Jackson (laughing): Tattoos are cool. But it takes a little more than that to turn me on.
Derek: Really? “Turn me on?” See I’m talking about love.
Jackson: Hey. I’m just a guy.
Derek: Hey, I’m just a guy too.
They kiss.
The above exchange summarizes the key strength of Luster, Everett Lewis’ dry, not altogether unsuccessful comedy on queer attraction. The title is a double-entendre’ for one caught up in the pitch of desire and the gleam of their beloved. It is a wry parable on the dangers of “love at first sight.” All the key characters are love victims, including our hero, Jackson, whose jolts of romantic epiphany are not reciprocated. Not for nothing is the music store milieu (ground zero for Luster) called “No Life.” Practically everyone is tortured by infatuation or poised for their one great, dangerous, ecstatic love to appear on the horizon.
Luster doesn’t always work, but the moments when it does are splendid. Like L.I.E. and Spun, Luster adopts the affectless, dispassionate sort of non-acting that tries to compensate for inertia by reaching new depths of authenticity. That kind of vacuum creates tension when the content is truly sinister, but I think the characters in Luster are less nihilistic than simply disappointed. Sometimes the low-key acting has the right feel to it, the tempo seems appropriate. Other times it feels uneven or unbelievable. Maybe it’s easier to play detached than nearly detached.
And flawed though it may be, Luster is an impressive film. Jackson, Sam, Alyssa, Jed and Derek are all on the level, what happens to them is moving because we can identify, or at least respect them. The one villain, Sonny Spike, is almost always shot in dark blue silhouette. He concedes he is gay but refuses to come out because it will effect his profits as a musician. Even Billy with his open pleasure in being battered, is achingly ingenuous. He is completely comfortable with who he is, and makes no apologies.
This, I think, is what makes Luster a formidable film. A force to be reckoned with. It is enjoyable (though not as funny as I might have hoped) but more than that, it does not make concessions to a heterosexual audience. It doesn’t play to them. It makes no apologies for its’ queer hero, Jackson, or any of its queer characters. Even Sam, who is straight-identified, wants Jackson, and Luster never makes this seem implausible. Maybe because Lewis has written characters whose salient aspect is not their orientation. He doesn’t try to pass them off as straight, they’re not macho jokes and they’re not nelly clowns. More than Will and Grace, more than Queer Eye, Luster says, we’re just guys who like dick. There’s plenty of visual information to reinforce the practice of avid, raucous, same-gender sex. Lewis doesn’t cut away from scrumptious nude men or their genitals because he’s afraid straight men in the audience will be uncomfortable or Luster might get dismissed as porn.
The scene I led with could arguably qualify as a great moment in Queer Cinematic History. A couple of guys, a sexy blue-haired punk and a handsome yuppie discuss the nature of attraction. Then they kiss. Just a couple of blokes who want to kiss and do so. No ugly, self-loathing anxiety or homophobic terror. No buried undisclosed sexual tension. Just two guys kissing. And it’s because Luster doesn’t blink, doesn’t smack its’ chops, or try to be diplomatic, because it doesn’t treat this as outre’ that it’s such a revelation. There are numerous moments like this, where sharpness and accuracy in the acting and writing trump content. Where treatment redeems plot.
Justin Herwick, who plays Jackson, the protagonist of Luster, is well suited to the role. Jackson falls in love 20 times a day. He’s self-absorbed, alienated, raw, dissolute, and a talented poet. He’s disillusioned with the empty values of the bourgeois and their vapid tastes and finds his only satisfaction in rebellion and passion. Booze, boys and brawling. Filmmakers have been trying to depict the lives of poets with varying degrees of success for awhile now. We hear Jackson composing poetry in his head and though they use Dennis Cooper’s words and are smart enough to make a distinction between lyrics and poetry, it’s a mistake.
Jackson is a latter day Rimbaud and Herwick has the vibe down, the comportment and the ‘tude, without the skateboarding segues and an awful scene that comes early on. We understand why Jackson despises the shallow customer and everything he stands for, but the scene feels fabricated and utterly bogus. In addition to Herwick, standout performances in an impressive ensemble include, Shane Powers, B. Wyatt, Sean Thibodeau and Pamela Gidley.