by Rich Coad

"What do you want for your birthday?" I asked the esteemed editor of this journal as we sat in a Brisbane roadhouse drinking Anchor Steam and waiting for the phenomenal Dave and Deke combo to begin playing their own special brand of hillbilly music.

"Um, uh, er, how about, hmm, er, you know, uh, an article." responded the articulate Mattingly with unusual directness.

"Okay," I said knowing I had a sure fire way of getting off the hook. "I'll write an article about my new vacuum cleaner."

"That's ALL he talked about on the drive down here," complained Bruce Alan Townley who resembles me in only the most superficial manner despite what Nikola Householder may think. She, after all, is only eighteen months old without the finely honed ability to perceive the major and critical differences between myself and Townley that prevents most people we know from looking adorably confused and blurting out "Two Bruce!!!" when they see us together. As for all those lawyers who called me Bruce and him Rich, well, the profession is notoriously myopic, thinks blind justice is not disabled jurisprudence, and were all overworked, overpaid gits, too.

"A Eureka World Vac," I continued, ignoring the Townley outburst. "I'll bet I can work up something about American arrogance calling the baseball championship the WORLD Series, naming their vacuums the WORLD Vac, hah!"

And I bet I could have, too. But fortunately a real subject presented itself in the form of an invitation from Malcolm Goldstein to attend (and be an unpaid extra in) the filming of the final scene for his art-porn epic "The Quickie". The flyer had said that recipients were invited to attend the "only" performance of "About Electra", although the performance would be filmed and eventually viewable for a quarter a minute in various plywood booths throughout the land. (A brief digression here to plug Tales Of Times Square, Josh Alan Friedman's fine 1986 collection of essays that, among others, tells the tale of Roger Kirschner who is the crazed genius behind the machinery of sleaze - "I worked with an engineer night and day for eighteen weeks to develop the A and B video system in 1983. Eighteen weeks of hell.") Come to the Noh Space Theatre at the corner of 16th and Mariposa. Look for the red door. Be there at 3:30. So said the flyer and Malcolm's message machine. So, knowing Gary still wanted an article, I grabbed a pen and steno pad and went in search of sex, art, and a Pulitzer.

Now, I have lived in San Francisco for almost twenty years. Because of this I had a sneaking suspicion that 16th and Mariposa ran parallel and, as I travelled down 16th, crossed Third Street and saw it continued into the Bay, I thought "Pay heed to those sneaking suspicions. They'll keep your car dry.". Turning onto Third, I drove to Mariposa and turned onto it. Eventually I arrived at the remains of a paint factory that had burned down rather spectacularly two nights before. The road was closed here and large dump trucks were collecting debris and trundling off to land fills (probably in Nevada since this could be toxic stuff). Fortunately, the detour led me to the Noh Space theatre that, if you ever have to find it, is not on either 16th or Mariposa and the door is red on the inside but black on the outside. Directors, I surmised, should not direct traffic.

Having arrived you may wonder why I, along with a dozen or more other invitees, were standing outside at 3:45 enjoying a typical late-Spring San Francisco afternoon. For those of you who haven't been here just take it from me - it is almost always cold and foggy in San Francisco and if it isn't foggy then it's windy. If you want the perfect weather that California propagandists talk about you have to go to San Diego (except in June) but then you'd be in the blandest large city in the state so you'd want to go to Tijuana that doesn't have the perfect climate that San Diego has so you're shit out of luck and might as well be cold in San Francisco or sweltering in LA. Well, the group of us was standing in the bluster and drizzle due to the usual problems of software and film-making: everything takes longer than expected. (Another digression - I once walked by Keifer Sutherland sitting on a motorcycle in front of City Lights bookstore on my way to a lengthy lunch (say two hours) with friends. On the way back Kiefer was still sitting on the bike in the same spot. As far as I could tell the crew was still organizing the logistics for the shot. No wonder film stars demand such large fees - what a grueling life.) As I learned later one of the principal actresses had arrived late and the entire day's schedule was thrown off.

As we stood outside I glanced about at the audience for this extravaganza. It was mostly male, mostly middle-aged, and substantially fannish. Dave Rike was there with Bill Donaho. Stephen Black bicycled in. Hal Robbins was not only there but was scheduled to be a featured performer. Dixie Tracy-Kinney showed up saying "Jay is in Turkey smoking, drinking beer and talking" - sounds like my ideal vacation too (although I've more or less quit smoking) - "so I came to see this." Others added to the group. Some were friends of the fans and some were friends of the friends of the fans. At one point a very elegantly dressed woman carrying a Nordstrom bag walked up to me - "I'm looking for the Malcolm Goldstein performance," she said. I tried to keep my aplomb as I told her this was it, wondering if this rather conservative-looking, forty-something, woman knew what she was getting herself into.

Hal Robbins, who was going to play the MC in the video, waved a copy of the script he'd been given. I looked over his shoulder as he began thinking about how his introduction should sound:

Sweat.

Oooooh.

Move!

Ahhh.

And so on. It was certainly an improvement over the "adult" version of Frankenstein (part of a series showing how the classics would have been written if it hadn't been for the prevailing censorship) which featured Frankenstein crying out "Fuuuuuuu . . . (many u's omitted here) . . . uuuuuuck me!", not to mention "Suuuuuu . . . ", well you get the idea. But the script seemed unnecessarily rigid - why were there no "Mmmmm's", for instance.

Later, with a full copy of the script at my disposal, I was able to learn that the rather bizarre things said on stage (or in an offstage voice over) were actually written out and had been memorized in much the same manner that Lord Laurence Olivier memorizes Shakespeare.

The wait to enter continued. Almost an hour after the planned arrival time we were admitted to the theater's lobby where folding metal chairs had been set up. A charming young woman named Taschi was acting as Malcolm's assistant (and to show that not all porn stars are just in it for the money Taschi, co-star of the movie, was taking on this job out of the goodness of her heart). She distributed releases for us to sign, which basically said we wouldn't sue Malcolm no matter how humiliating in the future we found the fact that we had appeared in his movie. Obviously, Malcolm does not have full confidence in the artistic merits of this artistic-porn project.

So we sat in the lobby, out of the cold, chatting about such sexy topics as the impending takeover of Hong Kong by China (personally, I think it will lead to a renaissance in American commercial movies as many of the world's finest directors emigrate), or reading parts of the Sunday paper. I asked Wayne, one of Malcolm's roommates, how his book was doing and he gave a detailed report that I can no longer recall (I do remember he hates the American paperback cover that makes it look like a young adult novel about dogs rather than a gruesome werewolf yarn). Eventually we were summoned to enter the theatre itself but before we could enter we were actually directed! Now I have loved movies for many years, I watch them, I read about them, I occasionally dream of writing them. When a director like Quentin Tarantino or Spike Lee or Tsui Hark or Sam Raimi appears I get excited and try to watch all of their films. I sometimes think about joining the screen extras guild so I can mill about in crowd scenes on camera. So it was a true thrill to receive direction!

"As you enter the theater, fill the seats on the right. There are two banks of seats, one on the left side of the aisle, one on the right. I want you to go into those on the right of the aisle. You'll see when you go in." said - no - DIRECTED Malcolm. "We will be taking some shots of you entering and being seated; please don't look at the camera." (I did - but I didn't say "Hi, Mom".)

Inside it was fairly easy to follow the director's wishes. We filed past a bank of seats, up an aisle, and turned right. Hopefully. Malcolm was facing the audience when he decided that it was the right side he was going to film.

I found myself sitting on an aisle seat next to the 40-something, Nordstrom bag carrying, conservative seeming woman who had previously asked about the performance. As I whipped out my steno pad and began taking notes I hoped I wouldn't have to slap her to stop hysteria as the action got hot.

"Are you from the FBI?", she asked with a smile as I started taking notes. So I explained that I was here as a reporter for a science fiction fanzine, which led to a brief explanation of fandom.

"You know, an earlier on-set visit of this film was written up for The Spectator." Maybe, I thought, this woman isn't as conservative as she looks. "I'm so glad Malcolm is getting this wrapped up. I really hope he can make his investment back. He's such a nice guy and he really is trying hard. I have a personal stake too. I got him the black girl, Taschi, who is the co-star of the movie and one of the girls today who is doing her first ever girl-girl scene." Definitely not as conservative as I'd thought.

"I've just finished a film I'm sort of the star of," she continued. "'Old Wave Hookers. It should be in the stores soon. You know, I play the ex-hooker coming back to visit old haunts after 20 years have gone by . . . kinda fun idea. But I'm also producing a series of videos called 'Sex After Forty' - I have a hard time getting men for them. I'm always looking for men between the ages of forty and seventy, especially those over fifty, nudity is required but not sex except maybe for some masturbation." she said with a giggle.

Well, maybe this wasn't a job offer, but I chose to interpret it as one. "I know I couldn't do that." I said. "I'm too shy." But any of you non-shy guys reading this who wants a good time just get in touch with Janet Taylor, producer of older peoples porn.

But now the action was beginning. Around the stage were 1) Malcolm Goldstein - producer/director of "The Quickie", 2) a cameraman with a professional-looking, mounted video camera, 3) a second cameraman with a professional-looking shoulder carried video camera, 4) a third roving cameraman with a 35-mm still camera, 5) a synthesizer player, and 6) a second musician with what can only be described as a high-tech oud. This was obviously not a shabby, on-the-cheap, type of movie.

"We need to get some reaction shots of audience which we can intercut with the performance," directed our director. "Please welcome the lovely Sabrina!"

The lovely Sabrina came out dressed in a red-gauze harem-girl's outfit. The two musicians began making odd noises with their instruments. Sabrina danced. The video cameramen filmed. The director directed: "Please watch the talent," he said. Or, "Focus on the talent please." The "talent" continued to dance for a minute or two until the director said "and cut!" whereupon the cameramen laid down their cameras, the musicians ceased playing, Sabrina put on a robe and left the stage, and Malcolm said, "We'll be right back with the show." Some wit at the back called out "Is Phil Gramm producing this?" and Malcolm, too, left the stage.

"Right back" must have a different meaning in the movies. Time passed. Enough time passed so that the cameraman even got bored. "I might as well get some more audience shots," he said, and commenced filming. "Normally I don't like shooting men but this guy . . . ', he said, focusing on a leering Dave Rike in wraparound dark glasses. "Yeah, that's a really dirty old man," said Janet.

More time passed. Taschi started a chant. "Come, come, come . . . " we chanted. The cameraman stopped filming and went backstage. The chant died out. The cameraman returned. "Part of the problem is that Malcolm didn't tell the girls there was going to be an audience and you can imagine their reaction." he said. "Also I have to leave with all the equipment in sixteen minutes." (I'm happy to say that at least the first part of that report was wrong - Malcolm had told the actresses an audience was coming but one had a sudden severe case of stagefright - "There's so many men!" she said with horror - which Malcolm was a) trying to overcome and b) failing that frantically rewriting the show for two rather than three women. But we didn't know this then.) A debate sprang up in the audience. Were we to be responsible for Malcolm not getting his movie finished. No. They had the audience shots they needed. As of now we were strictly voyeurs. We could leave and let Malcolm get his movie done. Just as the first audience members got to their feet and began to exit, Malcolm came back on stage, looking both puzzled and worried as he saw his friends starting to shuffle out. "No. Wait!" he cried. "Everything is resolved. The show will start momentarily." So we shuffled back.

Malcolm queued his staff. Hal entered the stage and began reciting an extemporaneous, poetic, introduction for "About Electra" which I can't possibly do justice to here. Suffice it to say that Hal has an extraordinary gift for ad-libbing Romantic poetry. As Hal wrapped up, encouraged by several "wrap-it-up" gestures from Malcolm, Sabrina entered with another woman in hand. They crossed the stage to a chaise longue and Sabrina began: "I want to tell you about Electra . . . ". Malcolm queued Walter, the musician with the electronic oud, who stood behind the actresses making some of the strangest, not unpleasant just weird, music I've ever heard.

The description of Electra went on with Sabrina removing layers of clothing from the other actress as she spoke. "She never eats food spelled with the letters B, N, or T" revealed a thigh; "Her normal body temperature is 106 degrees" breasts; "Electra loves armadillos and words that rhyme with orange" total nudity; "But most of all, Electra loves herself." and there it was, held aloft like a chalice, a symbol worthy of awe and respect held high overhead - the mighty **RUBBER PHALLUS** - it went where you'd expect.

Although it wasn't stated in "About Electra", Electra also comes fast. In about ninety seconds the show finished and we, the audience, exploded into tumultuous applause. Malcolm joined Sabrina and Electra on stage and they took a few bows. Then Malcolm was saying he needed us to clear out so he could wrap up the day with a few more shots.

So that is my experience with porn film-making. I do hope Malcolm recoups his investment. Rent "The Quickie", or ask for it at your favorite video outlet, when it comes out.

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