lasttimeisaw A seminal off-Broadway-turned-feature-film revolves around a group of gay men in NYC from playwright Mart Crowley, THE BOYS IN THE BAND is indisputably a trailblazer of American queen cinema reckoning with its time, it is directed by the future Oscar-winning director William Friedkin. Also, extremely unusual for today's climate, the filmmakers recruit all the play's original cast, to reprise their roles in this film adaptation, despite that none of them are name actors, the truth is, it is a silver screen debut for most of them.After a passing montage briefly introduces all of the nine characters before their ultimate convergence in the birthday party (on a trivial note, Friedkin's previous directorial work is called THE BIRTHDAY PARTY in 1968, based on a Harold Pinter play), the setting almost exclusively locates inside an Upper East Side apartment of our protagonist Michael (Nelson), who is throwing a party to celebrate his friend Harold's (Frey) 32-year-old b-day with close friends. Hours before the party, he receives a call from his college roommate Alan (White), who has just arrived in NYC from Georgetown and conspicuously emotionally disturbed, and wants to see him in person, triggered by what Alan intends to tell him (which the film slyly refuses to divulge), Michael invites him for a drink in his apartment, hopefully before other guests' arrival (oops, it is my remiss to not mention that Michael and all his invitees are gay), because Alan is straight, or is he? Maybe Michael has concealed an ulterior motive which needs a vent desperately.One sure thing is that the trajectory of the story will meander beyond Michael's plan, guests are routinely arrived, save Harold, who favors a grand entrance just because the birthday boy must show up lastly to hog the spotlight, and it also buys him some time to burnish his bad facial conditions, after all, 32, is not a kind number to a barbed fairy like him. In Crowley's incisive concoction, each of the characters has his token correspondence with certain stereotype of gay men: Donald (Combs), a simpatico blue-collar type and Bernard (Greene), a sentimental black bookworm; Emory (Gorman), the quintessential effeminate queen and his birthday gift to Harold, Cowboy Tex (La Tourneaux), a simple-minded rough trade jock; then, a couple, Larry (Prentice), a libertine who cannot endorse monogamy and his boyfriend-cum-roommate, Hank (Luckinbill), a closeted married schoolteacher, who is undergoing a divorce, also we have the heterosexual intruder Allen and Harold, the haughty narcissist, finally, what about Michael? A recovering alcoholic with a Roman Catholic upbringing, who is afflicted by an inimical self-hatred of being what he is, which will soon ejaculate venom onto those near him when tensions mount after Alan gatecrashes their flamboyant party.The first half of the movie mostly dwells in the patio, where an exuberant stream of ceaseless banters and rejoinders tellingly contrives a unique phenomenon among the kind, apparent viciousness is actually an ironic expression of affection among the suppressed culture, it is refreshingly honest to represent such a taunting scenario (particularly through Emory's unbearable campiness and Harold's overbearing diva-stance) to perversely edify viewers that why equality matters, since it is all about to tolerate another human being even he/she ostensibly grates your temperament to the core, to accept his/her difference no matter how unpleasant that makes you feel, this is the only key to respect ourselves as a civilized species and therefore, there is a future for us.After a rambunctious kerfuffle between Emery and Alan, and a sudden downpour forces everyone retreat inside the apartment, which also inaugurate the second half, where Michael abetted by alcohol, proposes a cruel telephone game, to call someone you have been in love with and tell them on the phone if you dare. There is a significant change of tone with Michael becoming increasingly embittered and presumptuous, jovial laughter is ebbing away, conflicts and confrontations emerge and subsequently evolve into psychological torture: nerves fray, wounds are exposed, misunderstandings are elucidated and hopes are dashed, the most egregious part is Michael's wanton racist sniping aiming to the amiable Bernard, heavy-handed it may seem, it shows Friedkin and Crawley have no scruples about revealing the basest trait of our unwholesome nature to corroborate their standpoint, a stinging thing is that it is still a hot button today after 46 years, and the maddening truth is, none of these arguments and disputes have completely lost their relevance yet.The ensemble does a commendable job (most of those gay actors would prematurely die of AIDS or AIDS related complications), Cliff Gorman is not gay in real life despite his Emory is incorrigible counter-heterosexual, an outstanding endeavor mixed with declamation and affectation. Leonard Frey, who would be granted an Oscar nomination one year later in Norman Jewison's FIDDLER ON THE ROOF (1971), is a scene-stealer, his portrayal of Harold is something wondrous to witness, noticeably laps up in his sharp-tongued ripostes and snide commentaries, Harold is larger-than- life and also true-to-life on his own terms. Kenneth Nelson, too, is plum in his career-defining role, Michael is a much-layered mixed-bag of contradicting struggles, and under Friedkin's tutelage, he pledges for utter commitment and comes through as mortifyingly convincing and defiantly self- revealing. The rest of the cast member has their own stint of time to hold the attention, but in a less showier manner. In all fairness, THE BOYS IN THE BAND weathers quite well through the corrosion of time, and instead of being enshrined as a progenitor of films tackle with a tabooed issue, it tells more about one's true-self in its own dogged honesty on a par with other eminent works, such as Mike Nichols' WHO'S AFRAID OF VIRGINIA WOOLF? (1966), that certainly gets a warranty for a much more diverse audience, if they are sentiently receptive enough.

Gideon24 The Boys in the Band was the ground breaking 1970 film, based on Mart Crowley's play that was probably the first mainstream theatrical film in which most of the characters are homosexual. Despite some extremely dated elements, this film was important in that it did not present all gay characters as flouncing fairies, though that stereotype is definitely represented here. What this film does do is present homosexuals in all shapes, sizes, colors, and degrees of masculinity.The film takes place during a birthday party thrown by Michael (Kenneth Nelson) for his friend Harold (Leonard Frey) with a short guest list which includes Michael's best friend Donald (Frederick Combs), a former trick with whom Michael eventually became BFF's. Hank (Laurence Luckinbill) and Larry (Keith Prentice) are in a committed relationship, though Hank seems a little more committed than Larry. Cliff Gorman is hysterically funny as the flouncing fairy Emory and Rueben Greene plays his gal pal Bernard, the only non-Caucasian party guest. Things get sticky when an old friend of Michael's from college named Alan (Peter White) shows up unexpectedly, who may or may not be gay and may or may not know about Michael and may or may not be attracted to Hank. Michael also initiates a vicious party game that turns really ugly and brings some long bubbling resentments to the surface.William Friedkin's masterful and in-your-face direction is a big plus here and the performances are uniformly first-rate down the line. Sadly, several of the actors in this film, who were gay in real life, are no longer with us, a sort of underlying message that the film still seems to send today. I also liked the fact that this film, like 1982's Making Love, addressed the fact that being married has nothing to do with sexual orientation. We learn that Hank was married and left his wife to be with Larry and Alan's confusion about it is kind of aggravating.If you have an open mind and looking for something a little different that has a significant spot in cinematic history, check this one out.

jzappa What William Friedkin breaks down in 1970's grimly introspective independent chamber opus is a pre-liberation premise of violence joined with massive gentleness, efficiently encapsulated by ex-alcoholic Roman Catholic homosexual Michael when he offers, "You show me a happy homosexual, and I'll show you a gay corpse." The "boys" are greatly alert to their apprehensions, confronting them whenever they look at their reflections. And it's through reflections that Friedkin finds the sad underbelly of Crowley's script. Since homosexuality and hardcore profanity hadn't been so frankly handled in a mainstream movie yet, Friedkin's approach seems more effective, endeavoring to make his footprint without leaving the gum on the bottom of his shoe. He presents customariness in a cockeyed world where difficulty's inescapable.During the opening montage, except for Emory's hilarious flamboyance, the boys all appear "normal" enough. Then the wicked lure begins with eye contact. Michael's friend Donald tells him he was brought up to be a failure, so failure's all he feels accustomed to. Donald's oblique eye contact with Michael tells him, and us, that's why they're together. The looks are what tell the truth. Soon, Michael mourns being gay sans asserting it point-blank. He looks at a picture of himself while saying, "Waste, waste, waste." Indeed the dialogue elucidates the character, but by framing Michael within his own portrait, an ageless mirror, an endless remembrance of the past, Friedkin exposes a fading soul. Even former college roommate Alan, who Michael says wouldn't even betray any emotion in a plane crash, suggests compassion, and doubt in Friedkin's visualization. Alan loses control on the phone with Michael, desperate to visit and talk. After Alan hangs up, he grips his hands together, showing his wedding ring. By holding on this image one or two thumps, Friedkin visually places suspicion in our minds about "straight" Alan's intention for visiting his pal.Plays have no overpowering images. We watch the cast. In films, the camera thoroughly dictates what's seen. When Friedkin animates the camera, involves various angles, the scene feels unspoiled. For instance, near the beginning of the film, Michael, arms heaped with packages, struggles to get inside where the phone's ringing. He can't get the key in, and the ringing becomes a relentless nuisance. Rapid bumpy close-up movements on the keys in his hand, his face and the lock actually develop tension.When an antagonistic, intoxicated Michael instigates the "truth game," his apartment grows exceedingly oppressive. Everyone's humid, inebriated, clammy. Track lights are turned up, which abruptly give the uneasy feeling of an interrogation. Unlit ceilings, rained-on windows further squeeze the action. There's a great corkscrew energy, the breakthrough of startling insight. And, as time passes, there's a particular tranquility. We're still completely walled off in our own lunacy, but over time, it becomes normal. We're comfortable in the shadows from which Friedkin shoots whilst watching suspicion rise concerning Alan's sexuality, closet doors creaking to and fro, divorced teacher Hank and fashion photographer Larry's clashing on monogamy, and the crevices expanding in Harold and Michael's love-hate rapport.That Friedkin uses close-ups throughout the game when the guys call the one person they've ever loved intensifies accent on the caller's defenselessness. For instance, when Emory reaches his unrequited love recipient, we suffer his bittersweet elation when he says, "Del, is this really you?" And his sorrow, acknowledging, "You wouldn't remember me. I'm just a friend. A falling-down drunk friend." As Friedkin presses in for a close-up supported by Arthur Ornitz's skillfully murky cinematography, he separates the caller in a congested room, increasing the spectacle of absolute isolation.It's a parlor murder mystery in a sense. By divulging their deepest skeletons and doubts, the game's like the systematic murder of those who know too much, but in a psychosomatic sense, cruelly exposing their hearts in close-up, revealing a softness within. That Friedkin frames an unforgettable peak moment between Michael and Harold that's both stingingly brutal and honestly tender with Harold first approaching Michael, then isolating the two in frame adds to their unspoken yet implicit closeness.While the film itself acts as a mirror for exploring oneself, the mirrors in the film perform natural functions. When Michael scuffles for his keys and busts through the door, he sprints past the camera, which pans him inside. He rushes around the corner out of sight to answer the phone, yet we see him reproduced in the living room mirror. We observe it simply owing to his unexpected likeness in it. Friedkin frames the shot with Michael vanishing off one side of the screen and re-emerging in the reflection on the other side, at once opens the film but also foreshadows the cabin fever.Equally, when Alan calls Michael the second time, it's from a phone booth, the city lights mirrored in the glass surrounding him. But not his reflection. And when he hangs up, we cut outside the booth to incorporate a flashing yield light in the fore. We follow him until he crosses before cars' headlights. When Harold opens Michael's gift, we're in tight on Harold. The hostility between the two temporarily scatters. Friedkin frames them in independent close-ups, divulging their affection, easing the discontent. Temporarily. The friction fosters again. No one knows when it will detonate or who'll be hurt.The wry humor was hatched from a dejected sense of self, an emotional climate created by what the times told these characters about themselves. Kenneth Nelson, who plays Michael, and Leonard Frey, who plays Harold, characterize this in stark opposition. The cast as a whole matches each other evenly and strongly, yet most memorable, I dare say, Cliff Gorman's Emory. They were told they would keep gay people in a sort of public indigence, in the closet, but all society needed was for it to show them, to familiarize them, and thus integrate them. And it inched the closet door further open for gay characters in media and in all walks of life in our culture.

Conrad Spoke I remember seeing about fifteen minutes of this many years ago, maybe in the late seventies. Back then it had that off-putting unpleasantness that repels you when you're pelted with too much information about people, language and customs that are weird and foreign. At the same time its display of a neat sociological spectrum of gay types was stagy and obvious. I expected things to get a lot creepier – kissing, perhaps – so I turned it off.I should have left it on because the story is manifestly about universals, not the specifics of gay culture. It gets to this point through a kind of gay over-exposure, and I'll bet the author was keenly aware of how this would deliver the audience to an unexpected destination. The limp-wristed flailing of the queerest character had nowhere to go after two or three cringe-inducing lines, and every possible synonym for gay is flung out for our edification. This seems very dated in its pushiness, but at the same time it quickly brought me the feeling that I sort of knew these people. After cycling through every possible variety of cattiness or kindness between every combination of characters, it finally precipitated a dramatic movement with something important to say.The way it culminated was ingenious and moving, even if I saw it coming about ten seconds before the big gasp. If a clumsy line had telegraphed this event, say, a minute or two too soon the revelation would have been corny. In the theater (which is where I wish I could have experienced this) the immediacy of live actors would likely have prevented even ten seconds of prescience. This moment was the work of a very skilled writer.However, despite its strong resolution, the build-up was awfully repetitive. The bitchy comments were too clever by half, too on-the-nose and too frequent. Even in 1968 a thoroughly gay audience must have groaned at a lot of this.The most dating aspect of this play/film is the absence of any discussion or worry about AIDS. Sex is either flippant or funny or an obvious concomitant of the melodrama of straight sex. It's never scary or foreboding in a life-or-death sense, but only difficult and maddening in a happy-or-despairing sense. Somebody might at least have mentioned the inconvenience of herpes or gonorrhea.The documentary features are excellent. Interviews with Crowley, Friedkin and two actors give a lively historical context to the production of the play and the film. They are honest about the film's outdated aspects but also generously enthusiastic regarding its lasting dramatic and cultural impact.Wikipedia says that five of the six gay actors have died of AIDS, a cruel fact that went unmentioned in the respectful but brief dedications at the very end.