The camera pans between a bronzed, blond hustler, statuesque on the sand, and an ageing queen talking on the verandah of a beach house in Fire Island. The queen provides most of the soundtrack: part monologue, part conversation in best New York camp style, witty, vicious, outrageous, etc. Dramatic interest of sorts is provided by the arrival of a female neighbour intent on seducing the hustler, and shortly after of the Sugar Plum Fairy, another hustler, also with a lustful eye on the beach. The three have a bet as to which one will succeed; and the second half is filmed with a static camera in the bathroom while they wash and shave. At the end, after they've all tried to pull him, offering variations on the wealth/possessions theme, we never get to know who wins out. But that's unimportant: the myth of the ending is a literary hangover.
You need a slew of patience to go through this film. I wonder of the director even knew what he wanted to make. It feels, he was capturing what he felt was a more heightened reality. But there’s no beating around the bush that the film is amateurish, badly acted. I mean how long can you keep staring at the gorgeous bronze body of an almost naked man on beach, with constant commentary between three men on who can have him first. The premise could have been interesting but the direction is bad. There is just chatter over chatter without any action at all. Barring the hardcore Andy Warhol fans, I cannot imagine how or why anyone would actually like this film. The film is very voyeuristic in nature where all that audience does is gaze on naked body and have their imaginations run wild. The only reason this film probably would go down in memory lanes of queer history films is probably because it must hav been one o the first times where it was a male almost naked body that was made object of desire rather than female (sure the audience was also gay). (1/10)
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