User Reviews

Snap, crackle, pop! The jarring sound of every change in camera angle. And that's not to mention the white flashes and the clipped endings to almost every spoken sentence. What on earth were they up to in the editing room? Or could it be that this approach was intentional? Surely not. What purpose could it serve? Despite all its technical short-comings, this is an interesting film depicting a day in the life of Joe, a hustler, determined to earn $200 for his wife's pregnant girl friend. Joe Dallesandro is outstanding as the easy-going, passive, laid-back young man who is willing to let the other person do most of the talking while he listens with a faraway look in his eyes.

The story is meagre and sketchy, documenting the uncertain life led by a man who relies on casual street sex to support his young wife and baby. One thing is certain, Joe is uninhibited when it comes to disrobing for sex or posing for an artist. Understandably so, for he has a handsome face and and equally handsome body.

There is a scene in the film that is remarkably effective. There is no sound, no dialogue. Joe stark naked is crouching on the floor feeding crumbs of cake to his little baby. There is a beautiful serenity and tenderness captured in these quiet moments.

Another scene of amusing interest is the one in which Joe desperately seeks a loan of $100 from a gym friend, coming to the point of asking in a very circuitous approach.

Joe tries to look interested but is hesitant in his conversation when an artist gives him a non-stop resume of Greek and Roman art. It's a preliminary to another occasion when Joe divests himself of his clothes and poses as the discus thrower in true classical style.

At the end of the film we gain the impression that we have got to know Joe pretty well. After all he has uncovered more than his soul.

Flesh is about a bisexual prostitute who spends a day trying to make enough money to pay for his wife's girlfriend's abortion. It's cheaply shot, cheaply edited, and cheaply produced, so some extra attention has to paid to the dialog because sometimes it's a little difficult to hear, though the imagery is straight-forward enough. The actor who plays Joe spends about half of the screen-time completely naked (and yes, Morrissey doesn't shy away from showing everything), and basically through a series of scenes and conversations in the streets and cheap apartments of New York you get a pretty interesting though somewhat dragged-out portrait of the sexual underground, populated entirely by passive, unintellectual people who live John to John and are ultimately unable to even think about what they'll need in the future. Though the acting is poor (and made worse by the editing, which cuts off some of the dialog in parts), there's a sense of realism here that goes beyond the likes of Midnight Cowboy and Dog Day Afternoon, more mainstream movies that can use the crisp production values and stronger acting as a sense of removal and distance between the subject and the audience ("after all, it's just a movie"). The dialog, in its meandering and mumbling glory, is actually really well written, making it a shame that it's so poorly delivered because it really does provide a gateway into understanding these characters. In the end, though, if this movie doesn't shock you it might not be that effective otherwise, because it is, after all, a story about bored people with no motivation.

--PolarisDiB

One of the most sublime of American masterpieces, Morrissey opens the film by sexualizing Dallesandro, with his open mouth snoring on a pillow. We wonder, is he coming off a heroin high? We just see his face, then, flash, his body, flash, his naked rear. I can't think of another film that used this flash-blip form of editing so well to create a hypnotic, druggy mood, an editing method that works wonderfully as both pacing and style. After that introduction, when Dallesandro opens his mouth, his accent is jarring -- we expect him to be some kind of soft-spoken androgyne; instead, he's got the voice of a street thug -- Morrissey isn't comfortable letting our assumptions go unchecked. The lengthy opening is very sexy and playful -- it's a combination of martial troubles, Dallesandro's fascinating lip-rubbing kisses, and early morning sexual escapades; it all kind of flows together, if not always smoothly, then emotionally realistically.

What I got from this was the same as what I got from "The 400 Blows" when I first saw it -- this is like a 20-something continuation of that story. There's a sense of camaraderie between the flesh sellers and the buyers; when Dallesandro walks the street looking for men (to fund his wife's abortion) there's the feeling of a secret handshake as boys make deals with each other. I never found it boring, though nothing happens -- nothing happens brilliantly, the boys hanging around, as they do, waiting for tricks. The main trick that Dallesandro finds is fascinating to watch, using Greek descriptions and only touching his back, a form of aesthetic body worship on the man's part. It's also dreadfully funny ("I'm not talking to an empty bed, am I?"). It's one of the most revealing scenes in the movie -- in any movie, I think; certainly any movie dealing with sex and sex for sale. When Dallesandro's eyes seem red and swollen, we can't tell if it's because he's drunk, ashamed, embarrassed, or all.

The conversations in the film are cut-up -- they don't matter. (The film is silent in a few scenes, some of the most poignant and beautiful you may ever experience.) Yet when Morrissey chooses to include one, the way he includes it (we sort of piece it together), it's startling, such as one conversation between Dallesandro and a newbie hustler -- and neither of them ever mentioning the word "gay" or "hustler." What follows is a scene where we listen to a pair of transvestites as Dallesandro gets serviced -- this just after explaining to the newbie "getting used" to the job.

Dallesandro is a subject worthy of the attention paid to him, both by his clients and Morrissey. He's less than effective as an actor, in the sense of acting as performing, but as far as revealing something he's incredible -- he's someone we immediately want to feel above, yet we go through his experiences, with all their complexities, and we're forced to try and know him. He's the kind of blank slate that we're drawn to but can't get a hold on. And of course he's incredibly striking -- forgetting everything else, this is partially a testament to the beauty of the male body, Dallesandro's gorgeous torso and permanently erect nipples.

The movie has one devastating scene, but like everything else you can't really master it -- a girl says that she's been raped, and her only self-defense is in saying that, had the rapist only asked for sex, wooed her, he would have gotten a better lay. It's shattering. The movie has feeling for everyone, but even better than that, it's not merely sympathetic, it actually attempts to help us understand human beings -- and without ever dictating what it is we're meant to be understanding. It neither looks down on nor glamorizes the people within the film. It feels inclusive when we see Joe's arm around a transvestite. When he reads a letter (he talks about not getting past grade eight at one point), he's utterly charming, as he pauses on a word...then says, "woteva," and continues.

You can learn something more profound from the interaction between Dallesandro and one of his clients in terms of gay-straight relationships than you can from any case study. Here we have the young boy who smiles (his top lip disappears as he does so) when a 30-something gym bunny Korean war veteran runs his fingers through his hair; it's a scene that feels very profound, this adult man sharing something with a younger version of himself -- it's not two gay men together, or a gay man paying a straight man, it's something else you can't put your finger on; questions of sexuality are beside the point. (Never before has popping a pimple seemed as affectionate.) After sharing something with each other emotionally (though with Dallesandro, since he's there for money, it's never apparent why he's there; though he's never less than sincere, which may be his most disarming quality), "So...can you help me out?" The man says sure. "I don't mean my pants!" 10/10

A heap of human flesh lies asleep on a red pillow. This is the hunk of naked meat that is "Little Joe", a New York hustler who lives with his bisexual wife and baby child. The film follows a day in his life, after he's woken from sleep by his wife demanding that he go out and do the traditional male thing - be a breadwinner. But the use she wants to put the bread to is to pay for her new girlfriend's abortion. We certainly aren't in the traditional family unit here...

After playing with his child, Joe hits the streets to cruise for johns. The clients come thick and fast: the ordinary gay man who wants to meet him again because they "work well together", the old English classical scholar who pays $100 to see Joe pose like an ancient Greek athlete; the female topless dancer who blows Joe then boasts about being raped; the ageing gym bunny who doesn't think that what he and Joe do together is queer. After a hard day's work, Joe returns home exhausted, only to be put down by his wife and the girlfriend. He goes back to sleep as they harp and undermine him.

Flesh is fascinating as it takes what is a traditional classical mainstream structure - it has an inciting incident (the money for the abortion) and set-up, a confrontation and a resolution (albeit a very downbeat one), even a protagonist with a strongly motivated goal, and then proceeds to concentrate on the details of the day to day routine of these people who are perfectly ordinary to themselves but extraordinary to most "mainstream" people. It all seems very authentic and natural - it's hard to see the acting, the actors are so fully being their roles - but yet the whole thing is a piece of cunning artifice - a beautifully drawn portrait or an intricately carved statue. Director Morrissey carefully plants every incident, every encounter around his theme of human flesh become packaged commodity but with such cunning slight of hand that you almost don't notice him doing it. The wife "packages" Joe's sexual organ, the old Englishmen laments a long gone order of classical beauty which created art and poetry from human fleshly beauty, the transvestite friends of the stripper package themselves as women whilst reading a Hollywood magazine in which "real" women are packaged as products; the gym bunny buys Joe's friendship and affection, thinks artificial porn is real and can't tell, as we can't, that Joe is performing his friendship and intimacy for the cash. The film itself presents itself as the ne plus ultra of cinematic realism but what we might as well be dealing with here is fine art or an early example of concept art.

The genius - a word not lightly used - of Morrissey was to find a way of taking Warhol's arty pretensions to film-making, which were interesting sure but boring as hell, and making them into saleable products which remain amongst the most intriguing works of cinema art ever made - commercial cans labelled "Flesh" and "Trash" and "Heat" with a product label - "Andy Warhol" - which sells an idea about the product as much as the product itself. Yet just as you reel from Morrissey's cynicism, you are spellbound by his ability to still maintain the highest of standards and depth of meaning. The constant what seem like camera flashes continually draw attention to the filmic nature of what one is witnessing, yet you get drawn into the illusion all the same - Flesh is surely one of the most extraordinary pieces of cinema magic to ever spellbind an audience.