Foreign Steamy Romance

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.

Extreme close-ups abound. With a better camera, I’m pretty sure director Paul Morrissey would have zoomed into Dallesandro’s pores. It’s interesting to note that his face isn’t perfect—he’s got plenty of blemishes. In one scene, a john (oh, did I mention Joe’s a hustler?) actually squeezes out one of his zits. Totally gross, but it certainly contributes to Flesh’s raw feel. Before I get to the nudity, here are a couple of those tight shots so you can get a sense of what I’m talking about:

Blemishes and all, he’s still a pretty, pretty man to look at. I’m just saying, he’s flawed, and I like that these close-ups accentuate that.

But let’s return to the first scene. That opening shot of Joe sleeping is innocent enough, right? There’s a subtle erotic build-up at play, however, even though he doesn’t actually have sex in the scene. So there’s shot number one, sleeping like a baby, and then—

Whoa, ass and balls. We’ve just jumped from G to a hard PG-13.

He turns over, revealing his penis. Congratulations, it’s an R.

A few minutes later, he’s at least somewhat erect. We’ve made it to NC-17 territory—or, as it was known back then, X.

See what I mean about the build-up? There’s clearly something sexual in the act of watching, which is a whole other Laura Mulvey-laden conversation I’d really rather avoid. Instead, let’s talk about body worship, because that’s definitely a factor here. Later in the film, Joe encounters an artist who gives him $100 (and a home-cooked meal!) in exchange for some nude posing. The whole scene is kind of bizarre and really very funny, but then, the same can be said for Flesh as a whole.

Here’s the artist (Maurice Braddell) guiding Joe into a pose. Note how compliant the subject is. More on that momentarily.

You get the point already. I just included this because I like the pose.

Anyway, in the middle of all his ramblings, the artist says something that is pivotal to an understanding and appreciation of Flesh, which—let’s face it—is little more than a celebration of eye candy:

Body worship is, I think, the whole thing behind all art, all music, and all sex, and all love. If you cut it out, for any reason, you’ve deprived yourself of one great chunk of life … Body worship is in the makeup of the human animal … There’s no sex in it; it’s body worship which becomes sex.

In other words, go ahead and ogle Joe Dallesandro. He’s pretty effing hot.

Throughout the film, Joe is clearly nothing more than an object. I mean, yes, his chosen profession is hustler, so he’s a commodity on that level. But even his personal life reflects a pretty incredible lack of personal will. Consider that what plot there is centers around Joe trying to earn money not for himself, but for his wife’s lover’s abortion. Just as he’s literally molded by the artist, Joe is guided by his wife.

Talk about being objectified. Here Geri, Joe’s wife, has turned his penis into an actual object by wrapping it up like a package. Joe doesn’t like it, but naturally he doesn’t do anything to stop her.

Seriously, at times he hardly seems autonomous. There’s a definite childlike quality to his behavior. Even though he, you know, has sex for money, he still appears rather innocent. In an early scene, he plays around with his baby and they’re—how shall I put this?—on the same level:

Honestly now, Joe’s more of an infant than a father. A tall, sexually developed infant (ew), but an infant nonetheless.

OK, there is some sex. This guy’s a hustler after all. But I’d argue that any depictions of sex itself are secondary to an aesthetic appreciation of Joe’s body. The only clear sex act that we see is a blow job, viewed from behind—

You know that it’s happening, but you can’t really see anything. Except, of course, Joe’s back.

For a movie about a hustler, Flesh ends up being surprisingly chaste. Joe is a sex object only in the sense that he’s sexually appealing. He’s really more of a pretty plaything than anything else.

Is this a comment on prostitution? On the male form? On body worship in general? I’m going to go out on a limb and say “all of the above.” Then again, there’s always the much simpler explanation, which is that Andy Warhol really just wanted to see Joe Dallesandro naked for an hour and a half. And honestly, who wouldn’t?