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"Nestled deep within the erogenous zone," a most elegant and amusing marital farce, Albee with lubricant in place of acid. The score of lusty conquests has a name (Operation Music Box), just a divertissement for the prowling pianist (Claire Wilbur) and her fashion-photographer husband (Gerald Grant). Their latest targets are barely out of their honeymoon, the convent-bred waif (Lynn Lowry) and the milk-sipping ecologist (Casey Donovan) who come over for drinks and weed and a trunk full of kinky costumes. The joke is that the younger "innocents" are the star of Boys in the Sand and a future leading lady of Romero and Cronenberg, more than game for sailor hats, nun habits, cowboy ropes and peek-a-boo knickers. "Why don't I just wear nothing?" "That would be vulgar." The drôle de ménage is thus set, plus a dash of afternoon delight with the phone repairman (Carl Parker) who arrives early, erect hammer in belt—the luxurious lioness in the purple robe helps herself to him, her timid gal-pal can only take a snapshot. Mirrors, poppers and psychedelic lanterns abound in this Radley Metzger fairytale, lambent and touching in its guiltless presentation of polyamorous desire: "First you don't know... Then you can't tell... Then you don't care." The lacy bra on the marble bust (Melville's Les Enfants Terribles), a fleshy new canvas for the projector from The Licorice Quartet. Parallel trysts at midnight have girls upstairs and boys downstairs, Metzger's marvelous sense of rhythm takes a prismatic view of the sleepover. "Hell of a lot of work for a little powder puff!" Perfect felicity attained by morning, not a punitive hangover but a euphoric pirouette of swingers and squares, foxes and porcupines.
--- Fernando F. Croce |