Now, I know I usually begin one of these things with a plot description of whatever film we’re covering, but to do that for this one would be admitting that House on Bare Mountain (1962) had a plot to begin with. And to do so would prove the Supreme Being of your choice as fallible -- thus starting a chain reaction that would null and void the entire universe. And who wants to be responsible for that? Not me. Hell, no … Okay. Okay. Fine.
Our theoretical plot, I think -- and stress on the think, revolves around Granny Goody and her school for wayward young girls. Now, this character is played by the film’s notorious producer, Bob Cresse; and Cresse's take on Granny Goody is a flattering carbon-copy of comedian Jonathan Winter's Granny Fricker character in the same way Sammy Petrillo was flattering Jerry Lewis in William “One Shot” Beaudine’s Bela Lugosi meets a Brooklyn Gorilla (1952).
Anyway, Granny's curriculum for her busty young girls mostly consists of spending ah-lot of time in the shower, getting ready for bed, lounging around the pool, or exercising around the grounds of her mansion. Of course, everyone -- except for Granny, thank the Flying Spaghetti Monster, is topless and sometimes bottomless; but only from the rear. As to why that is, well, we’ll be addressing that in a sec after the film proper begins with Granny locked up in the clink.
Why? Well, as a side operation from fleecing unwitting parents into enrolling their daughters, the old bat sells liquor made by an illegal still out of her basement that's run by her pet werewolf, Krakow (Engesser). Relating her tale of woe to the audience, seems Granny was suspicious that a spy was in their midst, and then spends most of the movie via flashback trying to ferret out the mole -- and you won't believe where she all looks. Let's just say, Every “nook” and “cranny” is checked and rechecked, and then remind you what we’re watching and leave it to your imagination from there...
As the silent pictures gave way to sound, the powers that be in Hollywood, taking heat over a perceived increase in lewd and blasphemous content, and rocked by several glaring scandals -- most notably the Fatty Arbuckle rape case and the still unsolved murder of director William Desmond Taylor, adopted a set of directives called The Motion Picture Production Code. The hope being this action would head off any government mandated or enforced censorship that would hopefully prove to Congress and the viewing public that the studios were more than capable of cleaning up their act on their own.
Now, this was mostly due to a 1915 Supreme Court decision in The Mutual Film Corp. vs. Industrial Commission of Ohio, a State-sponsored censorship board, which basically said the First Amendment protections of Free Speech did not extend to motion pictures because, according to Justice Joseph McKenna, they were a for-profit public gathering like circuses or other sideshow institutions. McKenna also explicitly stated films could not be granted constitutional protections due to the dangers of the “enormous inherent attraction of the medium held by the public,” and therefore, how it could be used for evil or manipulative purposes on the masses. Thus, it was either a self-imposed Production Code or a National Censorship Board dictating what the studios did.
Officially adopted in 1930 under the leadership of former Postmaster General, William H. Hays, the Production Code really didn’t go into effect until 1934 when Hays appointed Joseph Breen as his lead watchdog and enforcer, who immediately started to crackdown on things. Often referred to as the Hays Code or the Breen Code, these standards and practices meant, among other things, a motion picture could not, under any circumstances, portray the use of recreational drug use, including the consumption of alcohol, or anything considered “perverse” like “homosexuality, miscegenation (interracial relationships), bestiality, and venereal diseases,” and nudity and overt portrayals or references to sexual behavior -- even between consenting adults, could not be shown.
Thus and so, a draconian Breen stifled the movie industry for nearly a decade; but after the end of World War II the Production Code was starting to show a few cracks, and was successfully and openly defied by Otto Preminger and United Artists with The Moon is Blue (1953). And as things started to leak through, enter a whole new group of exploitation filmmakers, who were doing their damndest to get a naked body on the big screen and off the Stag Reels relegated to your local Elk’s Club basement.
Pioneered with the likes of Kroger Babb's Mom and Dad (1945), you could do an end-run around Breen, the Code, and any local censorship boards if you disguised your sexually explicit film as a documentary -- Wild Women / Bowanga! Bowanga! (1951), or educational or a treatise on the miracle of modern medicine -- Test Tube Babies (1948). And if all that failed, the distributors resorted to the old "Square-Up Reel,” where exhibitors were often given two different copies of the film -- one a cleaner version used to get past those local censors, and then show the other unfiltered one, complete, once they got the OK. And if the theater owner smelled-out the cops or a sting, the tamer version was shown until the authorities cleared out, and then the Square-Up Reel would be tacked on at the end to show what everyone had missed.
This opened the door for the Burlesque Movies, which were nothing more than static re-creations of an old vaudeville show, where comedians and strippers would bump and grind their way through the likes of Paris After Midnight (1951) or Teaserama (1954). These, in turn, opened the door for the Nature Films and Nudist Camp Pictures -- and one film in particular: Max Nosseck’s Garden of Eden (1954). For it was with this film, where a stranded motorist finds safe refuge at a nudist camp, after another long and lengthy court battle in the State of New York, a ruling was handed down that stated, "Nudity, on it's own, had no erotic content, and therefore was not obscene."
And while this ruling didn’t completely break the Production Code’s back, it did turn those cracks in its foundation into a full-blown breach when this decision held up on appeal. For what followed next, starting with Russ Meyer's The Immoral Mr. Teas (1959), was a new type of film that combined the corniness of the Burlesque Shows with the not-quite full-frontal of the Nudist Camp pictures -- and thus, the Nudie-Cuties were born. As to what those were, well, as noted exploitation filmmaker Frank Henenlotter -- Basket Case (1982), Frankenhooker (1990), so eloquently put it, “Coming out of an era when almost anything sexual could be considered obscene it was the logical outgrowth of both the Burlesque film and the Nudist Camp movies of the 1950s. The result was a sex film without any sex. They were called Nudie-Cuties and they were undoubtedly the stupidest films on the face of the Earth."
Voyeurism was still the name of the game: lot's of looking, but no touching -- from the audience, or the characters on screen; just a parade of beauties and a lot of teasing, teasing, and more teasing, punctuated by a whole lot of comedy corn, straight off the cob; that's a Nudie-Cutie in a kernelled nutshell alright.
And when this cycle began to peter out, oddly enough, monsters started showing up, giving the genre one last hurrah with the likes of Peter Perry’s Kiss me Quick (1964), Stephen Apostolof’s Orgy of the Dead (1965), and Lee Frost’s House on Bare Mountain, before the real monsters and psychos started showing up.
But we're getting ahead of ourselves a little bit as we barrel toward the climax with the lead-up to Granny Goody’s annual Halloween Jamboree, where we get an extended sequence of all her topless borders *ahem* “bouncing up and down the steps” to call their dates, reminding each to sneak a bottle of booze into the dance.
This they all do, and after the punch is spiked to around 190-proof, the mole reveals herself, calls in the cops, who then raid the place. Much shenanigans ensue. And as the party degenerates into a drunken dance orgy, complete with Frankenstein's Monster doing the Nudie-Watusi, well, that’s about it -- except for the twist ending.
Turns out old Granny got all those cops drunk, too, and now keeps them imprisoned in her basement, forcing them to work the still. See, she was never in the clink. They were. And with that final punchline, we cut to...
In the relatively tight circle of early sexploitation film pioneers, the only person disliked or more reviled by his peers than Alan Shackelton was probably Bob Cresse. Dave Friedman -- Scum of the Earth (1963), The Defilers (1965), a long time collaborator of Cresse’s, always referred to him as "a closet Nazi." And producer Harry Novak -- The Pigkeeper's Daughter (1972), A Scream in the Streets (1973), another associate, threatened to throw him through a plate-glass window if Cresse ever tried his strong-arm tactics on him again; and for the record, those tactics usually included a loaded .38 and two beefy bodyguards for persuasion and bill-collecting.
Cresse had started out as a messenger for MGM, but felt there was more money to be made working independently -- especially concerning subjects the big studios weren't allowed to do. Striking out on his own, he founded Olympic International Pictures, whose simple motto was "Art for the Sake of Money." Getting his feet wet writing and producing Once Upon a Knight (1961) -- a tale of an insurance investigator who's allergic to naked women, Cresse then got involved with House on Bare Mountain by bailing out fellow producer Wes Bishop, who ran out of money only one day into production.
Hooking up with another long time collaborator, director Lee Frost, Cresse inserted himself into the picture as the star, ad-libbing the whole thing and only shot one more day of footage, and then spliced everything together. This ad-hoc style of filmmaking shows pretty badly during the film's brief running time -- it barely breaks an hour. There just ain't a whole lot there, and what is there borders on tedious; and the thing never quite gels and lacks the overall delirium of the far superior Monster-Cutie, Novak's Kiss Me Quick.
Now, despite those earlier court rulings, some local censorship boards were still throwing their weight around. And as the legend goes, when House on Bare Mountain premiered in Boston, the current Chief of Police, claiming to have seen a little bit of snatch during the screening, raided the theater and shut the movie down. Demolishing the projector, he arrested the owner and burned the negative on the sidewalk for the gathered press outside (-- turns out he was up for re-election at the time). Cresse counter-sued for destruction of property, and since the evidence was destroyed, having gone up in smoke, giving the cops no case, he won a settlement.
The end was soon nigh for the Nudie-Cuties, though, and the giddy colors and jiggling scenery were replaced with the darker, grittier, and nastier Roughies as all that teasing gave way to sex with an unhealthy dose of violence. And as the characters started fondling each other, and more, they usually just wound up beating the crap out of each other; evidenced in the bondage and sadism of George Weiss' Olga movies -- White Slaves of Chinatown (1964), Olga's House of Shame (1964); Michael and Roberta Findley's sleaze and necrophilia -- The Touch of Her Flesh (1967), The Kiss of Her Flesh (1968), and if you thought the lobster claw assault in that was bad, check out the corncob scene in The Ultimate Degenerate (1969). Gah! And then all of this nonsense culminated with the all-out gorenogrpahy of Hershell Gordon Lewis -- Blood Feast (1963), 2000 Maniacs (1964), which officially put an end to, and I quote, one of the dumbest genres of all time.
I'll admit there is something refreshing about watching these old Nudie films, and that's the -- for lack of a better word, naturalness of the eye-candy on display. No silicone injections or over-fixed grotesqueries, and no waifish, heroin chic. These ladies are what they are, tan lines and all; cute, solid, and comfortable.
It should also be pointed out that all the monster make-ups were provided by Ed Wood regular, Harry Thomas, and they’re just as shoddy as his work in Killer’s from Space (1954), From Hell it Came (1957), and Frankenstein's Daughter (1958).
As for director Lee Frost, well, this was his first effort and I can definitely say that he did get better. Frost was a long-time two-punch combo with Wes Bishop. And together, they co-wrote, co-produced, and co-directed almost all the films for Cresse and Olympic International. They did manage to pry themselves away and went legit, sort of, working for American International on a couple of features -- Chrome and Hot Leather (1971), The Thing With Two Heads (1972), and then formed Saber Productions, which begat Policewomen (1974), The Black Gestapo (1975), and probably their most successful feature, Race with the Devil (1975), which was a troubled co-production with 20th Century Fox, and starred Peter Fonda and Warren Oates as a couple of tourists in an RV taking on Satanists down in Texas. At some point, Frost was fired off the picture and replaced by Jack Starrett.
Cresse, meanwhile, went with the flow, churning out the wonderfully sleazy Mondo Bizzarro (1966), The Animal (1968), and the truly nasty western, Hot Spur (1968), where a fired cowhand kidnaps and tortures the boss's wife; followed by The Scavengers (1969), his take on Peckinpah's The Wild Bunch (1969) -- only in Cresse’s film, the rapes are shown in slow-motion; and Cresse was also responsible for the very first, and some think the worst, of the Nazi-Sexploitation Sickies, Love Camp 7 (1969), where he had a little too much fun playing the Commandant -- if you know what I mean. And sadly, I think you do.
I think about the one and only positive thing you can say about Cresse is that he always delivered what his titles and promotional materials promised in his pictures. Because by most accounts, he was just as big of a misogynistic misanthrope in real life as he was on film. As an example: it's my understanding he had a two-way mirror in his office that gave him a full view of the ladies restroom -- that lets you see what, exactly? Which makes what happened to him next even more bizarre.
While taking his dog for a walk along the fabled Sunset Strip, down an alley, Cresse heard a woman crying for help. He investigated and found two men, who appeared to be assaulting her. Pulling out his trusty .38, when Cresse told them to back off, one of the men pulled out his own gun, shot Cresse in the stomach, then shot and killed his dog for good measure, and then informed Cresse they were police officers making an arrest. And while recuperating from these injuries, Cresse bled his accounts dry with medical bills. Broke, he dissolved his company and bowed out of the production business, taking a few bit parts here and there, and at one point wound-up skipping the country to get away from his creditors. He eventually did come back and died of a heart attack in 1998, ending one of the strangest runs in exploitation filmdom.
Well,
if you don't know what Hubrisween is by now, Boils and Ghouls, I don't
think I can help you. Anyhoo, that's EIGHT films down with 18 yet to go.
Up next, A Love Story that's Out of This World -- OR IS IT?!? Dahn! Dahn! Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahn!!!
House on Bare Mountain (1962) B and M Productions :: Olympic International Films / P: Bob Cresse, Wes Bishop / AP: Tommy L. McFadden / D: Lee Frost / W: Denver Scott / C: Gregory Sandor / E: Gary Lindsay / M: Pierre Martel / S: Bob Cresse, Laine Carlin, Leticia Cooper, Laura Eden, Ann Perry
We open in some unnamed city where the police have just interrupted a suspected serial bomber in the act, give chase, and eventually gun him down. In the aftermath, three people gather at the crime scene: Randy Johnson (Kerr Jr.), Carolyn Schneider (Wood) and Ron Carlton (Smedley). Johnson, an African-American, is an attorney who just launched his mayoral candidacy. Seems this city has been rocked by a series of escalating terror attacks in the form of bombings and arson. Johnson concedes these attacks are most likely politically and racially motivated and feels he must do everything he can to oust the incumbent mayor, who is ensconced deep in the pocket of big business interests and only answers to them and the whims of the “political machine.” Then, Johnson can attack the real problem of poverty and inequality and level the playing field for all. For then, and only then, he insists, will this unrest and violence stop.
Carolyn is Johnson’s publicist, who cannot withhold her contempt for the “Pigs” who gunned the terrorist down, shot in the back several times as he tried to run away. After he tried to detonate a bomb. In a public area. Now, this strident, invective-flinging leftie is also Carlton’s girlfriend -- well, one of them anyway. And together, she and Johnson have been trying hard to persuade Carlton, a highly influential local TV news producer, to endorse the challenger in the upcoming election.
And while Johnson’s platform and rhetoric are sound, Carlton is not so easily swayed. These negotiations continue later that night as Carolyn and Carlton lounge around on a fur rug near a crackling fire, stark-naked, post-bonking, where the woman once more pleads her case as they both cool down. But this isn’t Carlton’s first political rodeo, and his cynicism on the subject is palpable as he explains how history has shown time and again regime changes, no matter how much benevolence they promise, pretty much end up just as bad -- if not worse, than the old corrupt regime. Here, Carolyn backs off and the subject changes to the future of their relationship. Seems Carlton has two women in his life that he loves dearly for very different reasons. (Plus: double the sex.) Both women are aware of each other. And both are ready to be in a monogamous relationship. Thus, equal time ain’t gonna cut it anymore and he must soon settle on who to endorse on that front, too.
Meantime, Ben Atkinson (Carew), the current mayor, is feeling the heat on many fronts. For not only is his besieged city a seething cauldron of racial tensions and strife, with a widening chasm between the haves and the have-nots, but his sole opponent, Johnson, has been surging in the polls with each executed act of violence, blaming the mayor for all of it and laying out a very solid case on how only he can stop it; so now, an election that appeared to be in the bag a few scant weeks ago is getting too close to call. Atkinson still has the backing of the party, and a consortium of businessmen, led by Alexander Cartwright (Tepp), who have promised to launch several massive construction projects that will bring much needed jobs and revenue into the city. But this still might not be enough, and Atkinson will have to get off his ass, meet the masses, and press the flesh a bit to regain his momentum or there’s a big old can of “or else” to contend with if he loses.
Thus, as election day draws near, the mayoral race is essentially a dead heat. But Carlton still hasn’t decided on who he’ll endorse yet, which could be the deciding factor in this tight-knit race. He has, however, chosen to marry Cindy Cartwright (Caffaro), daughter of Alexander, and kind of a barely-dressed local celebrity in a proto-Paris Hilton sense, who has been out stumping for Mayor Atkinson, which went over like gangbusters with the wolf-whistling, blue-collar crowd. Carlton breaks this news to Carolyn (-- after they screw one last time, natch), swearing she’s the one he truly loves. But! She’s too strident in her beliefs. Too radical. Too volatile. And what he needs is stability, a trophy wife, without all of that baggage and hassle to deal with as he moves on to a Network job in the Big City once the election is over.
Johnson, meanwhile, has been preaching a good game, a real “man of the people” act, saying his goal is not to tear down from the top but to build up from the bottom to reach a new equality in the status quo. But when Carolyn reveals Carlton dumped her for Cindy, he fears Carlton is now in the elder Cartwright’s pocket and his endorsement is now lost. (Both the mayor and Cartwright tried to bribe Carlton for his vote but he refused.) Thus and so, in a bit of a twist, it’s revealed Johnson was the clandestine organizer behind these serial-bombings all along; a covert false flag operation Carolyn was not only aware of but endorsed wholeheartedly, as they would ride this wave of staged violence to victory by giving them something to rail against and rile up some stagnant voters. But now Johnson wants something different, something so vile and terrible it will all but usher him into City Hall. And what he plans to do is have his militant supporters kidnap Cindy and hold her hostage until the election is over. And I have a feeling whether Cindy will survive this ordeal or not depends on who wins the vote...
These days, writer, director, producer, and all around filmmaker, Donald Schain, is probably best remembered for a decade’s worth of TV movies he did for the Disney Channel -- most notably, producing the High School Musical franchise (2006-2008). But some of us probably remember him better as a notorious sleaze merchant with a particular kink when he broke into the industry back in the 1970s.
A native of Asbury Park, New Jersey, Schain’s movie career began shortly after he graduated from college in 1963, landing a job as an assistant in the distribution branch of the Walter Reed Theatres chain. Around 1968, Schain decided to take a crack at film production, conspiring with Steven Bradford to raise enough money to shoot a squalid little roughie called The Love Object (1970), where a woman, Sharon Austin (Kim Pope), heads to New York with dreams of becoming an actress on the stage. There, she picks up a boyfriend (Howard Blakey), who encourages her to keep on trying when Sharon refuses to compromise herself on several casting couches. But then the woman is abducted out of the blue and taken to a remote cabin, where she is tied up, verbally and physically abused, and forced to participate as the main attraction in several porn loops.
Once this humiliation is complete, Sharon is let go. But she can’t report this to the police, for if she does these pornographers, led by her so-called boyfriend, promise to release all the compromising material to the public, destroying any chance she’d have at a legitimate acting career. But, these assholes release it all anyway, forcing Sharon to sleep with “repulsive but influential” men to salvage her dream, which nets her a small role in an off-off-Broadway production, where her talent shines through and attracts the attention of a prominent director, who thinks the actress would be perfect for the lead of his new play. Turns out this role kind of echoes Sharon’s own dubious circumstances, she finds strength in it, and agrees to take it on -- once she’s taken care of some unfinished business first and gets her revenge on all those who exploited her first.
After the The Love Object was picked up and released by Joseph Brenner Associates, who specialized in packaging “adults only” and “matinee friendly” foreign imports, Schain packed up and moved to Hollywood in 1971 to further his career, where he met Ralph Desiderio. And together, they formed Derio Productions and conned Desiderio’s relatives into financing their next sleazoid feature about a secret agent, sex, and drugs. And while The Love Object basically mapped-out Schain’s softcore modus operandi and firmly established his bondage fetish, things were about to hit ludicrous speed on all of the above when the director found his personal muse after casting Cheri Caffaro for the lead in Ginger (1971).
Born in Miami, Florida, but raised in Pasadena, California (-- which would probably explain her well tanned blonde bombshell chassis), the lithe and shapely Caffaro won a Brigitte Bardot look-alike contest for LIFE Magazine at the age of 14, which she leveraged into work as a model. Later, Caffaro won a scholarship to attend the Pasadena Playhouse, appearing in several stage productions. She broke into pictures with a bit part in Art Lieberman’s farcical nudie, Up Your Alley (1971). After, she got on Schain’s radar after auditioning for the role of Ginger McCallister.
Schain would write and direct the delightfully demented Ginger, which is brazen in both it’s amateurishness and explicitness as Cafaro played a secret agent for … somebody, who is charged with taking out a New Jersey-based drug operation, sex-traffickers and blackmailers with extreme prejudice. Using her brains and her body, Ginger was an aggressive, reckless force to be reckoned with as she not only gets the job done but also works through some personal issues, gets caught, gets raped, gets tied up, gets loose, and gets her murder on something fierce.
In Ginger, “Caffaro brought a hard, steely edge and a raw, earthy, unbridled sex appeal to the part that's alluring and unnerving in equal measure.” And the film proved a big enough hit Schain decided to make two more starring the same character to cash-in: The Abductors (1972), which is even more sleazy and completely bonkers as Ginger takes on a band of white-slavers, and Girls Are for Loving (1973), which wasn’t quite as sleazy or bonkers but sleazy and bonkers enough with some low-rent international intrigue. At best, the Ginger McCallister trilogy is entertainingly tacky, and at its worst it’s an Eric Stanton Stantoon strung out on PCP as women brawl, men are castrated, and the heroine gets tied up and gagged. Ah lot.
Now, in the middle of all of that insanity, violence, and smut two things happened: one, Schain and Caffaro fell in love and got married; and two, Schain decided he wanted to try something different on film. Sure, there’d still be a lot of sex in it, and his new wife would get tied up and brutalized in her role, duh, but Schain wanted it to be in service of something bigger, something edgier -- something significant about the state of race relations and the broken political process. Something relevant. Something legitimate. Something timely. Something close to home. And most importantly, something he could exploit.
Thus, Schain’s sociopolitical opus thinly disguised as a porno -- or maybe make that a porno thinly disguised as a sociopolitical opus, A Place Called Today (1972), would be loosely based on the election of Kenneth Gibson, who was elected mayor of Newark, New Jersey, in 1970, making him the first African American mayor of that city, which had seen a huge economic downturn since the 1950s due to deindustrialization, causing massive unemployment and a rise in poverty, especially for minorities, resulting in some deadly race riots in 1967, which caused even more White Flight and businesses to abandon the city. "Newark may be the most decayed and financially crippled city in the nation," said Gibson during his campaign. He ran as a reformer, claiming incumbent mayor, Hugh Addonizio, ran a corrupt regime. And after his ouster, Addonizio was convicted of extortion and conspiracy over kickbacks received from city contractors to the tune of 1.5 million dollars and spent the next ten years in Federal prison.
And while Gibson courted the support of several radicals and militant minority groups in his election bid, it should be noted that none of them were blowing up or burning down buildings at the time. And he sure as hell didn’t conspire with them to kidnap and murder anyone, making Schain’s race-baiting plot both distasteful and disingenuous. And the fact Schain essentially wrote his ham-fisted and patronizing script on a shovel and then proceeded to beat the audience over the head with it to make sure we all realized how important and significant he thought he was being did not help at all. People don’t talk or have discussions in this movie. They preach and proselytize, and mostly fail at not looking directly into the camera while delivering these screeds. And while this does create a bit of verisimilitude, it was nothing more than accidental.
Sadly, this kind of wastes an interesting performance by J. Herbert Kerr Jr. as Johnson, whose motives are sound, and his solutions ring true, but he’s also a bit of a sociopath and sees everything and everyone as a simple means to an end, which allows him to compromise his conscience and do what must be done in a system rigged against him, aligning himself with a group of radicals -- billed only as Black Radical and White Radical (Carter, Viera), classy, who plant the bombs and pull off the kidnapping of Cindy (right out of the shower, natch), truss her up, bundle her in a sleeping bag, but then bring the victim to Johnson’s headquarters instead of the safehouse, where she was to be held until the election was over tomorrow. Why? Well, his lead minion thought Johnson’s hands were too clean and wanted to make it clear “it’s the things we're doing, and not those fancy words of yours, that's going to push the levers in the voting booths tomorrow!"
Here, Johnson (and Carolyn) is forced to face one of his victims but does not miss a beat, saying, "Until I'm sure of winning, there's nothing to save you. Not your money, not that body of yours that you flaunt so well. In fact, those are the very reasons you're here ... Because to the haves and the have-nots alike, you're the symbol of the ‘have it all, damn it-all of this city.’ And if this can happen to you, then nobody's safe. You are a symbol. Not a person." With that, the kidnappers take Cindy and leave. Now, I think the plan was to hold Cindy until the election was over. But now that she's seen Johnson and Carolyn her life expectancy just took some massive hit damage. And on top of that, the lead minion, who doesn’t really trust Johnson, decides to take his hostage to her father's country club, a symbolic gesture, where he rapes and brutalize Cindy to both defy Johnson and really mess with “the man."
Meantime, Carlton finally decides on who to endorse. And while he knows Johnson is not the idealistic fool he thought he was, and the idealistic fool the city needed to pull them out of the dumps, Carlton has concluded Atkinson has used up all of his chances and it’s time for a change. Watching his broadcast, Johnson can’t believe what just happened. And since he is now all but guaranteed a victory, Carolyn, who is starting to regret her life decisions, believes they can let Cindy go and races off to stop Johnson’s minions. But she’s already too late. Cindy is dead, and Carolyn winds up trapped with the two assailants as they have a shootout with the cops. Carlton also arrives on scene, having caught the newsflash about the discovery of Cindy’s body. One of the gunmen sees this and tries to shoot him. Carolyn sees this, too, and runs to warn him. But, caught in the crossfire, the cops shoot her dead while the gunmen shoot Carlton dead before they can reach each other. Oh, the irony.
The following day, Johnson receives word that Atkinson has conceded the election to him. And with all the other conspirators dead, the mayorship is his free and clear. But after his aide brings him the news, that the city is now his, Johnson considers the cost, saying, "I have a feeling someone must've said that to Cesar as he stood out on one of those seven hills and looked at Rome."
Like with Rene Daalder’s subversive lesson in civics, Massacre at Central High (1976), where a series of bloody regime changes rock a high school, turns out the focus of A Place Called Today is not on the instigator of these changes (Johnson), or the acts of violence per se, but an attempt to get other characters off the fence and make a commitment. Here, it’s Carolyn’s commitment to Carlton or the cause and Carlton on who to endorse both personally and professionally, making this movie nothing more than a sappy melodrama about the two least interesting, whitebread characters in the cast. Also, bonking.
Carolyn is a terrible cliche; a sneering, self-righteous, radicalized yuppie, who, unlike Johnson, fails to realize people aren’t voting for him because it’s empowering the downtrodden or the right choice but fear over what will happen if they don’t. Schain scored a minor coup by getting Lana Wood in this role, who was just coming off her appearance as the doomed Bond Girl, Plenty O’Toole, in Diamonds are Forever (1971) and a pleasant picture spread in Playboy. Neither Wood nor her co-star, Richard Smedley, a veteran of many skin-flicks, brought much as actors to the production but they fell in love during the shoot and got hitched. In her memoir, Wood said she had high hopes for the film based on the script but felt it was ruined in editing. Still, she defended it, saying even the most awful movies were made with the most sincerest of intentions.
And I guess that’s one of the biggest problems with A Place Called Today. As a viewer, we’re just not sure what exactly Schain intended or what he's trying to say or what we’re supposed to be feeling, here, as the film is constantly torpedoed by its tonal inconsistencies. Schain and his cinematographer, R. Kent Evans, who also provided three songs for the soundtrack, make some hay when they’re shooting on location in Newark -- with a special nod for when Johnson takes a reporter on a walkabout through the slums, but everything else is a static master and lifeless, including the sex scenes. Harry Glass’s editing is also pretty abysmal save for the final split-screen montage as we cut from the dead bodies, then to a flashback of Cindy and Carolyn each making speeches for their candidates, then Mayor Atkinson and Johnson in front of their raucous supporters, which dissolves into the voting booth as voters pull the levers as the sound blurs into a deafening cacophony until you realize there ain’t much difference between any of them. If the rest of the film had that much buzz, Schain might’ve actually had something here. But, he didn’t and we don’t.
These tonal inconsistencies spew forth from the script, too. There’s almost an interesting treatise on whether violence or discourse is the best method of achieving one’s goals. And a ruthless politician manipulating the easily frightened public by choosing the former and playing on their fears is a great hook -- and still relevant today. But under Schain’s heavy-hand, this is all just wasted potential as his focus keeps straying to all three corners of the insipid love-triangle.
And then there’s the rape and murder of Cindy Cartwright. To her credit, Caffaro feels genuine in her role as a spoiled rich girl, which nearly earns her a brief spurt of sympathy during her plight if -- and stress on the “if” -- this scene wasn’t shot like the porn insert it most probably was, making it feel gratuitous. It’s kind of a chicken and egg thing: was this a porn trying to be a drama? Or a drama trying to be a porn?
Either way, the line between dirty movies and mainstream were definitely blurring by 1972. Deep Throat (1972) was on the way (-- sharp eyes will spot an uncredited Deep Throat star, Harry Reems, as a construction worker during one of the campaign rallies), as moral codes around the country were fraying, and courts were in the process of striking down many obscenity laws, opening the era of porno chic. When A Place Called Today was picked up by Embassy Pictures (AVCO), it was initially slapped with an X-rating, which I found kind of hilarious considering how tame it was compared to the R-rated Ginger films. Context is everything, I guess.
After wrapping up the Ginger series, Caffaro branched out and did Savage Sisters (1974) for Eddie Romero in the Philippines. Schain and Caffaro would then team up again and try to recapture the Ginger magic one last time with Too Hot to Handle (1977), which would essentially mark the end of his directing career and her acting career.
As I mentioned earlier, Schain would continue to produce but his subject matter would be decidedly different. Cafaro would be an associate producer on the early HBO staple, H.O.T.S. (1979), and the awful Bill Rebane flick, The Demons of Ludlow (1981), before divorcing Schain the same year and retiring to a quiet life of beekeeping, bringing a subdued end to a wild and whackadoodle run of exploitation filmmaking.
A legit check his pornographer butt just couldn’t cash, Schain shot and released A Place Called Today in between The Abductors and Girls Are for Loving. Alas, his attempt at legitimacy was both a box-office disappointment and a critical disaster. He shot for profound but scored a direct hit on nigh insufferable instead. As another reviewer noted, “Schain seems to think he’s revealing some deep truths here, and probably imagined the film as a cynical exposé, but cynicism demands a level of awareness that just isn’t in evidence here,” which is why I’ll be reluctantly voting none of the above on this one.
A Place Called Today (1972) Derio :: Embassy Pictures / EP: Frank J. Desiderio / P: Ralph T. Desiderio / D: Don Schain / W: Don Schain / C: R. Kent Evans / E: Harry D. Glass / M: Robert Orpin / S: J. Herbert Kerr Jr., Lana Wood, Richard Smedley, Cheri Caffaro, Leo Tepp, Peter Carew, Woody Carter, Cucho Viera
