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Lot in Sodom, out of Michigan snow and into California neon. The Calvinist maiden takes a bus to the West Coast and every fear of her businessman father (George C. Scott) is confirmed, he next sees her sandwiched between louts in a flickering stag reel. Paul Schrader and "doors that should never be opened," a pulpy scold. A designer's "overpowering" shade of blue prepares the swathes of lurid crimson and green to come, the cheerful vulgarity of the private investigator (Peter Boyle) points the way. "Wanna hire a choirboy? Go back to Grand Rapids." The fauna and flora of the seedy netherworld are contemplated as the old man wades in, rows of porn theaters and bookstores and massage parlors on Hollywood Boulevard with the tart starlet (Season Hubley) as his guide. On one side, the showbiz tour as dour midnight of the soul. On the other, the comedy of the Midwest monolith donning droopy mustache and floral shirt for interviews with Jism Jim and Big Dick Black. (The Madonna statuette on the flesh-peddling impresario's desk and the Star Wars-themed strip club are among the gamy details.) "You and I have very different ideas about sex." The critique of The Searchers is even more pronounced than in Taxi Driver, a reversal of Ray's On Dangerous Ground is also visible. It heads to San Francisco slopes for snuff movies, the blazing inferno (with a note of Poe's "Masque of the Red Death") has thin walls indeed. Mainly fascinating for its split self-portrait, Schrader the runaway overcompensating in the den of sin and Schrader the repressed square repulsed and entranced by sleaze. "Guess we're both fucked. At least you get to go to heaven, I don't get shit." With Dick Sargent, Leonard Gaines, Dave Nichols, Gary Graham, Ilah Davis, Tracey Walter, and Ed Begley Jr.
--- Fernando F. Croce |