there) and “Lovely to Look At”.

Top Hat (1935) 

The musicals of the 30s tend to transcend the usual disposableness that normally characterizes the genre, usually because of the beautiful art deco art direction, great ensemble casts of Broadway veterans, snappy (if light) scripts, and occasionally great songs. Top Hat is generally thought of as the best of the lot. Irving Berlin wrote a half dozen songs, two of which are complete classics, the brilliant “Cheek to Cheek” and the title song, which is really called “Top Hat, White Tie and Tails”. The script is good, well constructed farce and holds our attention, revolving around a mistaken identity. Rogers and Astaire fall in love (after she has complained about his tap dancing in the room over hers), but she mistakenly comes to believe he is the man who has married her friend (who is actually Edward Everertt Horton). The action is first laid in London, and then in a Venice that looks like one of the sets from The Wizard of Oz. The funniest part (surprise) is Eric Blore as the butler!

Follow the Fleet (1936)

Not as strong as most of the others. A weird idea…an innocent Hollywood movie about love affairs between sailors and the women who are infatuated with them. Sure, there are intimations of sex, but they are very sanitized, never sordid. It as though the whole thing were being touched with gloves on, viewed through goggles. Why choose a subject that you can’t REALLY do? Perhaps they thought they would titillate just as much as they could, which wasn’t very much. Astaire and Rogers are one couple (former dance partners, now he’s in the Navy and she works in a dance hall). The other couple is fellow sailor Randolph Scott and Harriet Hilliard (of Ozzie and Harriet) as Rogers’ sex starved sister, who actually gets to sing a couple of numbers. The film doesn’t have the strong farcical premise most of their good ones have, in fact it doesn’t seem to have much of a plot at all. Nor does it have the strong cast of character actors and comic relief, or the sparkling dialogue of their better ones. Ultimately the film even resorts to the Mickey and Judy plot device – putting on a show to save the family boat. “Let’s Face the Music and Dance” is the most famous song from the score. Fred plays some jazz piano in addition to great dance numbers. Ginger gets a solo dance number in a segment that reminds one of Ruby Keeler.

Swing Time (1936)

Directed by George Stevens! The dancing and songs are so great in these films the fact that they are great light comedies is often overlooked. This one has Victor Moore and Eric Blore. Astaire is a dancer and gambler. He is about to get married but his friends sabotage the wedding. He hops a freight train to New York in his tuxedo with his pal Pops (Moore). He meets Ginger when she tries to abscond with his quarter at a cigarette machine. She turns out to be a dance instructor. He of course takes the class, pretends he can’t dance, and then shows off when the moment is right. They fall in love, but the outstanding fiancé is an issue. In the end she is about to marry Fred’s rival, a bandleader, but Fred sabotages the wedding using the same tricks his friends used on him. The film has the terrific songs “Pick Yourself Up” and “The Way You Look Tonight” (possibly the most beautiful and romantic song ever). There is one blackface number which is wonderfully staged but intrinsically heinous and tough to transcend.

 

Shall We Dance? (1937)

Fred and Ginger once again abetted by Edward Everett Horton and Eric Blore. Lots of great music by the Gershwins, including the classics “Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off” and the sublime “They Can’t Take That Away from Me”. Lots of great dances in this. The plot casts Astaire as a ballet dancer named “Petrov” (who is really a down to earth American named Pete Peters who secretly wants to tap dance and is in love with Rogers night club star). As in all the films, Rogers plays hard to get, and the gist of the farce is that the press thinks they are married, but they are not. The plot starts in Paris, then shipboard (where there is a number in the art deco engine room, based around the rhythm of the pistons, as assisted by a convenient crew of ignominiously anonymous darkies), then finally they hit New York (where Rogers and Astaire do a great dance routine in the park on roller skates). Astaire gets to have much fun mixing ballet and tap. He also has a fun bit where he dances to a Victrola that winds down on him.

Carefree (1938)

The plots of Fred and Ginger’s better films feel akin to screwball comedies. In this one Astaire is a shrink, Rogers his patient, the fiancé of his best friend (Ralph Bellamy)…but she falls in love with the doctor. In most of their films, Astaire is in love with Rogers while she plays hard to get; here it is a bit reversed. Some funny bits with Rogers running amok, first under an anesthetic, then under hypnosis. And Astaire is completely believable as a shrink—a different sort of role for him. I love Astaire’s diction and accent—though he’s from the midwest, he sounds urbane, New York, upper class. I note there’s almost always one or more nances and/or dopes in the cast…I’m guessing to make the somewhat fey dandy Astaire seem relatively macho by comparison as the hero. Here it is Franklin Pangborn as the nance, Ralph Bellamy as the dope. Also in the cast is an uncredited Hattie McDaniel. The Irving Berlin songs are perfectly wonderful, though none of them in this film were hits. The most interesting dance number has Astaire playing harmonica while he taps, then dancing with golf clubs and balls.

The Story of Vernon and Irene Castle (1939)

The last film of the original series. Lots of music but all period stuff from the teens. An interesting hybrid form (bio pic and romantic musical comedy) and a nice stretch for them, which they pull off just fine. Not just an Astaire-Rogers vehicle, but also a bio-pic about the century’s greatest dance team, whom the creators (very laudably) sought to remind the public about as their memory began to fade. The story has its share of drama and even tragedy, and the pair carry the heavier acting required very well. As all Hollywood bio-pics of the period do, the film plays havoc with the facts, but its still a wonderful picture. The art direction is lovely. The dancing is great but you also get a dance education: you get to see what the Castle Walk looked like, etc. Other treats include a young Walter Brennan and as their manservant, and Lew Fields playing himself in a larger role than might be expected. They even re-create the barber sketch that Castle had done at Fields’ theater early in the century.

At this stage, the team parted ways. Rogers, who had continued to appear in starring roles without Astaire throughout the partnership, wanted to pursue dramatic roles (she was to win the Best Actress Oscar in 1941 for Kitty Foyle). Astaire continued to make his mark in the musical genre as both a performer and choreographer in films like Holiday Inn  and Easter Parade. Times were changing, their musicals together were not doing as well at the box office, and their studio RKO was beginning to hit the financial problems that world remain with them until they ceased production in the mid 1950s.

The Barkleys of Broadway (1949)

Although not originally intended that way, this became the magical Fred and Ginger reunion film. Made by the Freed Unit at MGM, Fred’s original screen partner for The Barkleys of Broadway was to have been his co-star from Easter Parade, Judy Garland, who was “unwell” at the time. The accident was most fortuitous; the Comden-Green script feels very “meta”.  It seems to cleverly play with our nostalgia for Astaire-Rodgers of the 30s, and with what we know about the pair in real life. In the 30s films the plots always ended with the two of them getting together (after she has played hard to get throughout the picture). Here instead they are a married theatrical couple…it is sort of as though we are catching up with their screen couple 10 or 15 years later. In the story, Ginger wants to get out from under his controlling thumb (in real life Astaire was the choreographer), and do dramatic acting instead (as Rogers had done throughout the forties). The cast features Oscar Levant. Hans Conreid has a funny little bit as a modern artist. Billie Burke plays a socialite. The songs by Ira Gershwin and Harry Warren are undistinguished; there are no new hits (although “They Can’t Take That Away From Me” from Shall We Dance is nostalgically trotted out). The film contains an amazing dance number where Fred dances with countless pairs of shoes. Most of the numbers in this one are grating and not germane to the story though. The 30s were certainly better that “the Boring Years”. On the plus side, this is the team’s only film in color.

This was a one time pairing. Rogers had many great moments ahead of her, like in Monkey Business (1952) and Harlow (1965), although as time wore on, her screen career fizzled and most of her work was on television. Astaire remained a big screen presence, with many more classic musicals ahead of him like The Band Wagon (1953), Funny Face (1957) and  Silk Stockings (1957). He appeared in hit films as late as Towering Inferno (1974, for which he won an Oscar), and Ghost Story (1981).

For more on screen comedy don’t miss my new book: Chain of Fools: Silent Comedy and Its Legacies from Nickelodeons to Youtube, just released by Bear Manor Media, also available from amazon.com etc etc etc

To learn more about vaudeville veterans, consult No Applause, Just Throw Money: The Book That Made Vaudeville Famous, available at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and wherever nutty books are sold.

“Gigot”: Jackie Gleason’s Art Film

Today is Jackie Gleason’s birthday – – a fitting time to talk about his most unique film, which is really saying something since his career also included Skidoo. 

The ultimate flowering of Gleason’s Poor Soul character was his 1962 film Gigot. Gleason wrote the story (turned into a screenplay by John Patrick, author of The Teahouse of the Augist Moon), which transplants his mute imbecile character to France in the 1920s, mashing up elements of numerous Chaplin and Tati films with The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Gleason originally wanted Orson Welles to direct it, but Welles was still anathema in Hollywood and 20^th Century Fox would not endorse the idea. It would undoubtedly have been a better film if they had done so. Instead they gave the reins to Gene Kelly, who was living in Paris at the time. Kelly allowed Gleason to give full vent to his self-indulgent instincts. There is very little humor in the film; most of it is maudlin kitsch, with Gleason constantly striving for our sympathy in a misguided effort to be Chaplinesque. Gleason does some of his funny dancing, and gives us a few slapstick moments, but most of the time he is busy being ridiculed and taken advantage of by cruel people, even as he cares for animals, a small child and a woman of the streets. It’s hard to be a Saint in the City. Gleason ought to be applauded for his ambition, but his notion to make the story French should set off alarm bells. The self-conscious bid to be “artistic” backfired with both press and public. Gleason was a great artist, but he made much better art when he stuck to what he knew, which was what went on at a tenement on Chauncey Street in Bushwick, Brooklyn.

For more on classic comedy don’t my new book: Chain of Fools: Silent Comedy and Its Legacies from Nickelodeons to Youtube, just released by Bear Manor Media, also available from amazon.com etc etc etc

For more on show biz history, consult No Applause, Just Throw Money: The Book That Made Vaudeville Famous, available at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and wherever nutty books are sold.

Dueling Harlows (Featuring the Battle of the Carols)

This is part of a continuing series on Hollywood show biz bio-pics. The preceding three parts (this, this, and this) focused on bio-pics from the classic studio era. An upcoming post will cover some from the 1970s through the present. In between, this transitional one.

In mid 1965, a rare thing happened: two different Hollywood movies were released that had the exact same title and the exact same subject: the life and career of the original Blonde Bombshell Jean Harlow.

Harlow (released June, 1965)

This film is a stepping stone to the modern era, containing franker attitudes about sex than earlier studio bio-pics, and modern techniques like location shooting and real exteriors (rather than studio sets and back lots). But it is still (despite being based on a biographical book) almost entirely fictionalized. The greater sensationalization makes it feel like many of the later films we talked about in part three of our earlier series: I’ll Cry Tomorrow, Love Me or Leave Me, The Buster Keaton Story, The Helen Morgan Story, The Joker is Wild and Jeanne Eagels. In fact it plays VERY like another of our favorite films Valley of the Dolls, released two years later.

In this major Paramount release, Carroll Baker portrays Harlow in a vehicle that seems more geared toward Baker’s own recent screen roles than anything that ever happened in the life of Harlow. Not that Harlow’s life was completely without its tawdry touches. It’s just that this movie feels like Heaven and Earth were moved to tweak Harlow’s life into a suitable follow-up to films like Baby Doll, Something Wild and The Carpetbaggers. 

The film takes the oddly prurient position that Harlow was a naif who wished to maintain her virginity, even at the cost of fending off every mouth-breathing wolf who wants to help her career in exchange for sexual favors. Riding shotgun is her fictional manager Arthur Landau (played by Red Buttons) who spouts some gobble-de-gook about how they’ll create a screen character “every man will want but can’t have”. Soundtrack, art direction, hair and costumes all egregiously offend the achronometer, in roughly that order. The sets often make me feel like I must be watching the Jayne Mansfield Story.

The film starts out with Harlow being cast as a bit player in what are plainly meant to suggest Hal Roach comedies (since that’s where Harlow got her start), but are heavily fictionalized so there are no recognizable comedians, and they’ve been transplanted to the sound era (despite the fact that they’re full of the kind of slapstick gags that were only common in the silent era). The movie also blows off the messy fact that the teenage Harlow had a husband during these early years, thus making all this blather about her being an innocent virgin at the beginning of her career a load of nonsense.

Then she encounters a succession of fictional men. Howard Hughes has been fictionalized into “Richard Manley” (Leslie Nielsen – – and, yes, that is every bit as entertaining as it sounds). Clark Gable (I guess?) has been transformed into “Jack Harrison” (Mike Connors). Louis B. Mayer has become “Everett Redman” (Martin Balsam). The only real-life characters in the film besides Harlow are her mother (Angela Lansbury), worthless Italian stepfather (Raf Vallone), and her husband Paul Bern (Peter Lawford), whom (God forgive me) constitutes the meat of both this and the other Harlow movie, although neither movie quite knows it. Most bio-pics fail because they bite off more than they can chew (God forgive me again). You have a much better play or movie if you simply choose one major crucial incident or phase rather the entire cradle to grave story. In this case, you’d get such a terrific movie if you just focused on the tragic alliance between Harlow and Bern. (If you don’t already know the legendary story, Bern proved to be a washout on their wedding night. Gay? Impotent? Intimidated? Asexual? I don’t claim to know the answer, but he was found shot to death shortly afteward, many think by his own hand. The irony: Harlow is the most desired female in the country, and her husband can’t consummate the marriage.

The last act of Harlow’s life in this film is an entirely invented phase where she has a downfall, and becomes washed up, and hurting for money. This never happened. She never had any sort of fall. She was at the top of the industry when she passed away. They also turn her into a drunk, creating a libelous scenario where it looks like she EARNS her early death with debauchery when in fact nothing of the kind happened. For some weird reason the film rewrites her fatal kidney ailment as pneumonia. I hope her ghosts haunts those responsible.

Also Harlow (released May, 1965)

This one, starring Carol Lynley, was actually released a few weeks prior to the other one. We list it second because its production was actually launched after the other film’s, but it was a cheapie made in just a few days, so it was able to be rushed to market ahead of the other one. Also I have seen the other one three times — I saw this one for the first time last night.

A small point perhaps but this is way better hair

Also, this one (IMHO) happens to be vastly superior to the one. Though it’s clearly a shoestring affair made for a fraction of the other one (black and white, VERY cheap sets, and above all shot in some short-lived process called “Electronovision”) it does much better on several of the essentials. It gets WAY more of the facts correct (not that that TRULY matters in the entertainment business), and it’s written with a good deal more focus and movement. Where the other film is a soap opera containing numerous scenes featuring people simply talking with no dramatic object of any kind, this one moves along fairly briskly. So many rewards in this film. It introduces us to the interesting and true fact that she actually got her start in Laurel and Hardy films.  It mentions that first husband. It mentions her first hit movie Hell’s Angels. Things like music and hairstyles are WAY more accurate. Her mother is played by actual 30s movie star Ginger Rogers, which has a kind of nice symbolism, don’t you think? (Barry Sullivan plays the useless Italian stepfather).

The film very cleverly references the raciness of pre-code movies in a way the big budget Paramount production couldn’t even touch. There’s, oh, the bra removal scene. The Gothic blood-spurting-on-the-bust-of-Beethoven scene. And many more requisite bath-tub scenes. Louis B. Mayer is an actual character, as is Marie Dressler. In fact the only major fictionalized character in the film is William Powell, whom here has been changed to “William Mansfield” (Efram Zimbalist Jr), probably because Powell was still alive (which was probably why he wasn’t he even mentioned in the other Harlow movie). While it was interesting to include him…everything after the Bern suicide seems to overstay its welcome. And once again, Harlow is made to pay for sins she never committed, and dies in another apparently unwarranted oxygen tent. Oh, well

Had enough yet? Wait there’s more —

Hughes and Harlow: Angels in Hell (1978)

But this will have to wait for some later date….

Buffoon Men: Classic Hollywood Comedians and Queered Masculinity

It’s long been an observation of mine that our greatest (male) film comedians have as one of the chief quivers in their arsenals the ability to go into “female.” What I refer to is distinct from full-on drag, which plenty of them engage in as well. I’m talking about a momentary “quotation” of female behavior, usually employed as a strategy to wriggle out of a thorny situation, usually to confuse, confound, irritate or otherwise muddle an adversary. Chaplin does it in practically every movie; Groucho does it in the early Marx Brothers pictures (especially Monkey Business). But really they all do it.

In light of this observation, and because I have been working so closely with Theatre Askew for the past several months, I was delighted to stumble on Buffoon Men: Classic Hollywood Comedians and Queered Masculinity. Queer studies is not synonymous with LGBT…it is broad enough to include everything remotely gender-ambiguous. It’s not about being gay in other words, but bending the definition of traditional gender roles, in this case exploding traditional notions of masculinity. In this context I can’t help but remember how my father (a fan of westerns) couldn’t bear Woody Allen or Bob Hope, or many of the other “cowardly” comedians. These comedians are men who dare not to be “men”. The very notion, to some, is subversive and threatening.

The existence of this book is the most eloquent explanation I think for where somebody like me and Theatre Askew overlap, for the comedians Scott Balcerzak treats of are all my heroes: Eddie Cantor, Wheeler and Woolsey, Jack Benny, Laurel and Hardy, Abbott & Costello, Jerry Lewis, Bob Hope, and even W.C. Fields! Each hits a different slant: with Fields, it’s the neutered state of middle age; with Cantor, the different conception of the male role within Jewish culture; with Laurel and Hardy, it’s the skirting of homosexuality implied by their close friendship.

It’s an academic tome, thus something of a turgid read. It has its thesis, and sets out to prove it, drip by drip and drop by drop. I found it an enjoyable skim, but it’s main audience I think will be fellow academics with theses of their own to prove. The book is a fine resource of original observations and examples. It’s a courageous take on some much-beloved Sacred Cows, and it’s full of undeniable truth.

OM: A Tantric Sex Cult Odyssey!

I can’t believe it’s been five years since we reviewed Jeff Nichols’ delightful memoir Trainwreck and the movie that was based on it. A former stand-up comedian, Nichols is the very first to admit that he has a wide variety of problems: emotional, psychological, chemical (and really what better qualifications are there for a humorist?).

Nichols’ slim new novella OM: A Tantric Sex Cult Odyssey is a funny new update to his whereabouts, a thinly veiled account of what are clearly true events (though novellas are usually categorized as fiction, his main character is named “Jeff”), it tells of a time in which he got involved with the titular Tantric Sex Cult, which propagates a practice known as “Orgasmic Meditation” or OM. Like most healthy, normal heterosexual males, he does this merely looking to get laid, but ironically finds himself in a bizarre topsy-turvy world where the straight man’s orgasm is the last item on anyone’s agenda — in fact, it’s not on the agenda at all. He finds himself in the hilarious predicament of being stuck in a number of all day classes, workshops and retreats where all the participants are taught to mechanically stimulate the clitorises of women. The end result is that he keeps being swindled and pressured into pleasuring a series of strange ladies, while the actual female he seeks to bed (the one who insists that he take these workshops) remains constantly out of reach.

The book is almost “stream-of-conscious” (in some places lacking even punctuation) and Nichols’ voice as a storyteller is very strong — so much so that I feel this would make a terrific one man show, part stand-up, part theatrical thrill ride. There is an absurdist quality to the events that give it a profundity: joining a sex cult in pursuit of sex, and really achieving anything BUT satisfaction in that area. And while his character launches the journey in a skeptical and crude frame of mind, it gradually becomes touching when he finds what he doesn’t know what he was looking for — a connection with another human being.

My wildest take-away from reading this book came when I had finished reading it and did a Google search. It turns out that this is a real thing. There is an entire off-the-rails New Age cult where practitioners learn a form of Hindu worship (“like Yoga, or Pilates” they advertise) where they are taught to put on latex gloves, apply lubricant, and stroke the upper left quadrant of strange women’s clitorises in strict fifteen minute sessions. Don’t get me wrong. I, too, believe the female orgasm is the solution to all of mankind’s problems. But, perhaps, not in the classroom with an egg timer going.

Jeff Nichols’ book is available here.