With a decades-long career in softcore behind him, producer Dave Friedman had more than enough time to hone an art for making silk purses out of sows' ears. He pulls that off again in MATINEE IDOL, a later-day Henri Pachard XXXer that's short on plot but surprisingly long on entertainment.
The story finds feuding porno thesps John Leslie and Jesie St. James getting into a fight on set that threatens to derail their latest production. With the two retreating to their separate residences, it's up to producers Harvey Cox and Bernard Kuntz (Elmo Lavino and Friedman, respectively) to find a couple newcomers to fill their shoes. Following a long series of auditions, the pair finally pulls in Daisy Cheney (Angel) to substitute for St. James, while the actress herself seizes on studly pool cleaner Herschel Savage to fill Leslie's... er, shoes. With St. James and Leslie forced to work together one last time before their replacements ascend to the limelight, is there any chance sparks might reignite, or is it curtains for porno's marquee duo?
Having watched MATINEE IDOL several years earlier on what was, at the time, a fairly rare uncut beta, I was impressed by its easy flow, brisk pacing, and pleasantly puerile comedy. Catching up with it again via Vinegar Syndrome's recent reissue, I was delighted to find it held up. Friedman and Pachard manage to wring an impressive amount of mileage out of their paper-thin premise, with the film moving surprisingly swiftly considering how little plot there is. Leslie and St. James basically just sulk the whole time and drown their sorrows in sex before patching things up at the conclusion, which resolves itself as quickly and arbitrarily as their initial falling out. It's a testament to the cast and writing that the material flies as well as it does, with numerous scintillating sexual encounters helping propel the film forward and making it seem breezier than many other features a good reel shorter.
Production values appear satisfyingly high, and are, again, a result of Friedman's well-honed knack for making the most out of nothing. It's not that IDOL is bursting with locations and cast, but that nothing feels threadbare - the film moves between settings freely and its locations always feel sufficiently populated and decorated, not sparse. Things only fall apart at the end, where the movie shirks its in-film premiere (cobbled together out of stock shots of LA's Pussycat Theater) for a scene featuring Leslie and St. James coming to terms in private. Clearly conceived as the emotional centerpiece of the movie, this sequence (a large excerpt of which forms its teaser-length trailer) features the couple masturbating across from each other on opposite couches, with their growing mutual lust conveyed in a series of longing looks that alternate between desire and constipation. It's only semi-successful, but the film at least earns points for trying, and the sequence remains a memorable moment, even if its thunder is stolen by a mid-film sequence featuring Colleen Brennan making love to Herschel Savage's foot. Toss in plenty of Friedman's trademark bawdy wordplay and you have a fun and frothy concoction that doesn't chart any new ground but delivers a solid and surprisingly brisk 90 minutes of adult entertainment. By 1984, that itself was a minor miracle in itself for a porn film, but old pros Friedman and Pachard make it look easy.
The story finds feuding porno thesps John Leslie and Jesie St. James getting into a fight on set that threatens to derail their latest production. With the two retreating to their separate residences, it's up to producers Harvey Cox and Bernard Kuntz (Elmo Lavino and Friedman, respectively) to find a couple newcomers to fill their shoes. Following a long series of auditions, the pair finally pulls in Daisy Cheney (Angel) to substitute for St. James, while the actress herself seizes on studly pool cleaner Herschel Savage to fill Leslie's... er, shoes. With St. James and Leslie forced to work together one last time before their replacements ascend to the limelight, is there any chance sparks might reignite, or is it curtains for porno's marquee duo?
Having watched MATINEE IDOL several years earlier on what was, at the time, a fairly rare uncut beta, I was impressed by its easy flow, brisk pacing, and pleasantly puerile comedy. Catching up with it again via Vinegar Syndrome's recent reissue, I was delighted to find it held up. Friedman and Pachard manage to wring an impressive amount of mileage out of their paper-thin premise, with the film moving surprisingly swiftly considering how little plot there is. Leslie and St. James basically just sulk the whole time and drown their sorrows in sex before patching things up at the conclusion, which resolves itself as quickly and arbitrarily as their initial falling out. It's a testament to the cast and writing that the material flies as well as it does, with numerous scintillating sexual encounters helping propel the film forward and making it seem breezier than many other features a good reel shorter.
Production values appear satisfyingly high, and are, again, a result of Friedman's well-honed knack for making the most out of nothing. It's not that IDOL is bursting with locations and cast, but that nothing feels threadbare - the film moves between settings freely and its locations always feel sufficiently populated and decorated, not sparse. Things only fall apart at the end, where the movie shirks its in-film premiere (cobbled together out of stock shots of LA's Pussycat Theater) for a scene featuring Leslie and St. James coming to terms in private. Clearly conceived as the emotional centerpiece of the movie, this sequence (a large excerpt of which forms its teaser-length trailer) features the couple masturbating across from each other on opposite couches, with their growing mutual lust conveyed in a series of longing looks that alternate between desire and constipation. It's only semi-successful, but the film at least earns points for trying, and the sequence remains a memorable moment, even if its thunder is stolen by a mid-film sequence featuring Colleen Brennan making love to Herschel Savage's foot. Toss in plenty of Friedman's trademark bawdy wordplay and you have a fun and frothy concoction that doesn't chart any new ground but delivers a solid and surprisingly brisk 90 minutes of adult entertainment. By 1984, that itself was a minor miracle in itself for a porn film, but old pros Friedman and Pachard make it look easy.