SEXIS WRONG

made, entering taboo realms within role-playing and terminal
kinks.
Jason Cams plays a security guard who gets off impersonating
an LAPD officer. During his voyeuristic prowls, he rapes,
debases, and bullies hookers. One night while peeping in
windows, he accidentally spies a woman killing her husband
during a heated argument. Cams stews in his own perversions,
watching anal loops and terrorizing a massage parlor
owner after having a two-girl session. His erotomanias draw
him back to the murder over and over. He fantasizes about
brutalizing the murderess, and he acts on his obsession, even
assaulting her in drag. She rewards him with the appropriate,
final remedy he is seeking—his death at her hands.
Climax of Blue Power is made in a TV movie/Crown International
thriller vein, complete with car chases and L.A. location
work. The film is an edge-of-the-seat ride. Shockingly hostile
All manner of 8 th Avenue flotsam
floated in after midnight like a tide
breaking.
in intent and execution, sex scenes emerge as integral parts
of the narrative. It’s raw, yet the film adroitly walks a tightrope
of prurient impact. Jason Cams, with his nondescript
good looks, gives a transcendent performance as the perverted
antagonist. He’s so convincing that you shudder at the
thought of this creep living next door to you, which sustains
the believability that most hardcore films lack. The hardened
Hollywood Boulevard female cast members are equally apropos.
(Watch for the curious glimpse of Uschi Digart in the
massage parlor.) Climax of Blue Power is a terrific movie and
a must for anyone into rough sex.
By 1976 the Globe had deteriorated into just another shabby
adult house with odd happenings, like Mark (Mr. 10-½) Stevens,
high on a fistful of drugs, approaching bewildered and
shocked nerds by the toilets. Stevens enjoyed getting off
while his image played on the big screen.
In late 1976 the Globe renamed itself the Rialto East and
went high-quality super-sleaze. The first feature to kick off
the name change was The Double Exposure of Holly. It’s the
story of Jewish American Princess Holly Levin (Catherine
Earnshaw), who is married to an old man for money but fucks
around constantly behind his back. One of her throwaway lovers
puts her under video surveillance in an attempt to destroy
her marriage. This chaos triggers a ripple effect of betrayals
and murder. The Double Exposure of Holly captures the
glossy dissipation of sexual decadence in mid-1970s Manhattan.
Jamie Gillis remembers that director Bob Gill was a dropin
director and only around for this one hardcore film.
The conflict-driven narrative structure resembles an existential
soap opera. As the investigating team, Gillis and Terri Hall,
always terrific together, are impressive as sex-driven depressives.
Hardcore scenes appear fluidly. Terri Hall nods out and
imagines a dark, disembodied orgy set to an aural tapestry of
ambient jazz music. Annie Sprinkle appears as a pea-brained,
giddy hooker who seduces Gillis in a prearranged three-way
with Nancy Dare. Leading lady Catherine Earnshaw, who
also used the names Cary Lacy and Catherine Burgess, was
a hardcore anomaly. She appeared in a few big-budget porno
films, performed simulated sex, but required a body double
for hardcore inserts. She was hired, it seems, to lend a patina
of glamour. It’s also curious to see videotape, which is sadly
now the almost necrophilic norm, used as a futuristic, kinky
voyeuristic device. The Double Exposure of Holly is a moody,
erotic film noir with its own unique aesthetic.
In the early 1980s the Rialto East turned into a Spanish-language
theater. Then, Sweetheart Theaters, an
arm of the Jewish Mafia with many fingers in
Times Square pies, bought the theater. Sweetheart
also owned high-profile first-run theaters
like the Circus, Mini, and World Theaters. All
of the Sweetheart Theaters were running steadily on the decline.
They broke the Rialto East in half to make a twin theater
and renamed it the Big Apple. After this change, the theater
turned extremely rank. Black sleepers, unskilled pickpockets,
failed beat drug salesmen, couples chasers, and one-armed
bandits were all drawn by the Big Apple’s large size. They
had the luxury of changing films or “scenes” at any point by
moseying over to the twin’s other side. Films like Big Abner
with John Holmes and Jim Cassidy played, but no one really
watched the movie. Everyone watched each other. The
theater was a big jerk-off palace. The Big Apple stunk, it had
sticky floors, and after leaving, anyone sane would burn their
clothes and douse themselves with Rid.
If you came in a couple, you were immediately the audience’s
sexual focus in a hostile, cum-shot way. The whole vibe of
the joint was blank, not home, and more than disaffected,
like a crowd of aggressive sexual autistics. Once during a
showing of Orgy Party, a white couple came in and quietly sat
down near the front. The woman looked around, nervously,
not trusting her surroundings. She looked like an innocuous
out-of-towner. Suddenly she hollered: “WHAT THE FUCK
IS THIS?” The audience came to a stunned standstill. “Your
head is ten feet tall!” She called the guy with her an asshole,
and, getting out of her seat to leave, she scanned the audience
watching her. “You’re all assholes, too!” she barked,
almost knocking the exit doors off their hinges. Just another
quirky Times Square outburst.
The Big Apple’s rotting neighbor, Nathan’s Famous Hot Dogs,
156 EVERYTHING YOU KNOW ABOUT SEX IS WRONG