Lust in the Dust

LUST IN THE DUST
(R, New World Pictures, 84 mins., theatrical release date: Mar. 1, 1985)

Long regarded as the Uncanny Valley of instacamp Western burlesques, Paul Bartel's LUST IN THE DUST finds the black comic master of Death Race 2000 and Eating Raoul wandering self-consciously into John Waters-burg. This was more of a passion project for wayward heartthrob Tab Hunter, who'd been wanting to produce his own offbeat spin on the desiccated genre for a while (the title comes from Joseph Cotton's nickname for the 1946 epic Duel in the Sun) and found himself energized by his experience on Waters' Polyester. The coupling of him with the heavyset transvestite Divine proved a match made in heaven (Criterion announced Polyester as a September 2019 release as I write this), and Hunter no doubt recognized the potential in placing Waters' MVP atop a burro and shipping him off as a dance hall diva. There was even a role for Edith Massey, another inextricable member of Dreamland, which was cut tragically short because of the Egg Lady's declining health.

Perhaps as much a hurdle as the Waters associations was how 1985, the year Bartel's movie went into wide release, was raring to be clogged with attempts to bring back the Western. If it wasn't Lawrence (Silverado) Kasdan or Clint (Pale Rider) Eastwood, it was Lust in the Dust's closest competition at the multiplex, the Tom Berenger vehicle Rustler's Rhapsody, another featherweight satire. And a year later, John Landis' Three Amigos! came along and was ultimately rewarded the hipster cult audience that came naturally to the unflappable if glib Landis. Basically, 1985 was the year of the cult movie, some more intensely marketed than others, but it felt like all under-performers of 1985 would go on to build their own rabidly defensive fanbase.

Lust in the Dust, however, seems to be one of the lesser cult movies of that crazy, crazy year. How could this be?! You had Divine and Tab Hunter reunited so shortly after the trash masterpiece that is Polyester. There were goofy supporting roles for Geoffrey Lewis, Courtney Gains, Henry Silva, and Cesar Romero. And then you had Lainie Kazan, so hilarious as the Jewish mother with eyes for Peter O'Toole in the magnificent My Favorite Year, in a corset trading mesquite-grilled barbs with Divine, who was finally being recognized outside of Waters' own Baltimore creative hub. And Paul Bartel was no novice, either, although he sadly didn't get as much respect as he deserved based on some disheartening evidence found in the bonus features of this Vinegar Syndrome release.

Bartel and co. labored so hard to put the vamp in "revamp," and yet Lust in the Dust has the reputation of a saddle sore to this very day. Why?

The fact that Mel Brooks' Blazing Saddles, held up by a lot of cranks as the last bastion of political incorrectness translated to riotous comedy, continues to cast a shadow over every attempted Western comedy is inevitable. Neither Bartel nor scriptwriter Philip John Taylor (making his sole foray out of TV programming) were ever going to compete with Brooks or ZAZ on a joke density scale. Lust in the Dust presents Tab Hunter as a Man With No Name-style drifter only to christen him Abel Wood, which never rises above groan-worthy pun status despite the frothing horniness Lainie Kazan, going full Mae West, brings to the brassy saloon owner, Marguerita Ventura. Same goes for Courtney Gains, as...well, Red Dick!

None of these nudge-wink nicknames can compare to the sheer majesty of Divine's playacting. Rosie Velez would be a stock ingénue in a less ironic parts; Divine gooses the role with enough offhand humor and force of personality that his charisma remains consistent. "Always the little ones got something to prove," she deadpans, with true Lily Von Shtupp sarcasm, upon finding the dwarf sidekick to bandit Hard Case Williams (Geoffrey Lewis) between her legs in the middle of the night. When she interjects upon Kazan's musical number, "South of My Border," it is the perfect encapsulation of the playfully bitchy chemistry between them. Nothing stops Divine; even a line like "My ass is on its last legs!" solicits a guilty chuckle when he delivers it.

Rosie, of course, arrives in Chile Verde, New Mexico, the archetypal small town rumored to possess gold in their hills. There are a broken map and a limerick as clues, although the former's assembly will be become obvious once you immediately deduce the bawdiness inherent in the words "two butes." And it all ends with the characters on receiving ends of gun barrels, even Marguerita's most aged prostitute, Big Ed (Nedra Volz, in the role that Edie Massey read for). The plot is certainly as flimsy as the wardrobe on Gina Gallego as the least eccentric senorita of the saloon, Ninfa, and for as much energy as the cast brings, this plot doesn't bring Leone down a single peg. It's the Clue conundrum all over again: amped showmanship which doesn't make up for the lack of real ambition or the hoariness of most of the jokes.

Certain moments in Lust in the Dust do solidify the playfulness Bartel labors to bring to the movie. Henry Silva, in what has to be his funniest role since Alligator, is a hoot as the trigger-happy Bernardo, addressing the Chile Verde Rotary Club in his attempt to rouse a mob to silence the already stoic Abel. Kazan's big musical number is so outrageously horny, she grinds upon Henry Silva's inanimate body and manipulates him like a puppet, and it slays me every time. Divine belts out "These Lips Were Made for Kissin'" in all his hoarse but pitch-perfect glory, and there is a solid running joke about the way Rosie's loins tend to literally smother any prospective lovers. It pays off at the end, complete with a tasty "Come and get it!" in regards to the film's other primary focus of lust away from Tab Hunter. And Geoffrey Lewis as Hard Case Williams, the son of a Boston preacher ("may he rot in hellfire"), adds to his rogue's gallery something truly hilarious.

The comedy of Bartel's film is, like Eating Raoul, situated at the crossroads of straight and loony, which is high-risk, high-reward. Trouble is that Eating Raoul felt more novel and had more of an axe to grind at swingers and bondage cases, which gives it more of an edge compared to this softer R-rated romp. But that was Bartel's own unique sensibilities at work; Taylor, meanwhile, is merely transgressive for a television writer, and he doesn't measure up to what a Paul Bartel or a John Waters could do in peak mischief. I don't agree with Graeme Clark's assertion that Tab Hunter doesn't get one funny line, as there is a bone tossed in his confession scene with Cesar Romero's man of cloth about "lockjaw Indians." But he does have less personality than the Eastwood-style desperado he cosplays, and for all the eccentrics bouncing off him, Hunter feels less vital here than he did as Divine's hopeless infatuation from Polyester.

There is no doubt a small cult devoted to Lust in the Dust, as Lainie Kazan's own gay fans will attest to, and singling out Divine for a Worst Actress Razzie nomination is mean-spirited in a petty way, hardly worthy of Waters and Bartel at their most enjoyably catty. I'll take Lust in the Dust over a St. Elmo's Fire or a Teen Wolf in a heartbeat. But if one can be completely objective about such security blanket subversives as Clue or Better Off Dead or even The Goonies, and can put aside any further Mel Brooks or John Waters comparisons, Lust in the Dust looks weak in the presence of the more truly gonzo highlights of 1985, be they Re-Animator or Pee-Wee's Big Adventure or The Last Dragon. Those pure entertainments knew how to go over the top with the best of them; Lust in the Dust isn't so tarnished, but it wheezes by like a lonely tumbleweed.

Funny thing happened when Anchor Bay released this on DVD for the first time in 2001: though not shot in CinemaScope, their transfer reframed the film to a 2.35:1 aspect ratio to mimic the look of its inspiration. No information exists as to whether it was screened as such theatrically from its festival premiere in '84 to the wider release around the same time as The Sure Thing, and Bartel isn't here anymore to supervise or elaborate on if 2.35:1 was a conscious decision. The original aspect ratio appears to be 1.85:1 as befits a low-budget 35mm production. The Vinegar Syndrome "Halfway to Black Friday" exclusive release preserves them both, and they appear to possess the same overall picture quality.

Which is good, because they've located the original 35mm negative and made it sing for this 4k scan. This is the real Divine Madness the way our lady Glenn appears, and everyone and everything on show looks astoundingly crisp. Floral print dresses, bloomers and corsets are as robust as the sweat, mascara and lipstick on the performers. Black/blue levels in nighttime sequences never smear, and there is a light, natural grain to an otherwise error-proof transfer. The 1.0 DTS HD-MA mix is exquisite, with clean dialogue throughout and dynamic musical cues, especially the opening ballad. Though the track is monaural, there is atmosphere to the sound effects, and the optional English SDH subtitles are more accurate than most VS transcripts.

The 15-minute "More Lust, Less Dust" featurette produced for the Anchor Bay disc by David Gregory  is carried over, which is generous with on-set footage and even includes the audition tape of Edith Massey reading the part of Big Ed. Producers Tab Hunter and Allan Glaser are on hand, as are actors Lainie Kazan and Gina Gallego (sadly, no Courtney Gains), and there are enough production details to satisfy, as well as some choice audio clips of Divine and Paul Bartel. Real life couple Hunter and Glaser return, a decade and a half later and before Hunter's death in 2018, for the 20-minute "Return to Chili Verde," produced by Automat Pictures (I Am Divine), which elaborates further on the pre-production process (Shirley MacLaine as well as Chita Rivera were initial choices as Marguerita) as well as Divine's involvement ("Mr. Producer" was his pet name for Glaser), with a third Hunter/Divine vehicle that, tragically, never came to be. Both do a great job conveying the rugged nature of setting and outfits.

"The Importance of Being Paul" is Gregory's 16-minute overview of Bartel's career, featuring input from Roger Corman, Mary Woronov, Bruce Wagner, and John Landis among others. Since Lust in the Dust was elaborated upon further in Gregory's other featurette, much of the doc focuses on Eating Raoul, which Bartel made on no budget and through personal favors (Landis would order extra film for his own concurrent studio pic and donate to Bartel). There are minor discussions of Death Race 2000, Scenes from the Class Struggle in Beverly Hills and Bartel's extensive resume as actor, but it's his late career downfall that hits the hardest. His last feature film from 1993, Shelf Life, was unable to find major distribution in the wake of studio switch-ups, where executors could care less about Death Race 2000 or Eating Raoul. Bartel was unable to get his sequel to Eating Raoul, "Bland Ambition," which had a completed script as early as 1986, into production before his death in 2000, with financing secured the day prior.

Topping things off are a newspaper archive gallery set to the tune of "Tumbling Tumbleweed" and a TV spot for the movie. You can still secure a limited edition copy at Vinegar Syndrome, complete with slipcover. Here's the proper theatrical trailer, though, which isn't included on that release which I just reviewed:

Hardbodies

HARDBODIES
(R, Columbia Pictures, 87 mins., theatrical release date: May 4, 1984)

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My name is John Bishop, and I like Hardbodies.

The early 1980s sex comedy is one of the least reputable genres in existence, second only to slasher movies in its ridiculous prolificacy at the time. Both were very cheap to make, required no star power, relied on the basest of audience-baiting elements, and were released in such assembly-line succession that it was almost unbelievable that there were any other types of movies in theatres at all. Once the Canadian production Porky's passed the $100,000,000 mark in America alone, all bets were off as to the next big trend in cash-in cinema. And while not all youth-oriented fare was necessarily disposable, what with movies like WarGames, Risky Business and Sixteen Candles on the horizon, the screens were dominated by the hedonistic antics of moronic teen boys to the point where even National Lampoon's Animal House was like some wistful summer fling in the mind.

Nostalgia plays a large part in the story lines and audience identification of films like Porky's, The Last American Virgin, Losin' It, and others. Video rentals, cable airings and burgeoning superstars allowed for cult audiences to grow around these titles. And I am not immune myself, because having grown up consuming VHS tapes and the USA Network fervently, Mark Griffith's 1984 romp Hardbodies was inescapable. It was the definitive Beach Party incarnation of this comedic subgenre, even more so than the official Frankie & Annette reunion film Back to the Beach from a few years later. And aside from its sandy, surf-and-turf scenery, there was another reason Hardbodies stood out from the pack...

BOOBIES!

Glory be, there was more exposed areola in this one film alone than any handful of these movies combined. This is also the skinniest sex comedy of its era, as virtually every female cast member is rendered topless to the degree where you imagine Southern California as one of the premier nudist colonies in your head. And the weirdest thing about Hardbodies is...it's shameless in ways that go beyond critical condemnation. There is a curious, consistent innocence to the proceedings and, most refreshingly, a clear absence of malice and lack of pretension that even the film's marketing campaign played to the hilt.

Back when Gene Siskel & Roger Ebert devoted an entire episode to the teenage sex comedy in 1983, the duo were equally appalled by the misogyny inherent in most of these films. They wondered why boys and girls weren't allowed to develop convincing friendships, metaphorically likened these conquests to dartboard games and chided the familiar trope of the boys having to pay hookers for sexual knowledge instead of indulging their curiosity with their significant others. More so than they did with their rather hysterical "Women in Danger" expose, the veteran critics did make some valid, grounded points. Immaturity became equated with flagrant imbecility all too often, and none of these movies gave their female characters any real identity other than love/lust object.

When it came time to talk about Hardbodies, though, here was a movie which they lumped right in with its mindless forebears despite some clear strides made in the handling of these stories. Keep in mind a product designed originally for Playboy Televsion was never truly going to rise above the typical male glut of soft-core sexcapades. But here was a movie which did not exactly devote itself to the
degradation of female sexuality, and sure enough has plenty of humorous exchanges between the equally promiscuous genders. One of my all-time favorite lines from the entire sex comedy bandwagon occurs when Carlton Ashby (Sorrells Pickard), a middle-aged cowpoke with a fortune in the fertilizer industry, stimulates aerobics instructor Michelle (Kristi Somers) to the point of arousal:

Michelle: "Robert E. Lee."
Ashby: "Ma'am?"
Michelle: "Well, you remind me of Robert E. Lee. I like to nickname my men before I f--- them."
Ashby: "Just like that? Whatever became of romance?"
Michelle: "Why, Ashby, darling...You want romance? Go read a novel. You want me? I'm upstairs."

Rarely does a movie like this get recognized as genuinely witty, but Hardbodies makes more of an effort than most of its ilk. Michelle is a smart, spunky, sexy character who remains Ashby's steady despite bearing more stamina than the burnt-out Southerner, a colloquial chap who gripes that his liver is "staging a major coup d'etat" in the midst of a dawning hangover. Ashby himself proves quite a catch with his uncomplicated, good-humored demeanor. They make swell company for 90 minutes is what I'm trying to say, which is the deal-maker for me as far as I'm concerned.

And that is Hardbodies in a nutshell, which proves that aiming for the lowest common denominator doesn't always have be so miserable. Principal character Scotty Palmer (Grant Cramer), self-appointed "head of the Geek Patrol," is a scam artist who champions a sense of community among the female species and has a healthy, sexually-active love affair with a brunette bunny named Kristi (Teal Roberts), who is impressionable but not wholly idiotic. The key to his success is to "dialogue" the women, steering clear of antiquated one-liners and instead flirting with candor and style. On the opposite end are three vacationing squares: Ashby, the bluntly-named Rounder (Michael Rapport) and the even more on-the-nose Hunter (Gary Wood), the alpha of the over-the-hill trio. Their efforts to chat up young women routinely end in humiliation ("I don't f--- fossils for free"). When Scotty falls three months behind in back rent and is duly evicted, the geezers entice him to become a mentor (read: definitely not a pimp) in exchange for walking money and a more luxurious place to live for the time being.

Cue the obligatory array of pick-up montages, house parties and pratfalls, with Ashby emerging as the clear victor amongst the gang. Hunter proves a bit too reliant on spilling wine on girls' dresses to get them to disrobe, whereas Rounder bluffs himself into snapping bogus modeling photos for a gaggle of overly eager babes. Since this is Scotty's brilliant idea, Kristi rightfully blows him off out of frustration, but forgives him in time for a quintuple date at the club owned by body-building guru and potential business partner Rocco (special appearance by Antony Ponzini).

Alas, the morning after proves troublesome when Scotty intervenes on behalf of secretly coy exhibitionist Candy (Crystal Shaw) after she's manhandled by the lecherous Hunter, who retaliates by zeroing in on Kristi. Candy's confessional moment, in which she breaks down over the negative stigmas associated with being sexually curious, feels more natural and sweet-hearted than one may expect. Things wrap up in a marijuana-fueled haze and several embarrassing comeuppances for "Hunter's orgy gang," which Ashby indignantly refuses to be part of.

The trouble with most of these 1980s sex comedies is that they exist in such a moral vacuum that when it comes time to sermonize, such concessions to ethics come across as disingenuous and equally dumb. Hardbodies finds a consistent tone which the flagrantly bitter The Last American Virgin failed to exhibit, mostly due to the fact that it doesn't hold its characters in outright contempt. Even nominal antagonist Hunter displays enough integrity at the beginning to turn down underage sex before he goes full-on capitalist cretin. Add to that several endearing performances from both sexes and equal time for amiable introspection both girl-on-girl and guy-on-guy, which leavens the kitsch with considerable soul and wisdom.

Hardbodies still finds room for plenty of below-the-belt humor, with the most obvious being when Rounder takes a few blows to his "love nuts" and the most clever during a triple-intercourse montage wherein Ashby interprets oral sex by playing a heightened flamenco rhythm on his acoustic guitar, climaxing in a sudden breaking of strings. Even the persistently gratuitous nudity is not as vehemently irresponsible as most people give it discredit for. If there is a curious lack of variety in regards to the women (by tradition, Hardbodies exists in the same white bread world as the rest of the teen sex comedy genre), then at least one won't forget the sight of one of Roscoe's buff beauties performing a playful tease in view of the slovenly Rounder. Even Grant Cramer isn't too shy amongst the male cast to go the full monty.

Cramer, who would go on to camp up his lothario persona here in Killer Klowns from Outer Space, proves effortlessly likeable in the lead role. The fictional garage band Diaper Rash (whose set list includes such gems as "Computer Madness," "Mr. Cool" and "Give it a Chance") is filled in by the lady rockers of Vixen, who enjoyed late-blooming success in the 1980s hair metal scene with the Richard Marx composition "Edge of a Broken Heart." And aside from Roberts, Shaw and Somers, B-movie fans ought to enjoy seeing several name cult actresses amongst its cast, including Kathleen Kinmont (Renegade), Darcy De Moss (Reform School Girls) and the late Roberta Collins (Death Race 2000) as Kristi's estate-selling older sister Lana. And yet, even with all of these lovelies, it is both Sorrells Pickard as the easygoing Ashby and Courtney Gains as the dweebish Rag who help make this a not-so-guilty pleasure. Already fresh from his mutinous, menacing debut as Malachai from Children of the Corn, Gains particularly appears to be having the time of his life in more comical surroundings; not everyone can flip off people in 48 different languages, dress in unflattering drag or fondle a grossly-realized pair of fake DDs with as much enthusiasm as him.

I can't in good faith give this movie even a four-star rating, simply because it is very tacky and tasteless in ways that often times have little to show other than skin. The appearance of a noxious bunch of fart-lighting morons (including an unflattering early role for stuntman/horror icon Kane Hodder) who turn from nemeses to accomplices rings false and proves more uncomfortable than the admittedly queasy-making antics of the three "fossils." This is a fantasy of mid-life crisis in which the audience is expected to be on the side of a bunch of old bulls. At least those had affluent voices of reason sounded by Ashby, Kristi and her best friend Kimberly (Cindy Silver), who finally comes around to making love with the long-suffering but noble Rag out of genuine solidarity.

"Genuine solidarity," two words I've always wanted to use in describing a dopey sex comedy but never had the chance to. Shouldn't good sex arise from good vibes, the kind which the vast majority of 1980s movies mostly demonized? Oh, Hardbodies...I give in. You are that rare sex-related 1980s film that inspires people to want to have actual sex. Just like Candy, you really don't deserve the ditzy rep you have gotten over the years. I guess you'll always be my bigger, better deal.