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.

There are actual fantasy sequences in Drool. How interesting that Anora actually inserts her husband Cheb (Oded Fehr) into them, as though she really can’t imagine anything better than an (admittedly nicer) version of the man she lives with. But Drool is also a fantasy on a larger scale. First, there’s the whole “getting away with murder” plot, which, OK, not entirely implausible, but Drool doesn’t go out of its way to make the scenario realistic. There’s also a nice Wizard of Oz-y touch: as Anora breaks free from her drab life and moves onto a new one with Imogene, the film becomes infused with glorious color. Of all the films I’ve seen at Frameline this year, Drool is my favorite—this is a warm, delightful, easy-to-love movie. It handles the serious subject matter with grace and humor. Kudos to writer-director Nancy Kissam and an exceptional cast.

And now onto a movie I liked a whole lot less. Rückenwind, or Light Gradient in English, is one of those head-scratchers that’s supposed to be thought-provoking. To me, it was just slow. Honestly, I don’t know how to piece together the story, which involves boyfriends Johann (Sebastian Schlecht) and Robin (Eric Golub) getting lost in the woods. There they encounter Grit (Iris Minich) and her son Henri (Denis Alevi), who invite the boys to stay at their home.

What else happens? I wish I could tell you. I don’t want to spoil the ending—not that I could if I wanted to—but suffice it to say it left me completely baffled. The film is a fantasy in that it all seems make-believe, but it’s also open-ended in the most frustrating way: 75 monotonous minutes and that’s it? Nevertheless, there are interesting moments, and had Rückenwind expanded on those, I would have liked it more. Don’t be too shocked—these have to do with sex. Early on in the film, there’s a particularly interesting sex scene between Johann and Robin. It’s violent, possibly non-consensual. Given what we know about the couple, it’s likely an act, but what is this moment doing in there? Why do they play at rape? Then there’s the relationship between the boys and the young Henri, which seems fraught with homoerotic tension. Neither of these issues is successfully explored. Regardless of whatever writer-director Jan Krüger is trying to get at, Rückenwind is far too subtle for its own good.

But confusion isn’t always a bad thing. Case in point: Pornography, one of the most complex and difficult films I’ve seen recently. Still, I greatly enjoyed it. After the screening, there was a Q&A with the cast in crew, including David Kittredge, who wrote and directed the movie. He spoke about the film as a puzzle and said anyone should be able to piece it together. Frankly, I think his proximity to the project may have clouded his judgment a little. Pornography clicked with me, but I wouldn’t say I ever fully “got it.”

It’s hard to talk about the plot without giving too much a way. The basic story is as follows. Years ago, gay porn star Mark Anton (Jared Grey) disappeared, leaving behind several successful movies and rumors of a snuff tape. A journalist named Michael (Matthew Montgomery) gets in over his head investigating the mystery. Meanwhile, another porn star, Matt Stevens (Pete Scherer) decides to write and direct The Mark Anton Story, and his production takes a turn for the strange. There’s a lot going on here, and Pornography is definitely a movie you have to see for yourself, preferably more than once. The best way I can explain the feel is Mulholland Dr. meets The Ring meets The Fluffer, maybe with a bit of Videodrome thrown in. Does that make any sense?

Pornography raises some very important questions: What does the fantasy of porn do for its viewers? How do you separate that from the reality of sex? What are the effects of objectification, both for the actors and the consumers? This is not an easy film, because there are no easy answers. I think the fact that Pornography is a horror movie—again, I would choose that designation over thriller—fits, too. Fantasy is scary. On one level, there’s the aspect of obsession, which returns repeatedly throughout the film. But there’s also something frightening about trying to find the reality behind fantasy, a truth that many of us don’t actually want to know. Anyway, I wish I could offer more profound feedback on a movie that really stumped me, but I’m going to have to watch at least a couple more times before it really sinks in.

Next up: Venkovský ucitel (2008), Clapham Junction (2007).

All images courtesy Frameline.

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.

Oh, Joe Dallesandro. As if I didn’t love you enough already. I’m not going to review Little Joe (2009), a documentary about Joe (naturally), because I already wrote an article on the film for the Bay Guardian. Besides, there’s not a lot of steamy romance—foreign or otherwise—in the movie. Instead, allow me to talk more about the man himself. I blogged about Dallesandro after I watched Flesh (read that post here), but hey, there’s always more that can be said about a veritable sex icon.

I didn’t actually watch Little Joe at the Castro; I’d seen a screener beforehand, and I spent that time meeting the film’s director, Nicole Haeusser, and the producer, Vedra Mehagian Dallesandro, both of whom I’d only talked to on the phone. I also got to meet Joe himself! Totally awesome, and if this were my LiveJournal and not a semi-professional blog, I would go on and on about how exciting that was. Anyway, I did get to stick around for the Q&A, which was fascinating in its own right. Several audience members were comfortable telling Joe that he was the stuff of their fantasies, that he was—as one man put it—”our Marilyn Monroe.” That’s the nature of Dallesandro’s sex icon status: he’s famous for turning people on. But it seemed curious following a film that explores how much more there is to Joe than his body. I’m certainly not offended on his behalf; I’m just wondering wha the audience got out of the movie, aside from the requisite nudity. Does seeing Little Joe—and then, seeing Joe in person—make him more than a fantasy? Or is it still all about sex?

Believe it or not, that’s a nice segue into Dare (2009). At first glance, it’s your typical queer high school dramedy: Alexa (Emmy Rossum) falls for bad boy Johnny Drake (Zach Gilford). To complicate things, so does her best friend Ben (Ashley Springer). But here’s the twist—Johnny reciprocates both of their affections. Here’s the other twist—he’s a whole lot more complicated than he seems. Dare gives us three fascinating and complex characters, who take a story we’ve seen before and give it a new edge. Yeah, it’s still a fun high school movie, but scratch the surface and you’ve got something that’s downright deep.

Johnny in particular is one of the most interesting characters I’ve encountered recently. It’s clear early on that he’s a lot more sensitive than you’d imagine; he really just wants a family! Which, OK, is cute but not mind-blowing. Given the nature of this blog, you won’t be surprised that I’m more fixated on his sexuality. Why does the ostensibly straight Johnny give Ben his first kiss? Why does he let Ben blow him? I don’t think it’s that he’s bi—I don’t even think it’s that he’s horny. There’s something so accommodating about Johnny’s nature: his insecurity has created an overwhelming desire to please. For Alexa, Johnny represents transgression, but for Ben, he’s just “amazing.” That’s an expectation Johnny feels obligated to meet.

There’s certainly an aspect of wish fulfillment here. Any gay boy can tell you he fantasized about the popular straight guy suddenly switching teams. I wouldn’t exactly call Dare realistic, but I give it major points for not falling into the trap of so many similarly themed films. In the Q&A after the movie, Rossum talked about the characters feeling like real people, largely a credit to screenwriter David Brind and director Adam Salky. She’s quite right. I liked this movie because the sexual politics were grounded in these characters, rather than being fabricated by the necessity of the plot. Would Johnny exist in real life? I’m not sure, but I believed in this Johnny—his anxiety, his confusion, and his sexual slippage. And not just because, as a former gay high school student, I really want to.

Next up: Drool (2009), Rückenwind (2009), Pornography (2009).

All images courtesy Frameline.

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!

The differences between Anaïs and Elena are obvious from the beginning. The latter’s ability to attract men is almost comical, as in an early scene where she meets Fernando (Libero De Rienzo). Within minutes, he is sucking her fingers. Moments later, they are kissing:

And what is Anaïs doing? Eating a banana split.

À ma soeur! is filled with these images of juxtaposition. It constantly switches back and forth between the sisters—first to note their dissimilarity, but then (I would argue) to bring them together. This is actually a film about shared experience. Yeah, Anaïs appears to be ignoring the couple and focusing on her food, but she’s clearly getting some enjoyment out of watching, or at least being in their presence. It’s as if she’s getting kissed, too.

Shortly thereafter, she transfers this kiss to the only object she can find—

Which is a little bit funny and a lotta bit sad.

Even though she’s not having sex—or even kissing anyone—Anaïs is developing too. The constant back-and-forth is designed to link the sisters. Consider the scene in which Fernando tries to have sex with Elena. The images of the couple together are intercut with shots of Anaïs watching.

It would be easy enough to explain this device as a reflection of the younger sibling’s jealousy and desire. She can’t have a boyfriend of her own, so she watches her sister—and I’m sure that’s part of it. But as the scene progresses and Fernando convinces Elena to let him fuck her anally, Anaïs goes from voyeur to participant.

The camera stays on Fernando and Elena as he persuades her.

But as soon as penetration occurs, it cuts to Anaïs. We don’t see Fernando fucking Elena; we hear it, but what we see is Anaïs seeing it. On one level, she’s a point of identification for the audience, in that she is also the watcher. But more importantly, the sisters are united and the sex act is transposed on Anaïs: we hear Elena’s cries while we’re watching her sister’s face. By virtue of the way this is shot, Anaïs becomes a sexual object.

The juxtaposition continues. One of the most effective dual shots occurs when the sisters accompany Fernando to the beach—


I love how it continues to do two things at once. Of course, Anaïs is completely isolated from Elena. But in the way this is cut, she also is Elena.

Elena does eventually let Fernando take her virginity. And that scene, more than any other, cements the link between the girls, as Anaïs takes on her sister’s pain.

Um, this is just a side note, but kudos to Breillat for frequently showing guys putting on condoms in her movies. Safe sex FTW!

Once again, we see the build-up to penetration.

This time, however, we stay with Fernando and Elena as they begin to have sex. Note the look of discomfort on Elena’s face … but that’s nothing compared to what Anaïs is going through.

Why is she crying? Maybe it’s because she wants to lose her virginity. Maybe she’s upset that her sister is making a mistake. Plausible explanations, but on a thematic level, how can we help but see this as a response to the physical pain of sex for the first time? As we hear Elena and Fernando finish, we see Anaïs cry. The way I see it, the sisters lose their virginity together.

There’s plenty more to be said about À ma soeur!—I haven’t even touched on the utterly bizarre (and really upsetting!) ending. I’d like to save that for another post eventually, but I’m also curious to hear from people who have seen the film. Those last three minutes: does anyone care to weigh in on what the fuck that’s all about?

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.

I have very little insight to offer when it comes to Wild Things. Frankly, I can’t even explain why I love it so much. Luckily, Bad Sex is not about serious analysis—it’s about pointing out and then mocking the ridiculous. And, in this case, it’s about posting lots and lots of screencaps of Denise Richards‘ boobs.

To its credit, Wild Things never pretends to be more than softcore porn. This is a movie with scenes you’d pretty much only find on late-night Cinemax:

Oh, look, two high school girls washing a car.

Ladies, if you keep splashing each other with water, your clothes are going to get all wet and transparent.

Seriously?

And then, of course, this happens. We’ll have to get those wet clothes off, etc., etc.

But when it comes to Wild Things, the scene everyone remembers is the Matt Dillon-Neve Campbell-Denise Richards threesome. When I was 12 and heard my friends’ older siblings talk about this cinematic masterpiece, it sounded like the height of erotic entertainment. Then I finally saw it. I remember thinking, “This is it?” Saying I was disappointed would be putting it mildly. Watching the threesome scene now, however, I’m struck by how delightfully tacky it is. I couldn’t care less that it’s hilariously unsexy—for a mainstream movie, this is about as bad as bad sex gets.

“Guidance counselors get to find out all sorts of interesting things.” Possibly my favorite line in the entire movie. And really, there are so many to choose from.

Things not to do during a threesome: force your partners’ heads together. First of all, rude. Secondly, ow.

More than any other image, I think this captures the full trashy extent of this glorious sequence. It’s actually a foursome if you count the bottle of wine.

I love this.

Well, you can’t let that go to waste.

I’ve probably posted all the necessary threesome screencaps at this point, but can we all just take a moment to LOL at the face Matt Dillon is making here? Sneertastic.

I’m including this because I think it’s convenient that Neve Campbell always takes her top off at the end of the sex scenes, without ever facing the camera. Because Neve Campbell is a lady.

Wow, I am having way too much fun with this. Can I just write about bad sex in bad movies all the time? That foreign shit is so damn serious.

I’ll leave you with a bunch of gratuitous screencaps from the thoroughly absurd catfight-turned-lovefest pool scene. If I haven’t convinced you to rent (or purchase!) this damn movie already, I give up.

Fierce!

Fiercer!

I love how this goes from some light slapping to actual attempted homicide. She tries to drown her! Who does that?

And then there’s finger sucking. Can you tell that this scene is going in a different direction?

Ah, there we go. Incidentally, the delightful final twist at the end of Wild Things reveals that Kelly (Richards) and Suzie (Campbell) are actually related. Yay, incest!

And the top comes off. Another fun side note: Ray Duquette (Kevin Bacon) is totally filming the whole thing from a distance. Voyeurism FTW.

Naturally, once Neve Campbell starts getting naked, the scene ends. I’m not complaining—I’m just saying it’s predictable.

And there you have one of my most frivolous blog posts ever. I promise I’ll at least try to write something more substantial next time. Can’t promise Denise Richards boobs will be involved, though. Until then!

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?

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.

There’s a playful nature to the friendship between Julio and Tenoch that makes a certain homoerotic subtext acceptable. The audience doesn’t immediately assume that they actually want to have sex with each other—they’re pretty much just boys being boys. The early shower scene is a perfect example:

All right, by American standards, it might be a little but gay, but it’s not exactly a telltale sign. This all seems like fairly standard locker room behavior. Unlike Little Ashes, there are no significant glances or melodramatic musical themes. To be fair, Little Ashes is a straightforward romance, while the romance in Y tu mamá también is questionable at best. Still, both movies focus on friendships that become, at least momentarily, something more. And if we’re talking about believability, the former is the clear victor. Note how the inclusion of a scene of naked frolicking makes the later masturbation scene all the more reasonable.

Boys will be boys, whether they’re slapping each other’s asses with towels, or jerking off together into a pool. Frankly, my reaction to this scene wasn’t, “They’re so going to have sex,” but rather, “Wow, it’s pretty impressive that they managed to time their orgasms like that.”

I don’t want to rehash what I said about the bromance in my post on Sommersturm and Fired Up. Still, it’s the very nature of that relationship and the slippage between the homosocial and the homoerotic that grounds Y tu mamá también in reality. It’s all about taking that one extra step, crossing the increasingly thin line. In some films, it’s overdone—look at the silly moonlit consummation in Little Ashes. The genius of Y tu mamá también is that you don’t even realize it’s happening until it’s already begun.

Sure, they’re standing close when the threesome starts, but how else is Ana (Ana López Mercado) supposed to reach them both at once?

But then their heads touch. Their faces move closer.

And then there’s this.

You expect it, but you don’t expect it. You’re sure it’s going to happen, but it’s still hard to believe. Chances are that’s how this sort of thing works in real life, too. The script doesn’t drop hints; it’s actually fairly subtle. And the chemistry of the two leads is what seals the deal. Whatever kind of love they share, you can see it in their interactions. By the end, you buy them as friends and as lovers.

Here are a couple more screencaps, because I am shallow—

Now I’m trying to imagine if Little Ashes would have been any better had it starred Gael García Bernal and Diego Luna. Probably to some extent. Also, I can’t help but imagine they would have forced the director to cut that godawful swimming scene—both guys seem like they have way too much self respect for that sort of thing.

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.

Don’t worry—I haven’t forgotten about my mission statement. So, the sex! Well, the sex is kind of the problem. Between Pattinson’s eyeroll-worthy Dalí and Javier Beltrán’s whiny Lorca, it’s hard to muster up much enthusiasm for these guys getting together. OK, yes, they’re pretty, and from that perspective, you can at least hope for eye candy. In terms of the plot, however, the build-up of sexual tension is neither exciting nor convincing. By the time they do manage to consummate things, it’s too little, too late. It doesn’t help that Pattinson and Beltrán have no chemistry. (More on this in a minute.) The sex itself—what little does occur—is at best unsexy, at worst laughable. One particularly flagrant example sticks out: While frolicking in the moonlit water, Dalí and Lorca give into temptation and share their first kiss. The kiss is forgettable, but the aftermath is worse—a highly stylized and silly sequence in which they awkwardly stroke each other and marvel at the water. (Seriously, it’s like they’ve never seen water before.) Sex (or, whatever, fooling around in the water) is very hot, I’m sure, but filmmakers take note: it just doesn’t work when it’s captured on screen. I’m thinking of Across the Universe. I’m thinking of—God help me—Showgirls.

What’s the problem here? Well, poor directorial choices aside. Perhaps the awkwardness has something to do with the sexuality of the two actors involved: Pattinson and Beltrán are not gay. Fine, I get that. In interviews, the Twilight heartthrob spoke about the weirdness involved when two heterosexual men pretend to do it in the butt. Again, I can see why that might be problematic. At the same time, it’s acting. Why were Jake Gyllenhaal and Heath Ledger so convincing in Brokeback Mountain? And no, I don’t think they were secretly doing it behind the scenes. I don’t really have an answer to this question, although I certainly don’t mean to imply that only gay actors should play gay characters. Maybe chemistry really is just random; surely heterosexual male and female actors don’t always look great together. It could be that Pattinson and Beltrán simply aren’t MFEO. And, of course, the lackluster script couldn’t have helped matters. Strangely enough, Pattinson called the gay sex scenes in Little Ashes the film’s best. Which begs the question, what is he seeing that I’m not?

There is one interesting sex scene in the movie. (By “interesting,” I don’t really mean “hot,” but it definitely approaches that more than the swimming scene disaster could ever hope to.) Lorca’s BFF Margarita (Marina Gatell) decides to seduce her hunky poet pal. He consents—despite the fact that he’s in love with Dalí, who’s incidentally in the room at the time. When Lorca and Margarita fuck, it’s frenzied and it’s awkward, but it’s real. In the corner, Dalí watches intently, masturbating to orgasm in time with Lorca. See, sex doesn’t have to be water nymphs in the moonlight. Sometimes it’s messy and confusing, kind of like … well, here’s where I’d make an allusion to a Dalí painting, but I’ve had about all the pretension I can take for the time being.

Anyway, it’s good to be back. Expect more regular posts over the coming weeks, including screencaps and the full-frontal male nudity you’ve come to know and love. Now I have your attention again.

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!

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.

Plot? You want a plot? I guess there’s something resembling one here. O (Corinne Clery) gets dragged to some weird bondage boot camp by her skeezy boyfriend Rene (Udo Kier). She is whipped and dominated a bunch before being returned to his loving arms. Eventually said loving arms pass her off to Sir Stephen (Anthony Steel), who continues to dominate O and finally has her branded with his initials. Oh, and at some point, she starts sleeping with a model named Jacqueline (Li Sellgren), just so she can seduce her to the fun little S+M retreat O went to at the beginning. And so the cycle continues.

Look, I’m all for sadomasochism and bondage. As long as it’s consensual, have at it. But there’s a problematic joylessness to all of the sex in Histoire d’O. O never seems to really give a shit about what she’s doing; she agrees to her treatment, but she’s entirely neutral in her response. Her ultimate goal seems to be winning over Sir Stephen, with no concern for her own sexual satisfaction. If this were part of the point—if the film were in fact a criticism of the way women can be treated in BDSM relationships—then I might be able to buy it. However, that just doesn’t seem to be the case. Aside from Clery’s undeniable beauty, O is a useless, boring, and utterly forgettable character. There is perhaps one scene (I’ll get to it in a bit) that shows meaningful development. Otherwise, she could be anyone. Does she like being whipped? Does she like whipping others? We get hints when it comes to the latter, but it’s still inconclusive. Mostly no one seems to care, and I don’t think the audience is supposed to give it much thought either.

Am I overthinking this? Is it just porn? If so, it’s not very good porn, and honestly, it acts like it wants to be more than that. I mean, hello, there’s a voiceover and everything. The problem is that so much of Histoire d’O feels half-assed, an obvious means to an end. Take O’s relationship with Jacqueline, which actually has the potential to be interesting. (Don’t worry—it never gets there.) In one scene, O is forcing herself on the model, who protests and then finally kind of relents. Soon thereafter, they have sex. And then Jacqueline is head over heels. Why? Nothing about these transitions feels natural. Even the sex is awkward and clunky. So whether it’s “just porn” or “high art,” it doesn’t work.

There is literally one moment in Histoire d’O that I really liked. (It also happens to be the last moment, so maybe I was just excited that the movie was ending.) After asking Sir Stephen if he would be willing to be subjected to same treatment she has been, O burns him with a cigar, branding him as she has been branded. Finally something to prove that O’s not just a cardboard cut-out! Finally a progression in their one-sided relationship! And naturally, that’s where Histoire d’O ends, right on the verge of becoming intriguing. So, not enough to redeem the film for me—not by a long-shot—but at least it ends on a high note. Plus, it’s just nice to see Sir Stephen get burned. Take my word for it: he’s a tool.

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.

But still. Why does everyone feel the need to talk about it? (And yes, I get the irony here, so let’s move along, shall we?) I think part of it is that the penis is just there. It’s not funny. It’s not thrilling. It doesn’t even have anything to do with sex. Dr. Manhattan walks around with his parts swinging around, because he doesn’t need to wear clothes, OK? Embarrassment is a total non-issue for him … which of course makes it a big issue for us. How often do you see a character walk around naked for almost an entire film? Er, outside of porn, that is.

And then, of course, there’s the size. I don’t know if Jon Osterman’s penis grew when he got turned into Dr. Manhattan or if he was always on the larger side. Either way, they don’t call it the big blue penis for nothing; it’s far more prominent than the itty blue nubbin that Dave Gibbons drew in the comics. And why? Billy Crudup isn’t naturally porn star-endowed—that thing was digitally enhanced. I’ve thought long and hard (no pun intended) about this … enhancement, and I’m still not really sure why they did it. Surely they could have just gone with the real thing, which would also probably be a lot better for Crudup’s ego.

Here’s Dr. Manhattan, complete with “itty blue nubbin,” in a panel from the comic.

I think the, well, penis enlargement has a lot to do with sex. Wait, wait—didn’t I just say that Dr. Manhattan’s nudity has nothing to do with sex? I sure did, and it doesn’t … at least, not for him. For those around him, including the audience, the sight of the big blue penis is sure to arouse a sexual reaction, whether lustful or simply envious. I think this reflects something the movie didn’t explore to the extent that the comics did—that inexplicable link between superheroes and sex. We get glimpses at characters like Hooded Justice and Silhouette, who have a sexual connection to their costumes. And then there’s Dr. Manhattan, who wears neither a costume nor clothes. But what’s the most prominent feature of his “attire”? I’ll give you a hint: it’s not that mark on his forehead. In other words, the penis is there not only to be true to the comic, but also to draw attention to the sexuality lurking beneath all of these characters.

Anyway, this was far more long-winded than I’d intended. I know that the big blue penis—and, hey, the Watchmen film—are pretty contentious. Feel free to weigh in with your comments.