Love and Mercy (2014)

As the old cliche goes, there is a fine line between genius and madness. Now, somewhere along the way that line was obliterated for Brian Wilson, lead songwriter for the Beach Boys, due to a combination of mental illness, years of physical and emotional abuse from his father (-- and his surrogate father), and narcotic addiction.

Ergo, Bill Pohlad's excellent docudrama Love and Mercy (2014) splits time to tell this tale by showing us when things fell apart during the recording of Pet Sounds and the two decades later aftermath, where a chance encounter with a woman at a car dealership uncovers a whole new layer of use and abuse of Wilson; this time courtesy of a malignant relationship with his therapist, who manipulated his way into controlling everything and keeping his patient isolated and over-medicated.

And as a connection is made and romance blooms in the 1980s between Wilson (Cusack) and Maria Ledbetter (Banks), things continue to crumble in the 1960s, making it no surprise as to why the younger Wilson (Dano) spent nearly three years without getting out of bed.

Here, as the film progresses, Pohlad does an amazing job of using one era to reflect on the other to keep the story moving forward, striking a balance between the descent into madness and the road to recovery.

Also, major kudos for the most perfect musical cue of all time at the climax. Also, also, the montage sequence where they try to get the right sound for "Good Vibrations" had me tapping my foot through the theater floor. I've listened to it a dozen times since, and all I can hear now is the sawing, stand-up bass that drives the song like a voracious machine.

I'd been itching to see this ever since the trailer broke. I'll admit, I didn't buy John Cusack as the older Brian in the trailer at first, but he was fine. Elizabeth Banks was even better as Melinda, who essentially rescued him from himself. (And she looks absolutely smashing in those '80s fashions as well.)

And Paul Giamiti once more proves how awesome he is as the lecherous Eugene Landy. Sorry, I just can't bring myself to call him a doctor -- but I'm happy to report that he no longer is one. At least in California.

Back in the past, Paul Dano is ah-mazing as the younger Brian, making one believe he really is hearing all those voices and melodies that no one else can hear, and the frustration this causes when he tries and fails to share it with the others. And Jack Abel is a downright eerie dead-ringer for Mike Love.

All told and heard, this movie is great, the music is incredible, and Brian Wilson is, was, and ever shall be a bona fide genius that was once nearly lost but then found. Highly recommended.

Now, while we're on the subject, after catching Love and Mercy at the theater, it stirred up a few sketchy memories of an old Made-for-TV movie on the Beach Boys that focused not on Brian but Dennis Wilson, who had his own share of problems, including his own battle with drugs and getting tangled up with Charles Manson and his homicidal brood.

And after some digging around on YouTube, I found it: Summer Dreams: The Story of the Beach Boys (1990). Turns out I remembered the film rather vividly as those memories solidified -- but I had completely forgotten that Bruce Greenwood played Dennis.

It was based on Steve Gaines' Heroes and Villains: The True Story of the Beach Boys, a sensationalistic and tabloid style take on the subject matter; written by a man who was fascinated by the Wilsons, but openly despised their music.

Despite the opening disclaimer and being officially tagged as an "unauthorized" biopic, most of the events presented echoed the newer release; and it does make a nice companion piece for Pohlad's film, filling in some of the blanks on the Wilson's stormy relationship and expanding the story quite a bit.

Last check it's still streaming on YouTube for those interested in such things.

Originally posted on July 21, 2015, at Micro-Brewed Reviews.

Love and Mercy (2014) River Road Entertainment :: Battle Mountain Films :: Roadside Attractions / EP: Jim Lefkowitz, Oren Moverman, Ann Ruark / P: Bill Pohlad, Claire Rudnick Polstein, John Wells / D: Bill Pohlad / W: Oren Moverman, Michael A. Lerner / C: Robert D. Yeoman / E: Dino Jonsäter / M: Atticus Ross / S: John Cusack, Paul Dano, Elizabeth Banks, Paul Giamatti, Joanna Going, Jake Abel

Massage Parlor Murders (1974)

After a hard day of chasing futile leads on a string of massage parlor murders, Detective Rizotti visits one such “parlor” to unwind with his favorite gal Rosie before heading home to his wife. And when I say “unwind” I mean that in a biblical sense -- if you know what I mean, and as a wise man once said, I think you do.

Thus, once the ham has been slapped, Rizotti (Spencer) returns to his car where his partner, O’Mara (Moser), patiently waits, who then takes him home, where the wife (Kallevig) has a cold brew and a hot dinner waiting.

Meanwhile, back at the parlor, Rosie (Fitch) is brutally murdered by the same elusive killer that has been plaguing the city’s red light district; a case on which Rizotti and O’Mara now redouble their efforts on since it's now personal. (You definitely get the sense Rizotti wouldn’t be nearly half as invested if it was his wife who had been killed. More a commentary on that philandering creep, not his significant other.)

When O’Mara interviews Rosie’s roommate Gwen (Peabody), she clues them onto someone Rosie referred to as “Mr. Creepy,” another regular, who always made her feel uncomfortable. (And are we sure we’re not talking about Rizotti?) The detectives then track this man down and proceed to beat the shit out of him. But while they’re doing that, another woman is killed, giving Mr. Creepy a solid alibi.

After several other suspects fail to pan out, and the murders continue to mount, O’Mara and Gwen hit it off and start spending more time together, which is juxtaposed by Rizotti and his wife working through some domestic issues since she can’t quite figure out why her crabby-ass husband is so obsessed with finding the killer responsible for killing a bunch of hookers.

Salvation and a solution to this mystery finally presents itself when the Rizotties head to church, where the sermon focuses on the Seven Deadly Sins of Man, which causes a light-bulb to spark off in Rizotti’s noggin. He rounds up O’Mara and they head to a bookstore, where they confirm Rizotti’ suspicions with a book listing the septet of no-nos.

And extrapolating from there, Rizotti realizes the killer is sending these girls to hell because of their chosen profession and how each death mirrors the place of business where they were killed: The Mad Hatter for anger, Everybody’s Envy for envy etc.

And with only a few sins left, including lust, they figure the killer will most probably strike next at the Lust Lounge -- which is where Gwen works! This, of course, really lights a fire under O’Mara, but it might already be too late…

I’m not really sure if this film was a Stag Loop trying to be a police procedural or if it’s a police procedural trying to be a Stag Loop? Either way, the audience kinda wins with Massage Parlor Murders (1973).

Here, as the film’s resulting schizo-smut-gore psychosis asserts itself, we have two corrupt cops prowling around 42nd street in good old dirty and sleazy New York, New York, looking for the Seven Deadly Sins Killer who is knocking off massage parlor workers.

Again, this thing is kind of amazing as it is padded-out with exhausting scenes of naked boobery. And while these are all almost as pointless as the investigation scenes, car chases, and some extreme police brutality, the film just has a strange, cheapjack frisson that keeps it humming right along for its brief 79-minute run time.

It reminded me a lot of George Meadows’ Judy! (1969), another piece of smut masquerading as a police procedural, which sees a mad strangler terrorizing Boston’s notorious Combat Zone. Here, the killer is hunted by a surly ex-cop, who accomplishes absolutely nothing between all the extended boob-shots and the meandering murder set-pieces. And then the killer jumped out a window and died. The End. And so, if you have to watch one or the other, definitely make it Massage Parlor Murders.

I first encountered the film streaming on Amazon Prime. And I, for one, was so bamboozled by the ensuing whackadoodlery on display I went ahead and immediately ordered a hard copy to, one, hopefully find out the how and the why this thing came into existence; and two, to permanently add Massage Parlor Murders to the old personal collection of WTF was THAT?! And once again, Vinegar Syndrome did not disappoint.

In the liner notes for the Blu-ray release, Chris Poggiali (Temple of Schlock, These Fists Break Bricks) sets the stage by reminiscing about the magazine stand of his local grocery store when he was a kid, and how a particular headline caught his attention: Bloody Butchery in the Texas Massage Parlor.

“I was nine years old and already aware of the hypocrisy that kept Playboy hidden from view while allowing a dozen or more truly demented detective magazines to stay in plain sight of every child searching the shelves for the latest Mad or Archie & Jughead,” said Poggiali.

“Sexy and seemingly happy naked women = unacceptable. Tied-up and terrified half-naked women being menaced by knife / blowtorch / pliers / power tool / crowbar-wielding madmen in designer jeans and aviator sunglasses = acceptable, maybe even encouraged if you realize just how many of these twisted things were on full display every month.” (I had very similar experiences at my local Gibsons while looking for the latest issue of the Hulk. The 1970s were a great time to be a kid.)

“Massage Parlor Murders really seems to have those detective magazine on its mind -- obsessed with the seven deadly sins, a religious wacko kills massage parlor girls while two New York detectives tear the city apart trying to find him -- so it's a shame the title was so quickly changed to the sleazier, more generic Massage Parlor Hookers," bemoaned Poggiali. "If the film had been screened for Variety and Boxoffice critics and booked in drive-ins under its original title, co-billed with horror movies and other R-rated thrillers from the same distributor, maybe it wouldn’t have faded into obscurity for over 30 years.”

Also wallowing in obscurity are the film’s producers, Craig Nolan and Bert Cohen (-- noticeably absent from the IMDB listings). According to an article published in Genesis Magazine (May, 1974), Nolan was a former manager of a massage parlor -- a front for the premises' true purpose as a brothel -- while Cohen may or may not be the same guy who went on to work for Worldvision Enterprises. And together, they decided to make a film originally titled The Seven Deadly Sins.

The film has no credited screenwriter either, as evidenced by the finished product, but there were two co-directors: Chester Fox and Alex Stevens. Fox had served as a press agent for several Broadway shows in the 1960s before shifting to filmmaking. He is probably most famous for suing the chess prodigy Bobby Fischer for not allowing him to film during his Match of the Century with Boris Spassky at the 1972 World Chess Championship, even though he had paid for the exclusive rights to film it, saying the noise of the cameras disturbed his concentration.

Stevens, meanwhile, was probably most known for playing the Werewolf on Dan Curtis’ Gothic soap opera Dark Shadows (1966-1971). Stevens also served as president of the East Coast Stuntmen’s Association, doing stunt work or stunt coordinating on films like Shaft’s Big Score (1972), Dear Dead Delilah (1972) and Eyes of Laura Mars (1978). And to his credit, the car chases and stunts here are pretty solid considering the film's budget and, I’m guessing, lack of permits.

Alex Stevens. 

“Massage parlors were already synonymous with prostitution by the time Massage Parlor Murders went into production sometime early in 1973,” said Poggiali, especially after a three-part expose by the UPI in October, 1973, blew the lid off things.

“It wasn’t the first movie to concern itself with the suddenly very bustling business of massage parlors, nor would it be the last: other big screen depictions include The Great Massage Parlor Bust (1972), The Manhandlers (1973), Massage Parlor Wife (1975) and two sexy European flicks -- Massagesalon der Jungen Madchen (1972) from West Germany and Blutjunge Masseusen (1972) from Switzerland -- released to the U.S. drive-ins as Massage Parlor ‘73 and Pin-Up Playmates.”

Massage Parlor Murders wrapped sometime in the summer of 1973. Sort of. “This is where the plot thickens,” said Poggiali. “Going by the various movie and show titles that appear on different theater marquees during a few of the scenes, it's obvious that additional filming was done sometime after February 17, 1974. The only outtakes that were found indicate that these additional scenes -- the pool orgy, the car chase, and Gwen and O’Mara walking around Times Square -- were directed by Stevens.” But why the additional scenes?

Well, apparently, after the film was picked up for distribution by Film Ventures International, run by the notorious Edward L. Montoro, bookings were scarce to non-existent. I could find a grand total of two engagements at the digital newspaper archive; one in New London, Connecticut, where it played at the Norwich-New London Twin Drive-In with The Single Girls (1973) in late 1974; and the other was on a triple with Girls for Rent (1974) and Blood Orgy (most likely Blood Orgy of the She-Devils, 1973) at the Westside Drive-In in Evansville, Indiana, circa March, 1975.  

Domestically, Montoro backed William Girdler’s Grizzly (1976) and Day of the Animals (1977). But Montoro, of course, made his bones importing foreign films and dubbing them over, scoring huge hits with They Call Me Trinity (alias Lo chiamavano Trinità, 1970) and Trinity is Still My Name (alias ...continuavano a chiamarlo Trinità, 1971). He also survived a lawsuit from Warner Bros. over the release of Beyond the Door (alias Chi sei?, 1974), who felt it was a rip-off of The Exorcist (1973), which turned into more box-office gold.

But Montoro ran out of luck when he tried to import Enzo Castellari’s Great White (alias L'ultimo squalo, alias The Last Shark, 1981), another blatant knock-off of JAWS (1975). And after spending a ton of money on a huge promotional blitz, Montoro and FVI was hit with another lawsuit from Universal, only this time he lost and the film was successfully sued out of theaters. 

The Columbus Ledger (April 23, 1982). 

The Atlanta Constitution (April 28, 1982). 

After taking a bath on the film, with his company in financial ruin, Montoro stole what little was left in FVI’s coffers -- around $1 million -- and fled into Mexico, where he basically disappeared and was never heard from again.

Meanwhile, back in 1974, in order to salvage Massage Parlor Murders, Montoro had Stevens shoot those extra scenes, recut the film, chopped out about seven minutes, and then re-released it as Massage Parlor Hookers, which fared much better and would keep on circulating through the drive-in circuit and grindhouses for the next seven years or so. After that, the film kinda fell off the face of the earth until Vinegar Syndrome resurrected it in 2013, when it finally got a home video release. And frankly, more people need to see it.

The film is also littered with several familiar faces, with actor George Dzundza as Mr. Creepy, and the always welcome Brother Theodore as a transcendental kook. And Gwen was played by none other than Sandra Peabody, alias Sandra Cassell, who played Mari Collingwood, one of the victims in Last House on the Left (1972) the year prior.

The film was shot by Victor Petrashevic, who was no stranger to this kind of sleaze, having lensed the likes of Behind Locked Doors (alias Any Body ... Any Way, 1968), Two Girls for a Madman (1968), and the Charles Manson inspired Sweet Savior (alias The Love-Thrill Murders, 1971). And together with Fox and Stevens, brings a solid look to the film, with some interesting set-ups and execution during the action sequences. 

The Evansville Press (March 21, 1975).  

The film also serves as a perfect time capsule for the era that it was made; from the earth tones, hideous wallpaper and shag carpeting, to wallowing in the milieu of 1970s New York, which makes a lot of the padding, wrapped up in a delightfully sleazy muzak score, go down a lot easier than expected. 

Perhaps Brian Orndof summed up the film best (Blu-Ray.com, April 23, 2018): "Massage Parlor Murders isn't much of a movie, but it's a heck of a viewing experience, packing in enough violence, vague confrontations, and nudity to satisfy those in the mood for gratuitous, no-budget entertainment."

And, great googly-moogily, that climax is one for the exploitation record books as the killer’s motives are finally unraveled and he comes to justice in a fiery conclusion, through no real actions of our bumbling detectives, mind you, that one must watch Massage Parlor Murders first to be truly unbelieved.

Originally posted on June 28, 2025, at Confirmed, Alan_01.

Massage Parlor Murders (1974) Cinemid Films :: Film Ventures International (FVI) / P: Craig Nolan, Alex Stevens / D: Chester Fox, Alex Stevens / W: Unknown / C: Victor Petrashevic / M: Unknown / E: Unknown / S: George Spencer, John Moser, Sandra Peabody, Kathie Fitch, Marlene Kallevig, Theodore Gottlieb, George Dzundza, Bill Buck

Where the Boys Are (1960)

If someone drew a triangle using the bubble-gum pop of Gidget (1959) and the knee-deep cheese of Frankie and Annette’s Beach Party (1963) as the base angles, and the steamy melodrama of A Summer Place (1959) as the apex angle, and then, after adding a little geometry to this triangulum, I think we'd find another coming of age flick set against the backdrop of sand and surf right smack in the middle: Where the Boys Are (1960).

While writing novels about people going on a journey, author Glendon Swarthout had himself quite the career in both print and on the big screen. They Came to Cordura, which focused on a ragtag group splintered off from Pershing's expedition into Mexico to hunt down Poncho Villa, for one example. Another, The Shootist, focused on the end of the journey for aging gunslinger, J.B. Books. Both books were adapted to films of the same names, Cordura in 1959 and The Shootist in 1976, starring Cary Cooper and John Wayne respectively.

But his most famous stories usually added a coming of age factor, with the likes of Bless the Beasts and the Children, adapted to film in 1971, and his wildly popular Where the Boys Are; a "zany satire on the holiday pursuits of the American teenage girl" which provided the first ever insider-look into the annual collegiate invasion of Florida over Spring Break.

As the legend goes, while serving as a professor of English studies at Michigan State, Swarthout took a group of his honors students to Fort Lauderdale over the Easter break; and what he witnessed during this two week excursion / field research opportunity would serve as the basis of the novel. And upon its release, some compared it to Margaret Mead’s anthropological study Coming of Age in Samoa, referring to it as Coming of Age in Florida.

 Glendon Swarthout.

“It occurred to me as the week progressed that this would make a very fine novel,” Swarthout said in a later interview with Larry King (1985). “I could at the same time write a kind of profile of that particular generation - their aspirations, their hopes, their fears and so on.”

"Why do (college kids) come to Florida?” asks Merritt Andrews, the lead character in Swathout’s novel. “Physically to get a tan. Also, they are pooped. Many have mono. Psychologically, to get away. And besides, what else is there to do except go home (for Spring Break) and further foul up the parent-child relationship?

Meanwhile, “Biologically, they come to Florida to check the talent. You've seen those movie travelogues of the beaches on the Pribilof Islands where the seals tool in once a year to pair off and reproduce. The beach at Lauderdale has a similar function. Not that reproduction occurs, of course, but when you attract thousands of kids to one place there is apt to be a smattering of sexual activity."

First published in 1958, MGM quickly swooped in and turned the novel around and made a tidy sum off their minimum budget.

However, one should point out that George Wells' screenplay only covers the first half of the book, as the second gets even zanier with the radicalization of Merrit as she tries to help smuggle guns into Cuba to help Uncle Fidel and the Fuller Brush Beard Brigade's revolution that ends in disaster.

No, the film adaptation of is more concerned with another revolution. And while Where the Boys Are definitely has the wholesome late 1950s sheen on the surface (-- beginning with Connie Francis' infectious theme song), down below it makes no bones about poking the taboo of premarital S-E-X right in the eye with a very sharp stick. 

From the opening scene, Merritt (Hart) is already duking it out with her uptight college professor over the elder's archaic views on sex and the dating habits of the young American female. But as the film plays out, Merritt has some major issues over the practice of what she's been preaching – a far cry from the character in the novel, who lost her virginity long before she headed south.

Also of note, in the novel Merritt only travels with one companion who basically disappears, leaving our protagonist to sleep with every male character we’re destined to meet in the film, gets pregnant, refuses all overtures of marriage, drops out of school, and moves home to regroup.

But Wells and director Henry Levin had something different in mind for the film, basically splitting Merritt into four different characters, giving us a quartet of anxious co-eds from a winter-socked and flu-ridden mid-western college ready for their own pilgrimage south, where the chief of police (Wills) preps his men for their upcoming battle with higher education, and where the boys outnumber the girls 3 to 1.

Good odds for these gals, each with their own goal: too tall Tuggle (Prentiss) is on the hunt for a husband, preferably one with feet bigger than hers that she can look in the eye without bending her knees both figuratively and literally; Melanie (Mimieux) also has her sights set high, wanting to notch a couple of Ivy Leaguers on her soon to be discarded chastity belt; and while the pugnacious Angie (Francis) will settle for just about anything, Merritt isn't really sure what she's looking for, if anything at all, really, romantically speaking.

Kudos to the casting director for filling those roles out, too. These seemingly mismatched puzzle pieces shouldn't fit but they do and the sense of camaraderie found with these girls is one of the film's strongest points.

And the resulting chemistry with their respective beaus-to-come is just as wonderful as the film follows them through the entire week of Spring Break, where the girls move from one bizarre locale to the next, taking in the sun, the suds and the scenery.

Along the way, Tuggle falls for the lanky TV Thompson (Hutton), and Angie finds romance with Basil, a myopic bass player (Gorshin), whose experimental jazz combo-band pays the audience to listen to them, dig?

The brainy Merrit also finds her match with Ryder Smith (an eerily untanned Hamilton), as they hurl intellectual barbs at one another over the "Stud / Slut Dichotomy" to keep him at arm’s length, allowing the reluctant Merritt to ease into the relationship.

And as TV's police-band radio constantly updates us on the collegiate shenanigans erupting around them (-- a favorite being a live hammerhead shark reported in a hotel swimming pool), the couples schmooze, snog, bicker over commitments, fight, break-up, make-up, snog some more, culminating in climactic calamity at a fancy dinner at a fancy seafood restaurant, where the whole gang winds up in a giant aquarium with the showcase aqua-bat, leading to a mass arrest.

To make matters worse, the overly naive Melanie has taken her best friend's Kinsey-backed advice to heart. And while the film's overall tone is comedic, it can also be downright brutal at times, with poor Melanie usually taking the brunt of it, serving as an abject lesson for the others when she's suckered to a private motel party by a couple of no-goodniks posing as Yale students.

When she finally susses out the ruse and tries to leave, it's too late. What happens next is only implied, but there is no mistaking the devastating final result once the motel door slams shut.

The other girl's relationship problems pale in comparison, but they are the bumps along the way just the same. TV wants to knock-boots with Tuggle but she's determined to wait until she's married. TV takes the hint, and the specter of a long term commitment frightens him off. And knowing that once Spring Break is over means the probable end of their relationship, a conflicted Merritt's hot and cold act is wearing awfully thin with Ryder, resulting in a similar nasty spat.

And then things get really twisted when everyone's relationships are saved or cemented as a direct result of Melanie's sexual assault.

And this is why I'm just as conflicted about my feelings for Where the Boys Are. On the surface, it's beautifully shot, filled with adorable characters, who we openly root for to make it work, and so immersive in the chaos of one raucous week I could almost enjoy it unconditionally -- almost.

Because underneath, it's mixed message of saying sex is OK but the only one who actively engages in it winds up raped, brutalized and in the hospital is a pretty twisted way to moralize away it's all fun and games until somebody gets hurt.

And, well, I kinda have a problem making all of that compute while trying to laugh at an aquarium full of goofballs.

Originally published on April 14, 2000, in the Bargain Bin.

Where the Boys Are (1960) Euterpe :: MGM / P: Joe Pasternak / D: Henry Levin / W: George Wells, Glendon Swarthout (Novel) / C: Robert Bronner / E: Fredric Steinkamp / M: George Stoll / S: Dolores Hart, Paula Prentiss, Yvette Mimieux, Connie Francis, George Hamilton, Jim Hutton, Frank Gorshin, Chill Wills