Cult Movies #3 & #4 (Part Two) *

Following the 1967 release of the blockbuster hit, Valley of the Dolls author Jacqueline Susann set about writing a sequel to capitalize on the movie's popularity. Titled Beyond the Valley of the Dolls, Susann's screen treatment would have brought back original star, Barbara Parkins, as a (presumably) more mature Anne Welles. Since Valley of the Dolls had been a winner for 20th Century-Fox, Susann and her husband, Irving Mansfield, convinced the studio to allow Mansfield's company to produce the film. However...somewhere along the way, Mansfield and Fox crossed swords and he was fired from the project. Susann soon hit the trail herself, still clutching her precious screen treatment, along with her pearls. With a youthful(ish) Richard Zanuck in charge of new productions at Fox, it was decided that the highly successful smut peddler, Russ Meyer, would write and direct his own version of Susann's brainchild. 

Kicking around Hollywood since the 1950's, Meyer had independently written, produced and directed such adult classics as The Immoral Mr. Teas, Faster Pussycat, Kill, Kill and Vixen, establishing a reputation as King of the Nudies. Meyer brought in Chicago film critic, Roger Ebert (yes, that Roger Ebert) to help write the film, and the pair pounded out a screenplay in 3 weeks. Discarding Susann's plotline, Meyer came up with a brand new scenario for Beyond the Valley of the Dolls, which was quickly approved by Zanuck and slated for production. Susann predictably went ballistic over Meyer's new incarnation of her baby and threatened to sue Fox if the character of Anne Welles was included in the film. In order to placate Susann and avoid a lawsuit, Anne Welles became Susan Lake, although Barbara Parkins (Anne Welles in Valley of the Dolls) was, reportedly, more than willing to participate in the movie. 

Beyond the Valley of the Dolls reached theater screens a mere week before the universally loathed Myra Breckinridge nose-dived into cinemas. With its stellar cast and literary origins, Myra should have been a much bigger deal than Russ Meyer's sexploitation extravaganza that featured no-name performers and a significantly lower budget. And yet...the Myra movie, mishandled from the start, crashed and burned at the box office, while BVD--vilified by most contemporary film critics--became one of the top 20 highest-grossing movies of 1970, earning back ten times its original budget. 

So what happened? Well, for starters, BVD actually works as the Hollywood satire Myra always intended to be. Sure, it's silly and the plot absurdly overwrought, but BVD knows its limitations and never aspires to be more than it is: a soft-core skinflick/melodrama/rock musical/parody/horror show created specifically to entice hip, young audiences who had outgrown the tentpole musicals, stale westerns and manipulative goo they'd grown up watching. BVD sends up Hollywood tropes and the Love Generation while taking pointed jabs at the patriarchy (i.e. toxic masculinity); it is sexy, rambunctious, clever, funny and scary, with an unexpected climax that ramps up the gore. Designed to be over-the-top, BVD is far removed from reality and was never meant to be taken seriously (although plenty of film critics apparently did). BVD is also shamelessly entertaining, whereas Myra is hit or miss (mostly miss). Myra's director, Michael Sarne, never seemed to have a grasp on his material whereas Russ Meyer, with years of experience under his belt, was firmly in control of his production. Strategically, Meyer instructed his cast to play it straight and not try to be funny, allowing the material to speak for itself. 

By current standards, BVD is a big-bosomed relic from a different era: it is politically incorrect, exploitative and often insensitive. Yet the movie still resonates with younger viewers just now discovering its mind-boggling pleasures. It has certainly grown in stature since its 1970 release (it received an upgrade from none other than the prestigious Criterion Collection a few years ago). 

Meyer and Ebert's conception of Beyond the Valley of the Dolls is a lollapalooza of sex, drugs, and rock and roll. As envisioned by Susann, three young women arrive in the big city only to be corrupted, addicted and/or dead by the movie's end. That is where BVD's similarity to Susann's potboiler ends. Rather than aspiring actresses and models, Meyer presents us with a trio of female rockers--Kelly, Casey and Pet, who, along with their manager (also Kelly's boyfriend) Harris, head to the City of Angels to make it big in the music business while collecting Kelly's share of an inheritance from her fashionista Aunt Susan. Susan turns out to be a genuinely caring auntie, but her scheming attorney's manipulations make it hard for Kelly to collect. Meanwhile, the trio meets hot young music producer/star-maker, Ronnie "Z-Man" Bartell, who rechristens the group The Carrie Nations. 

Z-Man's parties, notorious for their excesses, introduce the ladies to sex gods and goddesses, orgies, potential love interests, and a plethora of naked people in all shapes, ages and sizes. And, of course, more drugs than any of them could ever hope to ingest. Well, maybe not quite. 

The band cuts albums and goes out on tour, leaving poor Harris sulking at home in L.A. Kicked out of Kelly's bed by stud-for-hire Lance, and replaced by Z-Man as the band's manager, Harris takes to a regimen of hard drugs, heavy drink and hot sex with an insatiable porn starlet named Ashley St. Ives. But first he and the equally (and eternally) verklempt Casey indulge in a one-night stand that leaves Casey indignant and pregnant. 

Sick of men, Casey hits the sheets with fashion designer Roxanne, who very strongly suggests to Casey that she have an abortion. Meanwhile, after a whirlwind romance with law student Emerson, Pet secretly hops into bed with hot-tempered boxer Randy Black, a turn of events that stuns (and almost kills) nice guy Emerson when he finds out. For his part, Z-Man, on tour with the band, appears to be creeping on an unsuspecting Kelly, but, as it happens, there's more to Z-Man than meets the eye.

With everyone sleeping with everyone else, it isn't long before the men become possessive, brutal and/or suicidal. But, if you come away thinking that BVD is a softcore soap opera, you've missed the point. The film uses the conventions of daytime drama to elicit cheap thrills, knowing giggles and titillation, throwing in a dose of the old ultraviolence for good measure. In fact, the shocking climax--coming out of the blue--was clearly inspired by the Tate murders on Cielo Drive a year earlier. (Ironically--or not--Sharon Tate played the ill-fated Jennifer North in Valley of the Dolls). 

The performances are about what you'd expect from a cast full of Playboy Bunnies, Playmates of the Month, exotic dancers, horned-up bad boys, and actors of no known cinematic origin. That doesn't mean that all the performances are bad. An excellent John LaZar gives it his all as the high-strung, unsettlingly charming Z-Man. Given to uttering such quasi-Shakespearean lines as "...ere this night does wane, you will drink the black sperm of my vengeance", LaZar delivers his dialogue with deadpan aplomb. His infamous gatherings of hipsters and libertines allow Z-Man to perform as if he's in the Globe Theater; you can't take your eyes off him.

The Carrie Nations are superb at doing exactly what they were hired to do: look gorgeous, reveal their prodigious cleavage at every opportunity, and mime their (surprisingly convincing) concert performances. Of course, given the melodramatic nature of the movie, each is required to emote as required by the script. They're not all terribly convincing but it turns out not to matter much. Lead singer, Kelly McNamara, is played by Dolly Read (a former Playmate of the Month and a later Mrs. Dick Martin, of Rowan & Martin fame). With top billing, Read gives what may be--arguably--the best performance of this trio. But maybe not. Who cares? She seems to be genuinely enjoying herself and has all the pep and energy of a high school cheerleader; she's certainly the most fun member of the band. 

As guitarist and backup vocalist Casey Anderson--daughter of a United States Senator--Cynthia Myers frequently demonstrates why the Vietnam-era troops adored her, and why she was named one of the top 10 Playboy Playmates of the 20th Century. She is spectacular, and even with finite acting ability, Meyers does manage a few moments of genuine pathos in the film. With less to do, co-star Marcia McBroom rounds out the trio as Petronella (Pet) Danforth, the cheerfully two-timing drummer who elicits much sturm und drang from her competing beaux. Fashion model McBroom's appearance in the film marked a first for an African-American woman to co-star in a studio-produced film at a time when most studio movies were marketed to white audiences. McBroom wasn't much of an actress, either, but she's lively and uninhibited, and doesn't embarrass herself. Too bad she didn't get as much screen time as her co-stars. 

David Gurion, in his only screen performance, is fine--but not too fine--as bottomless pit of need, Harris, while blonde, blue-eyed hunkster, Michael Blodgett is convincing (and fine) as Lance Rock, the arrogant, high-dollar rent boy whose callous behavior precipitates the film's murderous climax. (Despite that, he does look fabulous in a leopard print loincloth.) Vixen's Erica Gavin seems a little zombified here as manipulative lesbian Roxanne, and eternal starlet Edy Williams (who later married Russ Meyer) is a hoot as hot-to-trot Ashley St. Ives. Williams had great potential as a comedienne: she had a campy, drag-queen quality that played well even if she couldn't act her way out of a pizza box. Unfortunately, her career was largely limited to B-movies and self-aggrandizing publicity stunts. Frequent Meyer collaborator Charles Napier briefly shows up to fan the flames as Aunt Susan's long-lost lover. Napier was a popular character actor who enjoyed a decades-long career. He may be best remembered as the unfortunate courthouse guard who is strung up and disemboweled by Hannibal Lector in Silence of the Lambs. Phyllis Davis (later to appear with Robert Urich in Vega$) as Aunt Susan is no Barbara Parkins so take that for whatever it's worth. Also hovering amongst the scenery is Faster Pussycat co-star Haji, and a very young Pam Grier in an uncredited cameo. There are also the dozens of partygoing extras doing the frug, bogeying joints (Google it), rolling their eyes and fucking their brains out on every available surface. Making an appearance at one of Z-Man's parties, The Strawberry Alarm Clock--briefly a supergroup in the late 60's--perform I'm Coming Home (although I wish they'd sung Incense and Peppermints).

In fact, the soundtrack of BVD is a big selling point. Aside from The Strawberry Alarm Clock, The Carrie Nation's repertoire of songs is nicely performed by Lynn Carey and Barbara Robison (lyrics by Stu Phillips). All this music is period rock and roll at its best, especially at a time when all-women rock bands were practically non-existent. The cinematographer of BVD was Fred J. Koenekamp, who'd shot Patton the year before. With his expert eye and Meyer's attention to script details, BVD mixes the kaleidoscopic vibrancy of Batman (the Adam West/Burt Ward series, not the movies) with the goofiness of The Monkees, split-second cutaways, colorful psychedelia, melodramatic cheesiness, and the blood-drenched imagery of Italian giallo films.  

Russ Meyer saved a boatload of money by shooting most of BVD on the 20th Century-Fox backlot, sticking to his shooting schedule and not hiring a way-too-expensive Barbara Parkins to reprise her role as Anne Welles/Susan Lake. Beyond the Valley of the Dolls might have further cashed in as a midnight movie staple, along the lines of The Rocky Horror Picture Show and Eraserhead. Unfortunately, due to the utter failure of Myra Breckinridge and the critical drubbing received by BVD, Richard Zanuck was shown the door by Fox and, thus, unable to take advantage of the film's late-night potential (which, surely, must have occurred to him). Happily, BVD was rediscovered when it was released on videotape in 1984 (and later, on DVD and Blu-ray). Smarter, hipper viewers can now appreciate the film's dead-on satire and sheer lunacy without the yoke of filmdom's Old Guard deciding the subjective value of what was and was not acceptable entertainment for the masses (that, alas, could change according to the whims of the current occupant of the White House). Beyond the Valley of the Dolls may not be the best movie ever made--in the eyes of some, it remains a tasteless debacle--but it is aeons better than Myra Breckinridge, and a very groovy happening, man. I still dig it.

* FYI: I first saw Beyond the Valley of the Dolls when I was 16 years old. A fellow classmate and I thought we were very daring when we climbed into my 1969, candy-apple red Mustang Mach One and hauled ass to the nearest drive-in to check out this verboten epic of debauchery. In actual fact, we halfway expected to be barred entry since it was an X-rated movie and, according to the MPAA, "persons under 18" would not be admitted. My friend's parents, along with my mom, expressly forbade our attendance at BVD screenings, so, of course, that's the first thing we wanted to do. (My dad, on the other hand, gave me free rein to watch whatever I wanted, as long as my mother didn't find out). To make a long story short, the box office attendant not only didn't send us packing, but barely looked up when he took our money and gave my (admittedly, hot) car the once-over. So, we saw the film and I didn't find myself unduly discombobulated or overly-lustified by the experience. My buddy, on the other hand, was shocked into silence on the drive home. He later became a Baptist preacher (my mother's dream job for me) and I--well, I went in another direction, didn't I?