Pornography – with class? A tribute to Deceased Artiste Radley Metzger

Last year, the deaths of Ted V. Mikels and Herschell Gordon Lewis meant that the last great “showmen” of genre/exploitation pics were gone. Radley Metzger's death two weeks ago at the age of 88 meant that the last link to the classier side of adult filmmaking is now gone. Metzger formed a sort of “unholy trinity” with the other two auteurs of softcore, Russ Meyer, and Joe Sarno. Metzger was the one who worked with the highest budgets (Russ's pair of Fox productions aside), and he was accorded the most respect of the trio.

This respect came from the fact that he crafted “Euro chic” softcore, which looked beautiful and felt like the films that ruled the arthouse at the time (the Sixties and early Seventies). While the other two titans of tease were clearly influenced by foreign art films – Sarno's work was inspired by and looked like much of the Swedish cinema of the period, while Meyer's films were the truest expression of Eisenstein's editing principles ever committed to celluloid – Metzger clearly mimicked the style of the European masters in his work, to the extent that his films looked as if they were made by a European (and, thanks to the sometimes stilted dialogue, often sounded as if they had been written by a person who was indeed writing subtitled, translated English).

I wrote a tribute to Metzger for a magazine that is now defunct. You can find the full text on the Funhouse website, here. In reproducing a good deal of the text here, I wanted to supplement it with clips. I notice that YouTube's whimsical and sporadically (but adamantly) enforced rules against the display of the undraped human body have kind of gone by the wayside in the last decade. A lot of scenes from Metzger's softcore are up, as are entire features.

His “Henry Paris” (aka Harry Paris) hardcore films are present on YT in the guise of trailers, still photos, and dramatic scenes – yes, they were dramatic scenes in Metzger's porn, and that made it like nothing else that was being made then, or today.

Herewith, tribute to Metzger, written in the 2000s:

Like the other two softcore gods of the ’60s, Russ Meyer and Joe Sarno, Metzger cut his filmmaking teeth in the Army, serving in the Motion Picture unit during the Korean War. Unlike Meyer and Sarno, Metzger got his first commercial experience in the film biz as an editor removing censored scenes from (what else?) “risque” foreign films – ironic, given that the films he made and distributed later on were the subject of various legal battles with state censors. Shortly after leaving the service, Metzger made a no-budget independent feature called Dark Odyssey (1957) with William Kyriakis. This family-loyalty drama is notable only for its eye-catching NYC locations and its Greek-American milieu. In 1960, Metzger started the distribution company Audobon Films with a colleague and began a profitable career acquiring and “reworking” foreign movies.

Metzger made his first adult feature in 1965. The Dirty Girls started a seven-year run of imaginatively made softcore movies, all of which are being brought out on DVD from First Run. Dirty set the tone for them all, with its La Dolce Vita-inspired Euro decadence, and two elements that became Metzger staples: location shooting in picturesque European cities and an amplified amount of implied sex. “They saw the nudity even if I didn’t put it in,” he later joked to an interviewer.

Metzger’s longer erotic interludes, in which a character would frequently “service” another by slipping out of camera range (leaving an orgasmic young woman’s face onscreen to imply what was really going on), owed a debt to one of the more notorious French imports of the era, Louis Malle’s The Lovers (the ultimate “dirty foreign movie” made in 1958). In that film, the male lead disappeared out of camera range for a few seconds, making actress Jeanne Moreau quite happy – and enraging every state censorship board in the Bible belt.

Metzger’s next b&w tease, The Alley Cats (1966), boasts some terminally cool surf music and some of the aforementioned overripe dialogue. When asked if she’s afraid of making love, one young lady declares, “I plan to go moist to heaven…”

The transition to color in Carmen, Baby (1967) encouraged Metzger to make his tales of bored jet setters and their ladies of easy virtue even more bold and audacious. Two favorite moments: a girl entertains at a party by performing a suggestive dance with a phallic wine bottle to a pitch-perfect Herb Alpert-style instrumental, and the host of the same bash-cum-orgy encourages his female guests to get into the groove by offering “pills, ladies… pills!”

From ’67 to ’77, Metzger made four softcore classics and a small handful of hardcore features that rank among the best ever made. Therese and Isabelle (1968), his tale of a lesbian affair between French schoolgirls (supposed to be teens, but look severely twentysomething). The movie is still copied today – witness the Piper Perabo cumming-of-age cable staple Lost and Delirious (2002). [Can you tell this was written for an adult publication? --Ed.]

It’s most notable for Metzger fans because it introduced his wildest trademark: the “obscured frame,” in which either the “naughty” part of what we’re watching is covered up – yes, Radley was one of the innovators who first used the technique spoofed to no end in the Austin Powers movies – or we view a sex act from a distance, usually through a distorted glass surface (most often a mirror). Thus, when we finally “see” Therese and Isabelle consummate their teen-girl love, they are seen: disappearing behind some furniture in a church chapel, reflected on the surface of a vase (!), and exploring each other’s bods in a stylishly composed long shot that reveals…not much of anything.

Despite the obvious tease factor at work, the movie is still sexy as hell, since Metzger concentrates his energies on the build-up to sex, utilizing classical music and soft, graceful camerawork to complement a very obvious but effective voiceover. Our heroine Therese tells us what we’re missing visually, boasting in classically purple prose about the way Isabelle enters her: “Three fingers entering me, three guests to take the pleasure to…”

Corny dialogue, to be sure, but in the period before Deep Throat and the “couples porn” rage, Metzger’s movies were the only high-profile American erotic films a couple could check out without feeling unduly uncomfortable. In fact Metzger’s next picture, his most psychedelic, Camille 2000 (1969), was crafted to make them feel very comfortable indeed… particularly during a long, lush sex scene, viewed (natch) in a rippled mirror. Metzger had great confidence in his audience’s attention span, especially when it came to sexy interludes like Camille’s prison-themed party in which tuxedoed gents lead super-mod babes around on leashes and in handcuffs. 

The Lickerish Quartet (1970) is Metzger’s most “experimental” and arguably his best movie. Fantasy and reality collide as a trio of jaded sophisticates (mother, son, stepfather) watch an old stag reel for entertainment (oh, the idle rich) and then discover that the brunette star of the loop is performing at a local carnival as a motorcycle stunt rider (!). Upon bringing the girl back to their labyrinthine castle, they find that the film has changed and their newly-blonde house guest is clearly going to have her way with the lot of them.

As he moves this kinky variation on the arthouse classic Last Year at Marienbad, Metzger delivers his most extravagant sex scene ever: a bibliophile’s wet dream in which our blonde temptress, clad only in go-go boots, and the master of the house (a rather unsightly older man wearing nothing but black socks) screw in a home library, rolling over and over on a floor embossed with the dictionary definitions of words like “phallus,” “fornicate” and, naturellement, “fuck.”

The male lead’s paunchy nude bod is one of several bizarre details (including quick cuts to that favorite bar toy, a bird dipping his head in a drinking glass) that Metzger inserts into Lickerish – they can be interpreted as tongue-in-cheek that the director himself is caught up in the same delirium his characters are experiencing. The last line of dialogue probably supplies the best answer: “Don’t take it so seriously, it’s only a film!”

Metzger’s last theatrically released softcore film, Score (1972), is the perfect product of the porno chic era, a film that couldn’t possibly appear in multiplexes today – unless, perhaps, it was made by Pedro Almodovar. Here a Dangerous Liaisons-like couple bet each other they can seduce an innocent young couple they’ve invited over for a dinner party. When the swinging takes place, the wives wind up together… as do the husbands.

The fact that the evening’s events are fueled by pot and amyl nitrate makes Score a gorgeous relic from a far freer time; the film also was released in three separate cuts, each one containing a bit more of the male gay coupling.

In 1975, Metzger turned a corner and embarked upon a short career in hardcore under the pseudonym “Henry Paris.” The six triple-X features he made from ’75 to ’78 are still given high marks by porn aficionados today because their production values were uncommonly high, the explicit sex is cleverly worked into a (gasp) storyline and the acting is well above par. The best known of the Harry Paris productions, The Opening of Misty Beethoven (1976), is a “Pygmalion” tale of a sophisticate who trains a young woman in the finer points of social etiquette, and, er… cocksucking. Misty was shot in Paris, Rome and NYC, and is surprisingly witty for a porn film – all in all, a few light years beyond the crude and clunky Deep Throat.

Imagine the idea of fans for porn soundtracks – they exist, and they are especially fond of the music for Metzger's Henry Paris films.

So the last of the truly talented erotica/porn filmmakers of the pre-home video era has left us. Erotica is now reduced to Fifty Shades of Gray, and porn has gone back to its initial state of tiny little sequences that showcase “the act” and perhaps (if time permits) have a minute or two introduction with something approximating a “plot” (or, better stated, a motivation for the sex).

Metzger flourished in the time when there were indeed movies about sex being released to both arthouses and grindhouses. He lent a lot of style and (that word again) class to his soft- and hardcore features. Before the Sixties that wasn't called for, and sadly, that became the state of things again (with a scant few major exceptions, like Andrew Blake and Rinse Dream) after the Seventies. Thankfully Metzger's films remain available and do show those who make sex videos today many things about how erotic (and even, on occasion, sophisticated) sex cinema can be.

This one sequence is a distillation of what Metzger’s work was all about. It’s corny yet sexy, playful yet adult, old-fashioned yet Sixties “modern.”

Go to Hell, Bastards!: the feverish films of Deceased Artiste Seijun Suzuki

A master of subversion, Seijun Suzuki took the relatively low budgets he was given to make B-features by the Nikkatsu studio and created scores of the most memorably surreal, Freudian, and explosive films ever. Like many cult icons, Suzuki was underappreciated while he was working regularly, but he thankfully lived to see his work hailed around the world as groundbreaking and completely unique. (Although, being an infinitely frank soul, he did declare it “too late.”)

Many of his obits felt that contextualizing him was in order, so the magic name “Tarantino” was invoked. Tarantino’s work is closer to that of the more procedural, less dazzling, and far more violent Japanese genre filmmaker Kenji Fukasaku than Suzuki. The obits also cited Wong Kar-Wai and Jim Jarmusch. The latter is a diehard fan and paid tribute to Suzuki’s work rather brilliantly in Ghost Dog. The former might love Suzuki’s work, but John Woo is closer to the mark — particularly in The Killer, where he seemed to be fusing Suzuki’s Branded to Kill (1967) with Sirk’s Magnificent Obsession, which is quite a combination of influences.

It was also interesting to note that the official announcement of his death was made by a Nikkatsu representative, given that he had an acrimonious split with the studio, whose head at the time said his films “made no sense” and weren’t making any money. Whether or not they did well at the box office, it’s been noted that young Japanese college students loved them and were in fact the first cultists for his work.

The most-circulated interview with Suzuki is this one, conducted in 1997:

Suzuki's frenzied stylization of his storylines made him “a Japanese Sam Fuller” (although, of course, Fuller was as much a screenwriter as he was a director). By the time that he was able to do what he wanted with these assignments — mostly because the Nikkatsu chiefs initially ignored their B-feature production, so the directors could do what they wanted — he was using every method possible to make his films jump off the screen into the lap (and mind) of the viewer.

A recent festival held at the Walter Reade theater in Lincoln Center included a few of his earlier genre pics that have been unseeable in the U.S. (some of them signed by “Seitaro Suzuki,” his real name). The revelations were that they were *heavily* plotted for B-features, and that, even though Suzuki and his crew were breaking the fourth wall by drawing attention to the film’s style, he did stick rather closely to the formulaic plots he was given. If one sees his pictures in chronological order, it’s obvious that he was desperate to break free of the constraints of B-moviemaking.

Here is the trailer for one of the earlier efforts, Everything Goes Wrong (1960):

Thus, he began to “explode” his heavily-plotted genre pics with framing, editing, eye-jarring sets, and surreal touches like an overlay of animation. In interviews, he stressed that he was intent on making “entertainment,” not art, and that he wanted to please the audience. His array of techniques, though, suggested that he was well-aware of the European masterworks made in the Fifties and Sixties, as well as the modernist work of contemporaries like Oshima and, without question, the pop art that overwhelmed the era.

Kabuki has been cited as another influence, and while it no doubt was, one gets the sense watching his work that Suzuki was an incredibly “cinematic” artist, rather than one toying with theatrical techniques.

And he had some of the best titles in the business. The second half of this title is one of my all-time favorites for a crime film — or a film in any genre. Herewith the opening of Detective Bureau 23: Go to Hell, Bastards! (1963):

One of the names who is rarely linked to Suzuki is another kindred spirit, namely Robert Aldrich. In Kiss Me Deadly, Aldrich approximated the unapologetic violence of Mickey Spillane's Mike Hammer novels. Being a master-manipulator — and an artist who loved to play with and rework the genres he took on, much like his near-namesake Robert Altman — he left the graphically violent moments in the narrative *between* the shots. “Beat” Takeshi Kitano did this beautifully in his Hana-bi (aka Fireworks) (1997), and Beat has also cited Suzuki as a cinematic hero. This is another dominant characteristic of Suzuki's work: going “over the edge” in terms of subject matter and behavior, and yet not showing anything truly objectionable onscreen.

His trippiest yakuza drama was undoubtedly Tokyo Drifter (seen here in its entirety with no English subs), which was one of the two films that became cult items in the West during the Nineties.

I would also liken him to Nicholas Ray, in that both men were masters of widescreen and “color-coding” their characters. Akira Kurosawa was most certainly one of the greatest widescreen filmmakers ever, but Suzuki is closer to Nicholas Ray in terms of the feverish pace of his films and the fact that he unabashedly used color to tell his story, as he did in the unusually-kinky-for-its-time, brothel-set drama Gate of Flesh (1964) (seen below in its entirety, but with no English subs).

One of the other things that is truly mind-roasting and extremely important about Suzuki's work is the way in which, as he progressed through the Sixties, he began to toss off sequences that other directors would've made longer set-pieces out of. This is most blatant in Branded to Kill, where he quickly disposes of two impressive “trick-shot” murders (one of which is duplicated in Jarmusch's Ghost Dog, thus the thanks to SS at the film's end) and a brilliantly insane twist — our hero getting away from a tightly secure building by leaping out the window and riding a hot-air balloon to safety.

Other filmmakers would've spent 10-15 minutes easily on each of these moments, while Suzuki disposes of them in less time than it takes to listen to a Ramones song.

The most famous aspect of Branded is that it got Suzuki fired from Nikkatsu. He sued the studio and then became the subject of a blacklist that found him unable to work as a director for a decade. The ironic element here is that he had taken on the film as a favor to the studio. It was begun by another director, but then became one of the “most Suzuki” of all of Suzuki's genre pics. When he was unable to work as a director he took on work as an actor on TV and in the movies. Here is an ad he appeared in for a toilet cleaner of some kind:

When he finally returned to filmmaking, he wound up making seven more films, the last two of which were released internationally, as they were made after his worldwide cult-reputation had grown. I will confess that, while I enjoy his “Tasho trilogy” of very “high art” films, I prefer him subverting a weird script, as he does in his “comeback” film, A Tale of Sorrow and Sadness (1977).

The film, to which I devoted an entire episode of the Funhouse, is a bizarre tale of the “making” of a female athlete — at first turned into a sexy golf pro by corporate execs, the lead is later stalked by a scary neighbor who wants to steal her lifestyle. It's an amazing film that definitely is an extension of the weirdness that he was crafting in the Sixties (it is in fact that only film he made after his comeback that practices the same kind of subversion).

Watching it I was put in mind of two films about the manufacturing of a woman star by men. The first was Dennis Potter's too-little-seen Blackeyes (1989) and the second was The Legend of Lylah Clare (1968) by none other than Robert Aldrich. Suzuki's film is definitely in the same vein, as we see the execs figuring out how to have their golf pro dress, which ends up in her wearing a bikini on the links at one point.

The first half of the film is decidedly about male manipulation of women, but the second half is a more tangled statement about celebrity and its horrors, embodied in the person of the fangirl neighbor who wants to “be” our golf pro heroine (who has also become the host of a daytime talk show). Sorrow and Sadness is a great Suzuki film that has been shuffled under the carpet for the most part — it was released in the U.S. on DVD but with scenes that were missing the proper subtitling. The film is not available for free streaming online, but I found a music video created with images from it:

Suzuki's “Tasho trilogy” was the first time that he was making art films “on purpose.” The first film in the trio, Zigeunerweisen (1980), is a beautiful-looking picture that has some unforgettable imagery. Suzuki seems to have seen the films of Alain Resnais (whose work is as influential as Godard's to some leading Asian filmmakers) and works on a Marienbad-like level of ambiguity with these films, set in an era when Japan had a fixation on Western culture and dress. When Suzuki was unable to secure theatrical distribution for the film he had it shown in an inflatable dome in Tokyo.

The second of the two “Tasho” films, Kagero-Za (1981), also contains some gorgeous imagery but is, admittedly, rather slow-going.

The “Tasho” films are indeed beautiful-looking, but they lack the humor and sheer perversity of Suzuki's earlier work. Before the third film in the trilogy was made, Suzuki directed the very strange and pretty much unfindable Capone Cries a Lot (1985), a too-long-for-its-own-good but still imaginatively designed drama. The humor and perversity returned for good in Pistol Opera (2001), his remake of Branded to Kill with women in the lead roles.

His last film is certainly a wonderful genre-bending act of subversion. The musical Princess Raccoon (2005) is an intentionally kitschy musical that blends Western musical genres and a fabricated Japanese fairy tale. It is not as involving on a narrative level as his Sixties work, but it proved that, even at the age of 82, he could still deliver downright weird and brilliantly imaginative sequences.

Suzuki’s legacy is assured — the man whose movies “made no sense and no money” outlasted his detractors and former employers.