Ever watch The Neverending Story in a semen-splattered jackoff theater? Neither have I, but I bet it's a lot like watching Cruising in a family-swarmed Loews multiplex just down the street from Spamalot. That's where I saw William Friedkin's 1979 thriller a few weeks ago, mere blocks from Vlada, a recently opened "lounge" featuring teak tables, apple-cinnamon vodka and the tanned, dentally enhanced New Gay.
Cruising, now out on DVD following a theatrical re-release, is the story of a straight rookie cop, Steve Burns (Al Pacino), who's sent into New York's seedy gay underground to investigate a series of psychosexual murders. Burns navigates the dungeons and cellars of Manhattan's crumbling west side, in which burly men wearing harnesses blow, fuck, and yes, fist each other while high on amyl nitrate. Along the way, Burns gets caught up in the scene until, in classic fashion, he becomes unclear about where his undercover persona ends and his real self begins, a device on which the conclusion relies.
The film was abhorred by gay activists thirty years ago, and understandably so — it was their mainstream Hollywood debut, and they were portrayed as murderous sexual sadists. But it's since been largely embraced, mainly due to the past three decades of visibility and acceptance. "From today's vantage point, it seems unlikely that any audience for Cruising would automatically equate the hardcore leather scene. . . with gay culture at large," said the Village Voice earlier this month. Yet these hardcore leather scenes do better than simply hold up well. They ring truer — and braver — than most of the cloying, Splenda-ized gay movies that get made today, most of which involve: a) an introspective road trip; b) a cute young lad coming to grips with his sexuality; or c) some sort of attempt at camp that's not as funny as you want it to be. You watch them and feel a distinct sense of skirting. You also feel bit sad for gay culture, which may be healthier today, but like most things assimilated, became more mundane in the process.
Cruising is often cheesy — Camp Crystal Lake saw better slasher footage. And it's occasionally incoherent — there's one infamous scene, involving a giant naked black cop in an interrogation room, that no one I know has ever been able to explain. But there's an honesty to the film that's admirable, and I doubt it was as exploitive as the activists felt it was. In an early placating scene, Friedkin even has a police sergeant spell out that these leather daddies exist "outside mainstream gay culture." To me, the indignation at the film's release seems like a case of the subject wanting to control the interview, to edit out the uncomfortable bits, when everyone knows the uncomfortable bits are the best part. Did gays expect Friedkin to write a cute little coming-out story? Or one about a committed gay couple just trying to make it work? Had he done so, it would have been like much of today's gay cinema, innocently whistling along while pretending there's nothing filthier below the surface. — Will Doig