#jerry and the melange | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

watching-pictures-move · 3 years

Text

Put On Your Raincoats #20 | Squalid Motels and Desperate Gals, courtesy of Kim Christy

This review contains mild spoilers.

When I first heard of Kim Christy, I knew I had to delve into her work. Here is someone who was involved in the drag scene in the '60s and went on to direct and produce pornography from the '80s onward. She's also a trans woman director (and occasional actress), which is not just unusual in golden age pornography but even mainstream cinema today. Unfortunately, figuring out where to start was a challenge. There's a very good interview with her on the Advocate but which doesn't really delve into her directing work. So I did the highly risky and ill-advised move of scanning through the titles in her filmography and trying to pick out ones with interesting sounding premises. Even this was a challenge, as a lot of her movies sounded like they didn't have a terrible amount of story. (A good many of them also had certain slurs in the title, which are unfortunately common in trans pornography.) So out of the crapshoot of movies I picked, I can't say I really got to the bottom of what makes her work interesting or even gelled to most of them, but hopefully I can convey what makes the ones I did take to interesting.

To start with the most slight, the two Divine Atrocities movies are basically a collection of sex scenes. There's a theme of dominant women running through them, but otherwise there isn't much tying together in terms of staging, aesthetics and the like. The segments have titles like "The Leather Lass Tamer", "Rubber Rampage" and "Ms. Degradation", but truth be told, nothing here is terribly shocking. So there isn't a lot to either of these movies, but if you're watching it for those reasons, they're enjoyable enough. A few of the segments feature trans performers, and I did find that Sulka had a nicely imposing screen presence in her scene, and while Sugar Nicole briefly threatens her partner with her "big black cock", I did like that for the most part the movies don't discern between these scenes and the ones with cisgender performers. In the eyes of Kim Christy, there's room for everyone in this great sexual melange. Also notable is the threesome scene with Janey Robbins, who (after likely reading Dan Savage's column) tells one of her partners, "If you don't find a different way to fuck me, you can forget it, I'll have to find somebody else", and in the first time in the history of civilization, gets mad at her male partner for not climaxing quickly enough. "You always say it'll only take a few minutes. Time is the only thing I can't replace, and it always takes too long."

A bit more substantive narratively but less interesting is Momma's Boy, with a premise that you can guess based on the title. Tantala Ray presides over a brothel set during an indeterminate period, where she presides over her girls and also her son, who mysteriously became a deaf-mute at a certain point of time. Why did her son become a deaf-mute? Will we ever find out? Spoiler: it's incest. Tantala Ray does have a weird enough screen presence to make her parts watchable, but this has none of the charge that, say, Taboo brings to the same material. (It's worth noting that Ray in this movie, looking like a debauched queen of Mardi Gras in one scene, is a camp villain while Kay Parker plays her role straight in the other movie.) As it's shot on video, the movie is not very nice to look at, and the dirt cheap production values make it unclear whether this is supposed to be a period piece. Some of the dialogue is amusing ("Oxford?" "Guess again." "Princeton?" "Try Biloxi Tech, my sweetie."), and there is some old timey music and one of the clients wears an ascot at one point, so it's not a totally squalid affair. (It's classy, see? He's wearing an ascot.) As the son, Jerry Butler does a cringe-inducing lisp, but I did chuckle at his last line.

A bit easier to recommend is True Crimes of Passion, where Janey Robbins plays a private detective (cheekily named B.J. Fondel) who invariably bungles her investigations and winds up in sex scenes with the people she's supposed to be investigating. "Out of the fog and into the smog" begins the overwrought voiceover, which truth be told doesn't compare to the likes of Chandler but I guess the effort is nice. The first case involves her investigating the wife of a minister whom her client suspects of infidelity. Surprise, surprise, it turns out the wife has a girlfriend with whom she has dominant sex. Thanks to Robbins' investigative prowess, she gets found out and forced to join the proceedings and ends up getting her client, a Dan Quayle looking motherfucker in a cowboy hat, captured as well, which leads to an incredible burn.

"The lord will punish you for this."

"The lord already has, he gave me you for a husband."

Also, when Robbins is forced into cunnilingus, she says over narration, "Oh Christ, I'm not even sure I've seen one of these things up close", and yeah, okay, Janey.

The second scene is probably the most notable as it features Christy as a performer. Robbins visits her friend to investigate a death threat against her friend's brother (also Robbins' ex), and the twist can be deduced when you start wondering why a seemingly minor character gets an unusually large amount of screentime. The scene features a trope that likely isn't terribly sensitive by modern standards, but I get the sense from that Advocate interview that Christy isn't too hung up about such things and one must concede that the film is a product of its time and genre (and within that context, there's a lot worse out there). The last scene has Robbins spying on her neighbour in hotel to get some industry secrets, which leads to some really awkward dialogue about champagne and then a threesome involving her client and mark. Like the work of Yasojiru Ozu, this scene breaks the 180-rule, but I guess if this is your thing, you might enjoy it. At the very end, the mark just gives up his secrets to the client. The secrets of male bonding sometimes elude me.

Easily the most accomplished and enjoyable film from Christy that I watched was Squalor Motel. It combines the sexual variety of the other films with a sense of camp and grounds it in a distinct, memorable location. There isn't much more "plot" than the other movies, as it's basically about a motel concierge doing her job over the course of a day, but as it follows her bumping into a variety of (usually horny) guests and finding herself in amusing (and unfailingly sexual) situations, there's enough of a narrative through line that it feels like a "real" movie where the other movies strained for similar effect, and the movie uses a soundtrack of icy synths and jazz that sounds like imitation Angelo Badalamenti to give it all an alluring vibe. I'm gonna make a wager that David Lynch would have liked this movie. Look, I have no idea what his viewing habits are or what sends his motor running, and the thought of him jacking it furiously to this or any movie is not something that brings me pleasure. But this shares some of the campy tone and surface qualities of his works, and I also wanted to leave you all with that image.

Why does the motel have its own house band (to whom people try to listen to while they engage in all kinds of sexual congress)? Why is Jamie Gillis made up like a vampire and trying to sell marital aids? Why does the one guest's blow-up doll turn into a real person (and prove, uh, extremely vocal during their scene)? Why is the owner wearing a pig mask and a tutu while he spies on his guests? Why is everyone laughing at the newlywed? Why is the one scientist with a Hitler mustache and his shrill-voiced assistant conducting experiments (read: having a threesome) with Tantala Ray? And how are most of these things taking place in the mysterious Reptile Room in the middle of the motel? With an extremely winning Colleen Brennan in the lead role (sporting a pair of thick glasses, a Lucille Ball updo, and a big, toothy smile), we'll have a pretty good time finding out. Like a lot of hardcore movies, this is pretty episodic in structure, but its distinct atmosphere gives it a nice sense of momentum as it drifts from scene to scene.

With its nice production design (and the fact that it seems to have actual sets, rather than being shot in what I assume are people's homes like in the other movies), Squalor Motel feels a bit more upscale and lavish than the average porno. While I don't have any budgetary information handy, I do know that the production had an assistant director, Ned Morehead. To what extent he contributed to the movie's DNA I can't say for certain, but the directorial effort of his I watched, also produced by Christy, had many of the same qualities. Desperate Women starts off feeling pretty stylish with its spraypaint style opening credits (although it loses a bit of style when it misspells star Taija Rae's name as "Taja Rea"). Taija Rae plays a reporter who ends up wrongfully convicted for a murder and thrown in brutal women's prison presided over by the sadistic Tantala Ray, who seems to get her jollies from spying on her prisoners as they get it on or abusing them with the help of her dimwitted guard. During such incidents, the guard frequently ends up ejaculating on her uniform as a source of comic relief. (One such scene ends with a shot of a photo of Ronald Reagan.) I must however disclose, without revealing too much about the shameful inner workings of my hopelessly degenerate mind, that the denouement of scene involving Ray, her guard and Sharon Mitchell did not leave me unmoved. Mitchell plays a prisoner who befriends Taija Rae, and it's worth noting that despite being one of the best actresses in classic porn, she's saddled here with an atrocious Hispanic accent and at one point sings a bit of "America" from West Side Story.

By porn standards, this is actually quite well produced and has a relatively sturdy narrative. (I must however note that one scene has a blatant ejaculation-related continuity error.) Women in prison movies tend to be pretty squalid affairs in general, at least in terms of production values, so this doesn't feel too far off from the real thing and offers more explicit versions of the same pleasures, while its sense of humour gives it a nice campy quality. Tantala Ray especially delivers in a pleasingly over the top performance as the teeth-gnashing villain (the camera often frames her severe face in wide angle close ups), and say what you will about Sharon Mitchell's accent, I did like seeing her pop up in here. With all the flamboyance and excitement around her, Taija Rae almost becomes a supporting character in her own movie, although I must confess that I found her character's hopeless naivety pretty cute. ("I didn't wear rubbers, it's sunny out".) With a fun cast, a firm handle on the genre's pleasures and a groovy soundtrack, this is a pretty good time.

#film #movie review #put on your raincoats #divine atrocities #divine atrocities 2 #momma's boy #true crimes of passion #squalor motel #desperate women #kim christy #ned morehead

4 notes · View notes

sciencespies · 5 years

Text

The History of the StairMaster

https://sciencespies.com/history/the-history-of-the-stairmaster/

The History of the StairMaster

Like clockwork, every January Americans return to gyms and fitness studios across the country in rejuvenated numbers. Some are driven by a New Year’s resolution to get in shape; for others, it’s just another routine month in a culture that prizes physical fitness.

Among viral Peloton memes and ClassPass fundraising clamor, the StairMaster remains a quiet presence in most gyms. The machine, which features an infinite loop of stairs and demands a notoriously tough cardio workout, is as common as a treadmill or a stationary bike. But the StairMaster’s ubiquity belies a colorful history that skyrocketed it to fame during the 1980s.

The StairMaster was born during an oil crisis in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Jim Walker and George Schupp, a pair of entrepreneurs who owned a manufacturing company that primarily worked with clients in the energy industry, knew it was time to pivot their focus when oil prices peaked at $103.95 in 1980. The trouble was, they didn’t know where to go next. They were in the midst of exploring their options when, by chance, Walker bought a used car from a hobbyist inventor named Lanny Potts.

The trio forged a close relationship. Potts brought curiosity and creativity to their brainstorming sessions, while Walker and Schupp had the manufacturing know-how to puzzle out what it would take to bring a new product to market. As they explored the possibility of designing exercise equipment, Potts’ thoughts drifted back to his time in the Air Force—specifically, his memory of living in a walk-up apartment while stationed in Italy. The machine he proposed would replicate the taxing four-story climb, minus the joint-straining need to walk downstairs again.

By 1983, Potts, Walker and Schupp had founded a company called Tri-Tech and were ready to launch their first product. Originally dubbed the Ergometer 6000, the stepper was renamed the StairMaster 5000 by then-marketing director Ralph Cissne. The machine debuted at the National Sporting Goods Association (NSGA) trade show in Chicago, to attendees who worked in the country’s growing sporting goods industry. These potential buyers would have primarily worked in retail or wholesale—the first links in a long chain that would end in neighborhood gyms.

The following years brought new iterations. In March 1984, Tri-Tech released the StairMaster 6000—essentially the same design, but with the addition of a digital screen. Early advertisements for the StairMaster 6000, still bearing a “patent pending” disclaimer, emphasized the new machine’s digital benefits, such as readouts that showed the calories burned and audio tones that would ring when users climbed a virtual flight of stairs.

Lanny Potts’ “Stair Climbing Exercise Apparatus,” patented November 24, 1987

(U.S. Patent 4,708,338)

The company’s next chapter began with a patent application Potts filed in August 1986, describing a new machine called the StairMaster 4000 PT (short for Personal Trainer). This version replaced the machine’s escalator-like stairs (which made it, technically, a stepmill) for a pair of pedals that “simulate stair-climbing for a user.” Instead of climbing the rotating flight of stairs, StairMaster 4000 PT users could set the resistance level, then “climb” the pedals as if standing while pedaling a bike.

The StairMaster’s innovation lay in the stairs themselves: it was possible to adjust the height of the stairs individually. Instead of a one-size-fits-all approach, users could climb stairs spaced according to their height. The design even allowed users to safely set two different increments—a helpful feature for anyone whose stride isn’t perfectly even. Two days before Thanksgiving in 1987, the StairMaster 4000 PT’s patent was granted.

Tri-Tech’s decision to manufacture exercise equipment was far from random. In fact, Walker and Schupp’s decision to pivot to fitness was perfectly timed. Fitness “absolutely explode[d]” during the 1980s, according to Natalia Mehlman-Petrzela, a professor of history at the New School in New York City who is currently writing a book about the history of fitness culture. “Gym culture evolved from being a very strange subculture as late as the 1950s and even 1960s to being the ubiquitous cultural phenomenon that we see today,” says Mehlman-Petrzela. Though some people purchased StairMasters for personal use—particularly the 4000 PT, which was sleeker—the StairMaster’s rise to fame was inextricably intertwined with the boom in gyms and fitness clubs.

National survey data backs up Mehlman-Petrzela’s assessment. The same year the StairMaster 4000 PT received its patent, 69 percent of Americans self-reported regular exercise—up from just 24 percent in 1960. The International Health, Racquet & Sportsclub Association (IHRSA) began collecting consumer data in 1987, marking a new era for the fitness industry. Although the U.S. Census did not recognize the fitness industry until 1992, IHRSA data and contemporary reports suggest that approximately 17.3 million Americans belonged to gyms in 1987, compared to only 1.7 million in 1972.

Why the sudden spike in exercise? Historians say that gym-going was a response to a complex melange of cultural pressures. Mehlman-Petrzela cites several shifting cultural notions that gained purchase during the 1970s, one of the most important being widespread acceptance of the existence of a mind-body connection. This concept suggested that sweating on the StairMaster was not only physically rewarding, but mentally or emotionally enriching, too. According to Marc Stern, a history professor at Bentley University, fitness quickly became linked to corporate prestige and the aesthetics of beauty.

“In the 1980s, the gym gained a reputation of being a place to meet [people],” Stern says. Singles donned form-fitting Lycra, hoping to catch a potential date’s eye from across the room. An episode of Seinfeld that aired in 1993 reflects this commonplace voyeurism: “I usually last about ten minutes on a StairMaster,” Jerry Seinfeld says. “Unless, of course, there’s someone stretching in front of me in a leotard. Then I can go an hour.”

Oprah Winfrey stands next to a StairMaster during her talk show in Chicago on November 15, 1989.

(Mark Elias/AP)

The StairMaster had cameos in movies and picked up endorsements from celebrities. By 1990, Tom Cruise, Robert De Niro, Oprah and the entire cast of Three Men and a Baby had all publicly declared their love for the StairMaster. Later, athletes including the Knicks’ Patrick Ewing were known to incorporate the StairMaster into their training. “When you see the rich and famous exercising in a particular way or with a particular machine, that operates to make a product aspirational,” Mehlman-Petrzela says, “not necessarily just a program you do to lose weight or to get stronger.”

When the StairMaster was first introduced, Americans were experiencing declining health. As sedentary office jobs became more common, heart and lung disease spiked. Rates of cardiovascular disease rose steadily and peaked during the 1960s and 1970s. Meanwhile, health care was becoming more expensive; between 1973 and 1983, costs more than tripled. According to Mehlman-Petrzela, Americans of all political persuasions began to view fitness as a path toward seizing a sense of individual responsibility and empowerment.

The StairMaster entered the market as these forces reached their apex, and as gyms and fitness centers swept the nation. Though private gym memberships were pricey, it was still less expensive than assembling a home gym from scratch. A 1985 article published in the Washington Post described monthly fees ranging from $22 to $100, plus initiation fees that could cost as much as $650. Gyms and fitness clubs also granted access to high-end equipment, such as the StairMaster or weight circuit machines by Nautilus. By comparison, a single exercise machine could come with a price tag well into the thousands.

Back in the fall of 1983, Stern carefully weighed his decision to join an independently owned gym in East Setauket, New York, against his meager graduate student budget. The gym he ultimately joined had separate areas for cardio and weightlifting, booming disco music and a hot tub for mingling with fellow members. Trainers roamed the floor, monitoring exercisers and interjecting to provide guidance. Stern even tried the StairMaster a few times, then a new addition.

The experience was novel enough to spark Stern’s academic interest. He found himself contemplating the performances of strength playing out in gyms’ Panopticon-like mirrored rooms, musings that eventually became an academic paper. The StairMaster commanded attention, ensuring that users could see—and be seen. “The StairMaster is at the center of the gym,” Mehlman-Petrzela says. “It’s a bit of an exhibitionist kind of machine.”

By the late 1980s, StairMasters had become a fixture in gyms across the country. In a 1989 New York Times “Metropolitan Diary,” a subscriber named Cynthia Arnold described her obsession with the new machine. “It allows you to climb tall buildings while trudging in place, a supposedly efficient form of exercise that doubles the torture in half the time,” she wrote. The statement, which could easily be mistaken for criticism, was meant as glowing praise. “Stairmaster, I love you!” Arnold concluded.

Arnold’s experience encapsulates what drew users to the StairMaster in droves. The machine was originally designed to reduce the physical strain of a cardio workout; users’ joints are dealt roughly half the impact of running. Yet the StairMaster gained a reputation for being particularly grueling. “The Stairmaster in some ways really embodies that kind of Sisyphean task,” Mehlman-Petrzela says, calling it a “stairway to nowhere.”

Still, the StairMaster’s rise to fame wasn’t without stumbles. By the end of the 1980s, the StairMaster was competing in an increasingly crowded market, and legal jostling ensued. In 1991, Tri-Tech sued—and was sued by—Tru-Trac Therapy Product, a rival stairclimber manufacturer, over alleged patent infringement. Just a few months later, two more stairclimber manufacturers, Laguna Tectrix and Pro-Form Fitness Products, tangled in a similar legal fight. At the time, stairclimbing machines claimed an approximately $320 million slice of the fitness market, and everyone wanted to secure their piece.

Sales of the StairMaster eventually declined. In 2001, the company filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy and laid off employees in its Tulsa and Washington state locations. But that’s not the end of the StairMaster story.

“[T]he StairMaster name is ingrained in fitness-dom,” fitness and travel writer Therese Iknoian wrote at the time. “If the price is right, what company wouldn’t want to own that piece of history and the steppers—still popular home equipment—that goes with it?”

That company turned out to be Nautilus, Inc.—and business rebounded. By 2007, the StairMaster “hit sales volumes they haven’t reached in more than a decade,” according to a report published in Tulsa World. The company predicted that it would sell 7,000 StairMaster machines that year. “I don’t think it’ll slow down any time soon,” plant manager Rob Myers told a reporter.

youtube

In 2009, StairMaster was acquired by Michael Bruno, who was then operating Land America. That same year, Bruno created Core Health and Fitness, which today owns a collection of fitness brands including Schwinn, Nautilus, Star Trac and Throwdown. In 2012, the company unveiled a refreshed version of the TreadClimber, a treadmill-stepclimber hybrid originally sold by Nautilus, followed by a new version of the StairMaster (called the Gauntlet) in 2014.

In 2017, the National Fitness Trade Journal ran a cover story that repositioned the StairMaster as an effective way to deliver a trendy high intensity interval training (HIIT) workout. “With StairMaster HIIT, club owners can create a new revenue stream while tapping into a massive growing market,” the article suggested, promising that the StairMaster would leave members “hurting for more.” To sweeten the deal, StairMaster provided HIIT resources for trainers, suggesting ways to include its machines in larger HIIT programs.

Now, nearly four decades into its history, the StairMaster is facing new competition from smart mirrors and spin classes, barre and bootcamp. Despite all the fitness trends that may challenge its legacy, its staying power lies in its simplicity.

Its truly basic name says it all.

“[It] implies total mastery of something that should be normal,” Stern says. “You’re gonna climb some stairs.”

#History

0 notes

trendingnewsb · 7 years

Text

Harry Styles: Harry Styles review ticking every box on the Take Me Seriously checklist

This post-One Direction debut is a melange of musical homages that fails to reach the heights of Styles idols. But one thing it isnt is dull

Whatever else you may have made of them, you could never accuse One Direction of not following the script. Over the course of their career, they did everything boybands are supposed to do sell millions of records, tire of being objects of pre-pubescent desire, ride out tabloid scandal when blurry photos appear of one or more members smoking a joint, insist they will continue when a loose cannon member announces his departure, then split up a year later. Now, the bands former members find themselves doing the things former members of boybands always do: releasing pop R&B with arty inclinations, dabbling in dance music, or attempting to reinvent themselves as earnest acoustic singer-songwriters.

Harry Styles may have chosen the trickiest path of all. His debut album, Harry Styles, ticks every box on the Take Me Seriously checklist. Team of triple-tested songwriting help assembled, including platinum-plated hitmaker and former alt-rock artist? Tick: the credits include Uptown Funk co-author Jeff Bhasker and one-time indie singer-songwriter turned Florence + the Machine collaborator Tom Kid Harpoon Hull. Longest and ostensibly least commercial track released as debut single-cum-warning shot? Tick: the doleful six-minute-long ballad Sign of the Times. Songs that knowingly reference classic rock, including early-70s Elton John (Woman), the Beatles Blackbird (Sweet), U2 circa The Joshua Tree (Ever Since New York) and the Rolling Stones circa Sticky Fingers (Only Angel)? Tick. Slightly self-conscious stabs at sonic experimentation? Tick, not least a rhythm track punctuated by what sounds like one of those tin toys that moos like a cow when you turn it over being repeatedly inverted. Lyrics that attempt to address topics more grownup than dancing all night to the best song ever? Tick, up to and including the closing From the Dining Table, a bit of fingerpicked folk that opens with the diverting image of Harry Styles assuaging his loneliness by and in the forthright spirit of the song itself, let us not mince words having a wank.

In America at least, this series of manoeuvres already appears to have borne fruit. Styles is on the cover of Rolling Stone, the recipient of an extremely serious profile by Cameron Crowe, august music journalist, film director and, it would appear, stranger to the concept of Laying It On A Bit Thick: over the course of 6,000 words, he variously compares Styless voice to that of Rod Stewart in his prime, his backing band to the Help!-era Beatles, and the studio in Jamaica where much of the album was cut to Big Pink, the Woodstock house where Bob Dylan and the Band changed the course of rock music in 1967.

Without wishing to pooh-pooh the writer-director of Almost Famous and Jerry Maguires musical judgment, anyone who buys Harry Styless solo debut in the belief that its going to sound like a cross between Every Picture Tells a Story, Help! and The Basement Tapes may find themselves slightly disappointed. That in itself doesnt mean that its a bad album, merely that some people should calm down a bit in their efforts to convince the public that its all right to listen to music made by a one-time manufactured pop idol.

The debut largely avoids the biggest pitfall awaiting the boyband member keen to shed his old image, the belief that maturity is somehow signified by making music exclusively in shades of beige: only the dreary Two Ghosts sounds as if it was tailor-made to fit in between the factoids on Steve Wrights afternoon show. Styles is remarkably good as a confessional singer-songwriter, notwithstanding the sneaking feeling that spending his entire adult life as a member of a hugely successful boyband hasnt left him with a great deal to confess, beyond the fact that being trapped in hotel rooms is boring and having it off with an inexhaustible supply of attractive and occasionally famous ladies isnt quite as efficacious a cure for existential ennui as one might have hoped. Theres an affecting tenderness and emotional punch about the Nilsson-ish Sign of the Times and if you can get past the opening image of him, as he puts it, playing with myself From the Dining Table.

Not all the albums musical homages work: Styles is desperately ill-equipped for the rocknroll raunch of Only Angel and the glammy Kiwi. Alas, his voice sounds no more like Rod Stewart than it does Rod Hull, while the lyrics are a torrent of hoary pub-band cliches that suggest his heart isnt really in it: with a certain inevitability, the titular heroine of Only Angel turns out to be wait for it a devil in between the sheets. Others, however, are really enjoyable: Carolina sets a guitar part borrowed from Stealers Wheels Stuck in the Middle With You against a wall-eyed, Beck-like vocal and seasick strings; Woman, meanwhile, melds its Bennie and the Jets piano and Crocodile Rock backing vocals to a gauzy, echo-drenched, faintly psychedelic sound filled with retorts of fretless bass to brilliant effect.

You hear the latter sound again, stripped of its Elton references, on Meet Me in the Hallway, which may be the best thing here. For one thing, on an album that understandably finds him trying on a variety of musical costumes, with varying degrees of success, its the one that best suits his voice. For another, it doesnt sound obviously indebted to anything else. More of that next time and he might genuinely do what he clearly wants to do, and carve out a musical niche of his own in a post-One Direction world.