The great thing about Jon Hart and Matthew Kaufman's documentary American Swing, about the New York "swingers' club" Plato's Retreat and its owner and public face, Larry Levenson, is that it puts a warm, human face on a time and a subculture that, seen from today's not-so-distant perspective, could easily be treated as a visit to the Bizarro World. The time is the late 1970s and pre-AIDS 1980s, when the values of the counterculture and the sexual revolution that began in the 1960s had trickled down to more conservative and apolitical members of the middle class--people who saw themselves as basically stable members of traditional society but who saw other people casting off such societal constraints as pre-marital abstinence and post-marital monogamy and felt that they'd been missing out. They wanted a little hedonism in their lives. Originally located on Manhattan's Upper West Side, in the basement of the Ansonia Hotel--the same location that had previously housed the Continental Baths, the gay bathhouse that achieved its measure of immortality when it was decreed that every article ever written about Bette Midler would mention that she got her start there--the members-only club had a sauna, a jacuzzi, a swimming pool, a buffet, and a dance floor with a live DJ. Because it was conceived as a "straight" equivalent to the bathhouses and other places in the city where gay men were hooking up, its policy prohibited sex between men, though women were cordially invited to go nuts.

What makes this scene seem liberating, in the movie's telling, is how friendly it all was, and how nonjudgemental everyone seems to have been in their attitudes towards their fellow swingers. Plato's, one witness says, revived the concept of the orgy and made it a reality for "the man on the street."

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NEW YORK: A dependable highlight of the Museum of Modern Art's film programming, "To Save and Project: The Sixth MoMA International Festival of Film Preservation" (October 24–November 16) opens with Melvin Van Peebles's 1971 Sweet Sweetback's Baadasssss Song. Other seldom-seen, painstakingly restored and preserved items on the menu include Marco Ferreri's scandalous Dillinger Is Dead (1969); Ernst Lubitsch's 1025 version of Lady Windermere's Fan; the 1934 James Cagney-Bette Davis vehicle Jimmy the Gent; D. W. Griffith's Hearts of the World; Anthony Mann's Korean War classic Men in War, and the 1947 musical That Man of Mine, "featuring a young Ruby Dee, who will appear after the screening in a discussion with historian Pearl Bowser." All in all, "baadasssss" is putting it mildly.

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LIVING IN OBLIVION (1995)



Despite one of the cheesiest posters in cinema history (which, come to think of it, may itself be some kind of meta parody of the habitual cheesiness of zero-budget indiewood marketing campaigns), writer/director Tom DiCillo’s Living in Oblivion more than earns its place on this list through its flawless depiction of the cast and crew of every single dentist-financed independent film of the ‘90s, from the taciturn sound guy in the hipster glasses (“Speeeed”) and the creepy, addled production assistant to the catty make-up girl and, yes, the ubiquitous dream sequence dwarf (played with simmering, hilarious contempt by Peter Dinklage in a breakthrough performance). The project, allegedly inspired by DiCillo’s enervating experience directing Brad Pitt in the indie misfire Johnny Suede, is a hilarious cautionary tale starring Steve Buscemi as a harried director afraid to admit his passion project might just be a colossal waste of time and money, James Le Gros as an insanely arrogant would-be movie star and Catherine Keener as an insecure actress whose slow disintegration over the course of multiple takes of an emotional scene is like a graduate course in on-camera acting.

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SWEET SWEETBACK'S BAADASSSSS SONG (1971) & BAADASSSSS! (2003)



In 1971, director Melvin Van Peebles, sick of Hollywood’s portrayal of African Americans, risked everything to present his own version of the black experience where, according to his own manifesto for the project, “niggers could walk out standing tall instead of avoiding each other's eyes.” For White America, the most shocking aspect of Van Peebles’ film was the fact that its hero, falsely-accused murder suspect Sweetback (played by the director himself) not only escapes “The Man,” but also takes out a few white cops along the way and, in the final credits, offers the warning: “Watch out - a baad assss nigger is coming to collect some dues." Unlike the “can’t we all just get along” sentiment of the Civil Rights Movement, Van Peebles’ film dared to publicly acknowledge the black community’s righteous indignation after 300 years of mistreatment at the hands of Caucasians (a still-shocking sentiment, as evidenced by the media’s recent saturation bombing of Rev. Jeremiah Wright’s “God damn America!” soundbite), influencing everything from the blaxploitation genre that followed directly on the heels of Sweetback’s box office success to the politicized rap of N.W.A. and Public Enemy and Mookie’s controversial decision to hurl a garbage can through the window of Sal’s Pizzeria in Spike Lee’s iconic Do The Right Thing (1989). But (as the director’s son and Sweetback co-star, Mario, dramatized in his own 2003 biopic, BAADASSSSS!), Van Peebles was more a social crusader than a wild-eyed militant, providing opportunity and experience to minorities both in front of and behind the camera...plus, he gave Earth, Wind & Fire their first big break, which all by itself helped to make America (and the world) a slightly better place to be.

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Melvin Van Peebles has been well-established as a maverick independent filmmaker and provocateur since at least 1971's Sweet Sweetback's Badassss Song. His new film, Confessions of an Ex-Doofus-Itchy-Footed Mutha, confirms that he's also still got a way with titles. He also still has an admirable willingness to make a public jackass of himself and an impressive ability to coax other people into coming along for the ride. Aside from that, though, there isn't a lot else to say about this smeared-looking video fantasy, spun off from one of his old stage shows, Waltz of the Stork. There might have been a few things that should have been said to Van Peebles before he made it, but I don't know who would have been deputized to say them. When the man's own son, Mario, has signed off for a cameo appearance as a pirate, it's hard to say who might have been best qualified to stage an intervention.

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