by Paul Heald
When the receptionist left the room for a moment, Don spoke in a low voice. “I’ll be interested to see what you think of Brian. We’re not exactly friends, but if you want an accurate picture of the industry, you need to meet people like him.”
The blonde returned and pointed them down a short hall before returning to her desk. Don led them to the office and they entered without knocking.
Brian Mulkahey was a red-faced and balding man, with wire-rimmed glasses and piercing green eyes. He pulled up two chairs and then sat down facing his guests on top of a highly polished wooden desk. The shelves behind him were filled with an enormous collection of stuffed animals. Don introduced his companion, and the three men talked for several minutes about the Lakers’ chances of advancing in the NBA playoffs.
“So, Professor, you want to write an academic book on adult films.” Mulkahey spoke in a blunted New Jersey accent and gestured to his fellow producer. “What sort of bullshit has this guy been feeding you so far? Has he explained that we’re not all saints come down to do God’s work among the bimbos?” He looked over to see if he got a rise from his rival, but Don remained serene.
Stanley thanked him for his cooperation and was rewarded with a short and mildly obscene lecture on the proper ingredients of adult filmmaking: “Take one part well-hung stud and add one part super-vixen, mix thoroughly and yell action.”
The sociologist was surprised. Most bosses took their work more seriously, even when it wasn’t glamorous.
“Surely,” the Eden director interjected with a laconic smile, “there’s more to it than that.”
“Yeah,” Mulkahey growled in return, “there’s all the interesting things that the girls do with each other.” He jerked his thumb at a provocative poster of three Asian women outfitted in bondage gear. “Professor, this business is all about creating heat. That’s our job: to create heat for our customers. What you’re going to learn about the girls themselves, I have no idea.” He shrugged his shoulders and turned up his palms. “I honestly don’t.”
Mulkahey let his glasses slide down his nose and rested the heels of his hands on the edge of the desk. “All they ever tell me is that they’re in it for the money, but that don’t explain why one pretty girl chooses to make money being a nurse and another chooses to do anal on film.”
“I know you have some theories,” Don replied. “We’ve talked about this before.”
“He’s the guy who likes to theorize,” Mulkahey tilted his head at his competitor but spoke to Stanley, “but you’ve probably figured that out already. My pious colleague here thinks that the girls are looking for love and acceptance.” He motioned to the stuffed animals behind him. “I’ll admit there’s an odd kind of family feel to this business. You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve handed a pooch down to one of my girls or some pathetic wannabe, but the story is about security, not love. A lot of the people in the business come from really fucked up backgrounds. They haven’t all been molested; that’s a myth. But most of them have been through hell of one sort or another. They come here, and they meet people that accept them for who they are and protect them. There’s sort of a circle-the-wagon mentality, and once you’re in the circle, you feel safer.”
“Having anal sex on camera?” Stanley could not help but counter. “That doesn’t sound horribly safe.” He had not pushed Don hard enough earlier, but there was no reason to let Mulkahey snow him with his tissue-thin arguments. The producer responded with an indulgent smile and a questioning rise of his eyebrows.
“Tell me, Professor, would you let someone bend you over if you didn’t trust them?”
“Uh . . . well . . . um.”
“Well, you wouldn’t. And neither would most people.” Stanley looked over at Don and saw with surprise that he was nodding his agreement. “Some are willing to do it; some aren’t. We don’t force anybody. And that’s one thing you need to understand: nobody’s got a gun to their head when they go on camera. That’s another myth you can bust. Sure, some of these folks need money real bad, and some of them have pretty fucked up lives, but they know what they’re doing.”
Stanley grinned. “You don’t mind doing a little theorizing yourself, do you?”
“Yeah, well, ya gotta be a fuckin’ philosopher to work in this business.” He laughed and stood up. “Professor, I don’t know if you’re gonna learn anything other than people are all fucked up, but if you do, lemme know.” He led them out of his office into the foyer and seemed ready to send them on their way when he held up his hand and asked the receptionist what was currently being filmed.
“Let’s see,” she looked at her desktop calendar, “you’ve got Tart Wars II: Revenge of the Stiff going on in Lot Two.”
Mulkahey clapped his hands together in delight and asked his guests if they wanted to spend any time on the set. Stanley looked at Johansson with alarm and was surprised when his guide encouraged him to accept the invitation. Eden Studio sets were always closed, so the head of Boudoir was presenting him with a unique opportunity to assess working conditions in the industry he was studying. The professor nodded his head and Mulkahey shook his hand, gave instructions to the receptionist, and headed back to his office.
The blonde led them across the parking lot to a gray steel building accessible only through a key-coded door. The space inside had no permanent walls, only movable dividers, and was open from its concrete floor to the girders under the roof. In a far corner, a klieg light played on two women and one man, each of whom was brightly painted to resemble some kind of colorful alien. Their guide pointed them in the direction of the set and then left them to their own devices. Don put a finger to his lips as they approached the action.
“Cut!” an overweight man in a baseball cap yelled before they took more than a couple of steps. “Let’s get Scott and Kayla on the middle of the sofa with Alexis sitting on the arm.” Several people sprang into action around the set, moving boom mikes and reflective umbrellas. The sole male actor stood up and stroked himself unselfconsciously in a successful effort to maintain a massive erection.
Stanley stood dumbfounded and then felt his former fraternity brother put a hand on his back and push him closer to the set. The whole scene was unreal. Oddly, it was not sexy at all. Bored technicians in blue jeans and t-shirts dampened the erotic atmosphere, and the actors were too nonchalant in their nakedness to convey the sense that any forbidden fruit was really on offer. The scene was shocking nonetheless. Convention and cultural norms were unhinged but no one seemed to notice, and Stanley felt like a voyeur, not of intimacy, but of its polar opposite. Maybe medical students seeing their first autopsy felt like this.
“I didn’t know that Michael Moore directed porn.” Stanley whispered in his Johansson’s ear and nodded at the chubby director in the Dodger’s cap.
“That’s John Olson. He’s directed hundreds of videos.” Don thought for a moment. “Maybe thousands.” They walked to the edge of the set, just behind the cameraman. Don waved at Olson and got a nod of approval in return.
“Alright,” the director said, his thin, high voice barely audible in the barn-like building, “I want Scott sitting down, with Kayla kneeling between his legs.” Once the actor was settled, Kayla got right to work, jerking his member with her right hand like she was shaking a bottle of salad dressing. “Alexis? Let’s see you do your finger routine. Sort of hover above ‘em and then get off when Scott does his thing.”
“He’s so predictable,” Don whispered in Stanley’s ear.
Stanley could not help but stare. Kayla was a surprisingly small-breasted brunette whose enthusiasm seemed authentic. She stared intently in Scott’s eyes and gave him a pleading look while she worked her mouth. A middle-aged man with a thinning pony tail brought his camera to within inches of her ministrations. Meanwhile, Alexis, an older and bustier blonde, was perched nearby, groaning like an earth-shattering orgasm was imminent.
“How does she do that?” Stanley looked over at Don with alarm. “Those fingernai
ls must be three inches long! How does she not cut her colon to ribbons?”
The producer shook his head. “I don’t know, but it’s been her signature move for a long time now. She’s almost thirty, I think.”
After several minutes of relentless effort by Kayla, Scott arched his back and moaned. Alexis screamed in blissful agony and slumped down next to him on the sofa. Staying in character, Kayla leaned over and initiated a messy three-way kiss with her two partners. The director yelled cut and Kayla immediately stood up.
“Goddamn it,” she chided Scott, “could you possibly keep that shit out of my eyes?” She made a face and wiped off with a t-shirt discarded on the sofa.
He grunted in response and tried to get up, but his sweaty back stuck to the stained leather sofa. He rolled to his right with a sound like scotch tape being ripped off a balloon, grabbed a towel from the man working the lights, and stalked off the set.
“Thanks, John!” Don waved at the director and then led Stanley away from the set. As soon as they were out earshot, he asked the professor what he thought about the scene.
“I don’t know,” he replied honestly, “how the hell can they concentrate with the camera right in their faces?”
He shrugged. “Say what you will, but you can’t deny these people are professionals.”
Stanley nodded his agreement, but in reality he did not know what to think. He felt unsettled, but no one else seemed disturbed by what they had witnessed. He remembered a similar feeling when he had seen a pest control specialist shoot a family of squirrels in an attic nest and when he had seen a lumberjack cut down an old-growth redwood tree. It was all in a day’s work for the people he was studying, but outsiders did not have time to develop any protective armor. He had nothing to say until they emerged into the sunlight.
Stanley sat in the car, grateful that the top was down as they cruised along a busy boulevard. The fresh breeze in his face was a welcome contrast to the sweaty scene he had just witnessed. Johansson stopped by Chimera Productions briefly, but Milton Barkley, its owner, was not in. On the way to Janus Studios, the Eden director explained how he had put a significant dent in the profits of all three of his rivals by attracting the best talent in the business to work exclusively for him.
Eden was one of the first studios to sign women to long-term contracts. The most popular actresses were entitled, “The Women of Eden,” and they received special perks and publicity. Johansson was consciously borrowing a page out of the old Hollywood studio employment system. Eden paid them a regular salary, with medical and dental benefits, along with the possibility of getting a small percentage of profits for a starring role in a film. He emphasized that some were eventually given the opportunity to direct. The future of porn, he claimed, was the middle-class couples market, and only women directors would be likely to shoot movies that worked for dubious wives.
He made another left and slowed down as the roadway became congested. “Boudoir is still operating in the stone age. Brian does a video that takes about forty-eight hours to shoot, and the actors get paid in cash at the end of the day. He treats his people as well as anyone, and some really are fond of him, but I’m operating under a totally different business model. I’m getting all the best talent, and I’m making better pictures with bigger budgets. We dominate the major adult cable channels. We’ve even been talking to iTunes about adding a small, ‘classy’ porn section to its online store.”
“So, Brian hasn’t adapted? You’re putting pressure on him and he doesn’t like it?”
“Exactly,” he replied. “He still sees porn as an outlaw art form and himself as a cross between Ken Kesey and Larry Flynt. Kinda quaint, really. Fuck Hollywood! Fuck the Establishment! For him, mainstreaming porn is anathema. It’s a contradiction in terms.”
Don drove several blocks to a building that looked like it might have been a bowling alley at one time. “Here’s where I got my start,” he explained as they got out of the car. A small sign on the door identified Janus Studios and Don entered without knocking. “Hi, Christie,” he said to a short redhead stuffing DVD’s into glossy boxes. “Is Herb around?”
“Donny!” The receptionist exclaimed with genuine warmth as she tottered over on five inch heels and gave her former boss a big hug, letting her breasts linger against his chest as she spoke. Her boss was in the storage room going over inventory and she offered to lead them there.
She walked in front of the two visitors and looked over her shoulder as if to make sure they had noticed how the swish of her miniskirt flashed the bottom edge of her red bikini panties. She pushed open a gray metal door at the end of a long hallway and ushered them into a room several degrees cooler than the rest of the building. At least a dozen large bookshelves held thousands of boxed titles, each bearing the embossed visage of the two-headed god, Janus.
“Donny’s here!” Christie yelled and then turned to her former boss. “Who’s your cute friend?”
“Stanley, meet Christie.” The professor clasped her small, moist hand and smiled. Making eye contact with her produced an alarming sensation throughout his body that refused to subside even when he was no longer touching her.
Before he could respond, Herb Matteson, a rangy fellow in his mid-thirties with an acne-scarred face framed by a head of curly black hair appeared, extended his hand to Stanley and introduced himself. “Don probably told you that we used to be partners here.” He pulled down a DVD and pointed at the Janus trademark on the side. “This was one of Don’s good ideas. Two men running the company, represented by a two-faced god. I came up with the motto though.” He pointed at the fine print underneath the faces of Janus: Janus Productions. Where you get twice as much head.
“Nice.” Stanley stammered and added nothing more. Matteson sent Christie back to reception and led them to a cramped windowless room with a small desk, a leather captain’s chair and a sofa pushed underneath several rows of book shelves. The walls were lined with posters and several framed Adult Film Critics Circle awards. Stanley examined the closest one and Matteson went on a tirade about the pretense of using professional film critics from men’s magazines to decide on the winners.
“We need awards based on which movies are best at raising the blood pressure of the average horny bastard off the street.” Matteson sat down in the swivel chair while his guests took the sofa. “That would be the best test for the product, not the votes of Roger Ebert wannabes.”
Stanly found it hard to imagine the brash owner of Janus Studios ever working together with the thoughtful former seminarian and asked Johansson whether he agreed with his former partner’s sole criterion for merit.
“To a large extent, our ultimate goal is ‘creating heat for our customers’ as Brian put it earlier, but I don’t think that means you have to neglect the traditional aesthetic and technical elements of good filmmaking. Get-off-ability and aesthetics aren’t mutually exclusive.” Matteson rolled his eyes. “In fact, I think that we influence what our viewers want. Eden Studio is attracting them to a new sort of product and away from one that’s running out of gas.”
“That’s such horseshit!” His former partner snorted. “You cannot change people’s fetishes. Sexual tastes get set early, and they’re not adjustable. Try all you want to turn a leg man into a tit man, but you’re just wasting your time.” He picked up a handful of DVDs from his desk and flashed them at Stanley. “The key is tapping into what people already want to see. I’ve got about a dozen different series currently in production. You see what I mean? Lesbian Sorority Girls 4, My Best Friend’s Mom 2, Juggies 15 and 16, Booty-Shaking Beauties 7 . . . we even mix things up. Asian Bondage 3 and, here you go, Biker Redheads.” He set the DVD’s down. “We’ve got a simple philosophy here: Give the people what they want.”
Stanley nodded and with difficulty forced his eyes away from a leather-clad redhead bending over a new Harley Davidson. He wondered aloud whether any porn director had ever done a formal survey of the market. In an economic sense, pornography wa
s pretty boring. Consumers had certain tastes and it was no surprise that a market had arisen to satisfy them. But studying the players in that market was his domain as a sociologist and what he had seen so far was anything but boring. Nonetheless, the economist had a tool he lacked, a metric for evaluation. A market was efficient or inefficient and nothing in his own academic tool kit had prepared him to pass judgment. That’s okay he thought, anticipating his wife’s arrival the next day. Angela will take care of that.
“If you think about it, every film we make and distribute is a survey of the market.” Matteson spun his chair around and reshelved the videos. He clearly enjoyed the business side of the business. “If it sells well, then we know we’ve struck a chord. If a concept doesn’t sell, then we junk it. I like to think that we know more about male sexuality than most psychologists.”
“Pay attention, Stan” Johansson interjected. “After Chimera and Eden, Janus Studios is the third highest grossing firm in the business.”
“So Donnie, why don’t we join forces again?”
“Because I’d like to stay friends!” Johansson looked at his watch and shot Stanley a glance that told him they needed to leave. “Besides, I think we’re both doing quite well on our own.”
“That’s not what I hear,” replied Matteson. Stanley watched Johansson’s face as he got up to leave but saw no response to the provocation. The head of Janus told the professor that Christie would be happy to take care of any scheduling difficulties and referred all further questions to her. He suggested that she herself would be a good person to interview, since she had quit acting just two years earlier.
Traffic was heavy on the way back to Eden, so Johansson put the top up on the BMW and let the air conditioning save them from the ambient exhaust. He drove without speaking for a couple of blocks, preoccupied by his own thoughts. He finally reached over and found the local public radio station. They listened for a while but when the announcement of the annual fund drive began, Stanley asked his guide why he no longer worked with Matteson.