Edgeplay: A Film about The Runaways (2004)

L-R: Cherie, Jackie, Joan, Lita, Sandy

The Runaways are my favourite band. I mean, Bowie's my favourite solo artist, no questions, but when it comes to a group of musicians who rocked hard, put on amazing shows and made their mark on the industry, The Runaways cannot be beat for me. Despite my classic rock upbringing and at the time budding love of the '70s, I had not heard The Runaways' music until 2010. Fans will know that this was when Floria Sigismondi's movie about the band, starring Dakota Fanning and Kristen Stewart was released. That summer, I was watching E! News (don't judge me), and was nothing short of captivated by the sudden sight of 15-year-old Fanning in a corset and stockings, singing to a crowd of screaming teens with a rock band. I had to know more. The movie The Runaways got a very limited release in the UK, but I tracked down a local cinema that was playing it for about two days, and was treated to an empty theatre!

I loved the movie, and it got me hooked on a few of the band's signature songs. But it was when I started looking into the real Runaways that I fell in love. They were five girls of no more than 17 years old when, in mid-70s LA, they were found by maniacal music producer Kim Fowley, who put them together and worked them like 'dogs' (as he so often referred to them), and made them a controversial overnight sensation. The band's run was short but fierce, and it broke barriers and paved the way for generations of female musicians to come. By 1980, they had all gone their own separate ways, to various fates. But their story is an amazing one, and in 2002, one-time bassist Vicky Blue (or Victory Tischler-Blue) had got into filmmaking, and decided to document the rise and fall of The Runaways.

Although there were a few lineup changes in the very early and late chapters of The Runaways' life, the band is mainly remembered as five key members: Joan Jett (who you may have heard of, I say sarcastically) was the engine, lead songwriter, rhythm guitarist and occasional singer; Lita Ford, who also went on to a long musical career, rocked out lead guitar; Jackie Fox, now an attorney, was on bass; the late great Sandy West worked magic on the drums; and one of the most memorable frontmen in band history took centre stage on lead vocal in the form of Cherie Currie.

All very different girls, but together they constituted a miracle formula for grimy, hardcore, teen-angst rock. Looking back at my own fifteen-year-old self, what The Runaways actually achieved is all the more phenomenal. I was lead singer and bassist in a band at fifteen, and was only asked to play bass because I stood like such an awkward moron when only singing. I would be the first to admit that I had no charisma, and no stage presence. The Runaways were each determined, for one reason or another, to make it big, and each drew major inspiration from key idols: Jett's was Suzi Quatro, Ford's was Richie Blackmore, Jackie Fox loved Gene Simmons, and Currie obsessed over Bowie (girl after my own heart). These teen girls took to the stage, time after time, and did things no other band was doing. Their signature song Cherry Bomb was often performed by Cherie in her trademark corset and stockings, and they were thanked for their efforts with such critical reviews as 'these bitches suck'.

I acknowledge that the '70s wasn't totally rainbows, sunshine, free sex and dollar-acid. It was a key time for the feminist movement, and many industry professionals were at best taken aback and at worst utterly pissed off that females, and not even adult ones at that, were trying to strut their platform boots all over the male stomping ground. So the band was bearing the brunt of a lot of criticism and outrage, but they were 16 and 17 years old, so they reacted with a massive middle finger. But as awesome as the situation sounds - being a talented sixteen-year-old with four wild contemporaries, on the road playing rock gigs - the behind-the-scenes reality was quite different, as Edgeplay shows us.

The one thing Edgeplay is sadly lacking is Joan's participation - for whatever reason, and she is known to be almost suspiciously detached nowadays from a lot of the Runaways stuff. She decided against appearing in the film, or permitting any of her material to be used. This was a major bummer, as about 80% of the band's material is credited to her. I have to admire Vickie Blue's tenacity with pressing forward with the project anyhow, and finding ways around the predicament. It has left some corners cut, with some filler music from Suzi Quatro et al, but audio and video of the band performing songs written either by other members, or other people entirely were a-OK.

Vickie Blue makes a great film here, structurally. Where Sigismondi's quote-unquote biopic was focused almost solely on Joan and Cherie (and steered off the path of truth on more than one occasion), Edgeplay is about the five (or seven, including Vickie and former band songwriter Kari Krome) people who made the band what it was, and chronicles their lives, as narrated by themselves and their parents, and their time together. It also very poignantly looks at the aftermath of The Runaways, which seemed to particularly affect Sandy. Towards the end, we see her close to tears, recounting the terrifying things she'd resorted to in recent years, practically begging the others for a reunion. It's so obvious that the band was her life source, and even twenty years after its demise, it was all she cared about,

As a documentary, Edgeplay is brilliant. Although Vicki Blue directs and asks the odd question on camera, narrative is left to the band members. There is also stock input from that fabulously wired svengali Kim Fowley, who offers his trademark eccentric eloquism (sidenote: Fowley's father Douglas was an actor - he played the exasperated director in Singin' in the Rain) in defense of the various tragedies and successes he was responsible for. And all members interviewed are wonderfully upfront, and Cherie and Sandy's parents offer their perspective as long-distance caregivers, scared for their absent daughters' wellbeing. A very rounded, and at times varied, account is built of the career of The Runaways.

All is held together with some fantastic, grainy old footage of the band, playing live shows, and riding in the backs of cars, and walking through airports, and giving press conferences. It's excellent, evocative stuff. I don't know if a version approaching complete will ever come to be. Cherie's autobiography Neon Angel, a redraft of her original book, is a vivid account of her time with the band, among other things. But to date many intriguing and disgusting perspectives have come to light. Both Kari Krome and Jackie Fox have said Kim Fowley sexually assaulted them. Cherie, after decades of describing Fowley on par with Caligula, brought her cancer-afflicted former manager into her home and cared for him in the months before his death. She and Lita, whose mutual hatred is infamous in the history of the band, have appeared together at an awards ceremony and sung each others' praises. A lot has changed over the years, but Edgeplay is a great combined telling of the story of a significant and, in my opinion, fantastic band, and should be seen by anybody whose soul is either partially or fully comprising of rock.

Edgeplay: A Film about The Runaways (2004)

L-R: Cherie, Jackie, Joan, Lita, Sandy

The Runaways are my favourite band. I mean, Bowie's my favourite solo artist, no questions, but when it comes to a group of musicians who rocked hard, put on amazing shows and made their mark on the industry, The Runaways cannot be beat for me. Despite my classic rock upbringing and at the time budding love of the '70s, I had not heard The Runaways' music until 2010. Fans will know that this was when Floria Sigismondi's movie about the band, starring Dakota Fanning and Kristen Stewart was released. That summer, I was watching E! News (don't judge me), and was nothing short of captivated by the sudden sight of 15-year-old Fanning in a corset and stockings, singing to a crowd of screaming teens with a rock band. I had to know more. The movie The Runaways got a very limited release in the UK, but I tracked down a local cinema that was playing it for about two days, and was treated to an empty theatre!

I loved the movie, and it got me hooked on a few of the band's signature songs. But it was when I started looking into the real Runaways that I fell in love. They were five girls of no more than 17 years old when, in mid-70s LA, they were found by maniacal music producer Kim Fowley, who put them together and worked them like 'dogs' (as he so often referred to them), and made them a controversial overnight sensation. The band's run was short but fierce, and it broke barriers and paved the way for generations of female musicians to come. By 1980, they had all gone their own separate ways, to various fates. But their story is an amazing one, and in 2002, one-time bassist Vicky Blue (or Victory Tischler-Blue) had got into filmmaking, and decided to document the rise and fall of The Runaways.

Although there were a few lineup changes in the very early and late chapters of The Runaways' life, the band is mainly remembered as five key members: Joan Jett (who you may have heard of, I say sarcastically) was the engine, lead songwriter, rhythm guitarist and occasional singer; Lita Ford, who also went on to a long musical career, rocked out lead guitar; Jackie Fox, now an attorney, was on bass; the late great Sandy West worked magic on the drums; and one of the most memorable frontmen in band history took centre stage on lead vocal in the form of Cherie Currie.

All very different girls, but together they constituted a miracle formula for grimy, hardcore, teen-angst rock. Looking back at my own fifteen-year-old self, what The Runaways actually achieved is all the more phenomenal. I was lead singer and bassist in a band at fifteen, and was only asked to play bass because I stood like such an awkward moron when only singing. I would be the first to admit that I had no charisma, and no stage presence. The Runaways were each determined, for one reason or another, to make it big, and each drew major inspiration from key idols: Jett's was Suzi Quatro, Ford's was Richie Blackmore, Jackie Fox loved Gene Simmons, and Currie obsessed over Bowie (girl after my own heart). These teen girls took to the stage, time after time, and did things no other band was doing. Their signature song Cherry Bomb was often performed by Cherie in her trademark corset and stockings, and they were thanked for their efforts with such critical reviews as 'these bitches suck'.

I acknowledge that the '70s wasn't totally rainbows, sunshine, free sex and dollar-acid. It was a key time for the feminist movement, and many industry professionals were at best taken aback and at worst utterly pissed off that females, and not even adult ones at that, were trying to strut their platform boots all over the male stomping ground. So the band was bearing the brunt of a lot of criticism and outrage, but they were 16 and 17 years old, so they reacted with a massive middle finger. But as awesome as the situation sounds - being a talented sixteen-year-old with four wild contemporaries, on the road playing rock gigs - the behind-the-scenes reality was quite different, as Edgeplay shows us.

The one thing Edgeplay is sadly lacking is Joan's participation - for whatever reason, and she is known to be almost suspiciously detached nowadays from a lot of the Runaways stuff, she decided against appearing in the film, or permitting any of her material to be used. This was a major bummer, as about 80% of the band's material is credited to her. I have to admire Vickie Blue's tenacity with pressing forward with the project anyhow, and finding ways around the predicament. It has left some corners cut, with some filler music from Suzi Quatro et al, but audio and video of the band performing songs written either by other members, or other people entirely were a-OK.

Vickie Blue makes a great film here, structurally. Where Sigismondi's quote-unquote biopic was focused almost solely on Joan and Cherie (and steered off the path of truth on more than one occasion), Edgeplay is about the five (or seven, including Vickie and former band songwriter Kari Krome) people who made the band what it was, and chronicles their lives, as narrated by themselves and their parents, and their time together. It also very poignantly looks at the aftermath of The Runaways, which seemed to particularly affect Sandy. Towards the end, we see her close to tears, recounting the terrifying things she'd resorted to in recent years, practically begging the others for a reunion. It's so obvious that the band was her life source, and even twenty years after its demise, it was all she cared about,

As a documentary, Edgeplay is brilliant. Although Vicki Blue directs and asks the odd question on camera, narrative is left to the band members. There is also stock input from that fabulously wired svengali Kim Fowley, who offers his trademark eccentric eloquism (sidenote: Fowley's father Douglas was an actor - he played the exasperated director in Singin' in the Rain) in defense of the various tragedies and successes he was responsible for. And all members interviewed are wonderfully upfront, and Cherie and Sandy's parents offer their perspective as long-distance caregivers, scared for their absent daughters' wellbeing. A very rounded, and at times varied, account is built of the career of The Runaways.

All is held together with some fantastic, grainy old footage of the band, playing live shows, and riding in the backs of cars, and walking through airports, and giving press conferences. It's excellent, evocative stuff. I don't know if a version approaching complete will ever come to be. Cherie's autobiography Neon Angel, a redraft of her original book, is a vivid account of her time with the band, among other things. But to date many intriguing and disgusting perspectives have come to light. Both Kari Krome and Jackie Fox have said Kim Fowley sexually assaulted both of them. Cherie, after decades of describing Fowley on par with Caligula, brought her cancer-afflicted former manager into her home and cared for him in the months before his death. She and Lita, whose mutual hatred is infamous in the history of the band, have appeared together at an awards ceremony and sung each others' praises. A lot has changed over the years, but Edgeplay is a great combined telling of the story of a significant and, in my opinion, fantastic band, and should be seen by anybody whose soul is either partially or fully comprising of rock.

The Sacrament (2013)

Finally, a decent example of post-modern found footage horror. Let us make this the third relevant step in the subgenre thus far: 1) the original and best Cannibal Holocaust by Ruggero Deodato, 2) The Blair Witch Project and 3) Ti West's The Sacrament. These three films have presented to us unimaginable terror through the medium of handheld footage, and have done so to such admirable effect that I feel they warrant this three-step programme in FF.

The synopsis of The Sacrament will almost certainly ring bells for many people. Some people may actually remember the real events upon which the movie is based occurring. I was gripped by the premise of a mockumentary about a guy who is invited by his sister to visit the strange cult village she lives in, and the madness that goes on within. OK, lemme just throw it straight out there. Kool Aid. There we have it: the Jonestown massacre of 1978. Once I'd finished being thrilled to hell by The Sacrament, I went and googled it, and soon found the reason the story seemed so familiar to me, and watched several absolutely soul-crushing documentaries on the tragedy. Let there be no mistake: this movie is, at times, painful to watch, and not in any gratuitous, explicitly savage or violent way, but in often quietly disturbing moments, with a wholly crushing sense of dread building from the outset. It is, in this way, that it is amazingly effective.

For my birthday this year, I was given (after much hinting) the Shameless DVD release of House On The Edge Of The Park by Deodato (Cannibal Holocaust), and whilst powering through the special features, an interesting lecture came up, held by some English film professors, with the director and actor Giovanni Lombardo Radice present. These professors had been commissioned to examine the results of violent movies on audiences, and this was one of the titles they looked at. Their findings were interesting: most people were disturbed by brutality and control inflicted on vulnerable characters. Surprisingly, mostly Ricky. His character is the secondary antagonist, who answers to Alex (David Hess), and he comes across as mentally challenged. Where the audience could, for the most part, accept the violence going on between the fully functioning adults, they were uncomfortable with the young, virginal Cindy getting caught up in the trouble, and the obvious manipulation of a mentally incapacitated man.

The story of Jim Jones, the wacko proprietor of Jonestown, shows bold and consistent themes that ran throughout the guy's life. He always had a knack for sniffing out vulnerable people, who felt outcast and ill-fitting, and giving them a place where they belonged. As a child, he actually was one of those sickos who got off on torturing animals. And when shit hit the fan, the dude ran. The really disturbing element of The Sacrament, rather like with HOTEOTP, is that the victims' vulnerability is what throws them into the arms of evil people. It's a classic abusive relationship. The abuser is dominant, and presents themselves as an escape, a refuge, which the victim dares not try to escape, for fear of what's on the outside being worse than the inside. The relationship is ruled by fear, isolation, insecurity. And what kind of place, we come to ultimately ask, must a person be in to feel like killing themselves, their friends and children, is the best, or only, option.

Something I came to notice only after I had watched this movie and gone on to learn about the incident through documentaries, was that The Sacrament is practically a shot-for-shot recount of the real incident, with names and dates changed to protect those (very very few) still living. Not that this is really necessary, but still...they had to fictionalise something. Patrick (Kentucker Audley) is a photographer, who receives a letter from his recovering addict of a sister Caroline (Amy Seimetz), inviting him to visit her at Eden Parish. It's one of those places that the residents refer to as a 'community' when we know it's a total freakin' cult. Patrick's two buddies, Jake (Joe Swanberg) and Sam (AJ Bowen) are professionals in media and looking for a compelling story.

My boyfriend said to me when the guys first arrive at the 'community', "They have a watchtower. Only one kind of place has a watchtower." While the residents willing to speak to the crew rave about the freedom and peace that their new home has given them, a distinctly ominous tone is set with the introduction of the Jones figure, here named The Father, on the first evening at a village meeting. He has agreed to be interviewed by the guys, luring them into an intense exchange somewhat reminiscent of Dr Lecter's psychic musings. Father is played, with a thrashing undercurrent of menace, by a wonderful actor (ironically) named Gene Jones. A 60-something balding fellow with immeasurable manipulations behind those dark glasses, Father is an astonishing character, played with measure and daring by Jones. He embodies the macabre evil that slowly decays his character, and is frighteningly similar to the real Jones.


As mentioned, the movie is a distinctly accurate reconstruction of the massacre, so the details need not be disclosed here. But the film crew get out alive, as did one or two of Congressman Leo Ryan's people back in '78. But the interactions and manipulations that festered in that town and brought on its imminent demise are painfully crafted by West, leaving the audience gripped in fear and horror and despair. You witness the movie's finale as a desperate, helpless onlooker, mouth hanging open for minutes at a time. If the Titanic had been sank deliberately by a mad captain, the situations would begin to be comparable. It's a level of horror that transcends horror: it's tragedy. As helicopter shots capture the shrinking patchwork of whole families, lying face down on the ground, arms about each other in dying embrace, masses and masses of people, it's like having been plucked from Hell and stuck on a bird's shoulders, to be nothing more than a silent, rescued witness of the aftermath of murder. The Sacrament is utterly sombre, and unforgettable. It is brilliant.

Deep Throat (1972)

Cultural scandal/phenomenon Deep Throat has a place in my life I believe to be unlike that of most other fans. For one thing, I'm 23. The movie is 20 years older than I am, and a lot of people my age are under the false impression that things from our parents' generation are stupid or lame or ugly. Don't worry, I've taken a deep breath and composed myself.... For another thing, porn is probably more easily accessed than decent healthcare nowadays (sad statement) and it has gone to muuuuuuch darker, creepier and distinctly less erotic lengths, which have become the norm for most viewers, i.e. the sexual content, explicit though it is, is way too soft for modern audiences.

But of course, I am a devout appreciator of vintage articles and the contexts within which they were created. My awesome Pop grew up in London in the 1960s, and was one of the original hippie generation, and so we have spent many, many hours over the years talking about those wonderful times, and the things people got up to. He, naturally, was the person from whom I first heard of the movie Deep Throat, and its iconic star Linda Lovelace.

Last week I bagged an original 1974 paperback printing of Inside Linda Lovelace on eBay for £6.50 and read it within a day. You see, odd as it may seem to some, pervy as it may seem to some others (simpletons), in the years since I first heard of the movie, I have read many books and articles, seen many movies, documentaries and interviews, and my interest in the whole Deep Throat - Linda Lovelace thing is significant. Perhaps this wouldn't be quite so the case were it not for Lovelace's crazy, tumultuous existence in and out of the public eye.

She was born Linda Boreman in 1949, and as a young adult met bar owner/photographer/professional creep Chuck 'JR' Traynor, this slimy geezer with the least sexy moustache I ever fucking saw. He taught her meditative techniques, being the self-professed love guru he was, that enabled her to open her throat like a sword-swallower and accommodate a phallus. Not long after the whole Deep Throat craze (which did go on for several years), Linda disappeared and popped up some years later as a distinctly frumpy and domesticated version of her former self, newly married, born again and raging against the porno machine. At the time when the hardcore feminism movement that my mother was once such an avid participant of was at its peak (if you can call it such), Linda was picked up by an odious activist named Gloria Steinem and rode the anti-porn wagon harder than she did Harry Reems. Once that craze had also fizzled, Linda struggled to maintain odd jobs as a divorced retired porn sensation, and several more years later, was doing the convention circuits signing photos, and promoting herself as the star of Deep Throat. She even did a couple of very tame 'glamour' photoshoots for magazines.

There are two sides to the Lovelace record: Side A focused all its energy on creating a stir, and being a general figurehead for the sexually liberated crowd; Side B was probably the first high-profile case of playing the Victim Card. As part and parcel of her mid-'80s feminism kick, the former story of liberation and good vibes became one of apparent torture, rape and control. Linda claimed that Chuck forced her at gunpoint to make all of her movies, threatened the lives of her family etc.etc. Coming to any sort of decision on what really happened has taken a lot of research, and anybody interested in corroborating this should seek out the same materials I did (Lovelace's several books are a twisting tale). But here is the way I see it:

Chuck Traynor was a slimy, over-sexed bastard who got a kick out of being some form of self-professed love guru, and Linda was an overprotected suburban girl from a devoutly Catholic family whose upbringing produced a simultaneous need for rebellion and control from a third party. In honesty, her early porno chic incarnation seemed something of an airheaded one. An old TV interview catches some uptight journalist asking her if her liberal ideas wouldn't cause imminent anarchy. She replies that she doesn't know what anarchy means. Cute, huh? Then, in a move that is sooooooo typical of modern girls, she found people condescended and shamed her for her sexual antics, and decided to totally relieve herself of said shame by blaming it on somebody else.

Almost everybody involved with Linda has denied her allegations of abuse, and their reasoning rings true. New York girls in 1972 didn't take much convincing to do something outrageous and against the grain - there was certainly no need to force anybody at gunpoint to perform in a porn movie. There'd have been a line all the way down the street of free-spirited hippy chicks who figured $1250 dollars for a few days of wild sex was exactly what they were looking for. Moreover, Chuck's later marriage to the era's other porn queen, Marilyn Chambers, painted a very different picture. Marilyn was a very strong-headed woman, who negotiated herself good deals, presented herself well in public, and was free of inhibitions. Not to mention, she never turned against the industry. Her marriage to Chuck has never been talked of on anything but good terms, and they allegedly left the divorce court hand in hand.

I do hope this considerable dilution of the story is raising all the appropriate red flags for you. There were so many things about Linda's allegations that didn't add up, and this time she just played mouthpiece for a militant feminist rather than a slimy perv. Linda insisted that every time somebody watched Deep Throat, they were witnessing rape. But the idea of all of these perfectly respectable adults - co-stars, crew, etc. - being in on a gang-conspiracy to force one particular woman into porn is quite ludicrous. Harry Reems, Linda's co-star (who, incidentally, spanked the spunk out of Traynor on the Sexy Moustache-Off) was an absolute class act from beginning to end, who actually served prison time when some narrow-minded jury somewhere decided to press obscenity charges. He even paid for Linda to have life-saving surgery later on. People who worked with him over the years described him as an absolute love with a heart of gold. The list of inconsistencies goes on, and sadly, almost taints our ability to enjoy what is actually a funky, silly little sex movie that earned its place in history. Almost...

Ambitions for middle-age summed up in one photo

Linda Lovelace, as herself, is a hippie chick living in Miami with a middle-aged divorcee, Dolly, who enjoys the swingers' life, but feels that sex is missing something. "I wanna hear bells ringing! Dams bursting! Rockets exploding!" she laments. Dolly, who I can only hope to be as cool as in my late forties, provides the perfect solution: a massive sex party! Woohoo!

When even this doesn't untangle Linda's tingle, she turns to hokey Doctor Young (the gorgeous Mr Reems), who discovers that her clitoris is in her throat. Well if that isn't your textbook male fantasy! He teaches Linda to give Deep Throat, and suddenly the girl's practically deafened by all the rockets and bells and bursting dams, and decides to dedicate her life to enjoying herself. Of course, this also means men enjoying themselves, and so Doctor Young enlists her as a 'nurse' to make home calls and enjoy various sexual escapades with various people. The goofy, slapstick action is nurtured by a wildly brilliant, and sadly unclaimed, soundtrack of grimy, funky guitar and amusing synth. The finale number, entitled Deep Throat To You All, is a wonderfully folky and surreal theme. In my mind, which remains static in downtown LA of 1976 or thereabouts, I have this cool fantasy that the soundtrack is the secret work of David Hess, whose music for Last House was nothing short of brilliant. It seems totally him. Alas, the shady Mafia background of the movie seems to have caused the musicians to seek anonymity, but the album is available, and it's brilliant.

As a piece of early '70s nostalgia, Deep Throat is a gem. How does it stack up as a porno? I guess it is entirely dependent on one's personal tastes. Myself, I have seen quite a bit of modern porn, and several factors are a turn off: firstly, lack of plot, style, or discernible creative talent involved; secondly, the freaky shit people do - I find a woman sucking a guy's juices out of another woman's anal cavity to be nothing short of nauseating; thirdly, the 'actors' are harsh, brassy, Botoxed to the gills and generally unrelatable. Porno chic has the appeal of being ordinary people enjoying each other, people you don't feel upstaged by, having sex you can identify with. Kinks are all well and good, but the bar for 'regular' porn has been skyrocketed to distinctly unerotic levels nowadays.

My viewing partner this time round was surprised at how satisfying Deep Throat was pornographically. Plenty of close up shots, plenty of momentum, and some fun variety. It's only about an hour long, but it's hard to get bored of; it's as fun as it is erotic. And for those modern fascists who insist they cannot get turned on by a woman with pubic hair, fear not! Even though 99.9%-vastly-recurring of women would have chewed your ear off for your apparent paedophilic tendencies at the time, Linda (for whatever reason) was a pioneer of several new practices, the first being the removal of her pubic hair.

The '70s are known for their pubic hair, although it wasn't really until the 2000s that women started appearing full 'Hollywood' (totally bare, that is) in film. And while every other woman in Deep Throat is hippie to the core when it comes to pubes, Linda is shown shaving hers off. In an interview, a woman journalist once grilled her about her grooming, saying she didn't know anyone else that did it. It's odd, and pretty depressing, that a mere twenty five years later, this wasn't merely the norm, but expected. Get ready for another personal preference: I love hairy guys. Beards, head hair, chest hair, pubic hair, bring it on. It looks manly, feels gorgeous, I go crazy for it. Thankfully, my boyfriend indulges me. However, the majority of guys my age shave, wax or even laser everything off, and if there is one thing that looks supremely gay, it's a guy with no pubic hair. It gives me the oiled-up Chippendale vibe, the apparent 'ideal' sexy look that comes off as staged, and utterly emasculated. Deep Throat has got some nice shaggy guys on board, with Harry at the helm, and pornstaches galore!

I could probably write more books than Linda did about her, and this movie, and about vintage porn in general. But I think I've pretty much summed up Deep Throat. It's wacky, cheesy, funny, naughty, ground-breaking, Conservative-offending brilliance, and it's an entirely viable mastabatory aid to boot.