Word: deviled
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...Then there's the "devil's party" room, an apartment on the top floor of a 15th century manor house that emits strange sounds after midnight. According to legend, a mysterious man in a cape rented the apartment a few hundred years back; a neighbor who peaked around the door to find out what all the noise was about one night saw the devil himself. The single window in the room is now bricked up and the glazing painted with a fake curtain. According to a clerk at a nearby hotel, a Dutch diplomat who not long ago rented rooms...
...slop artist, and the inspiration is a movie about a woman with a clitoris in her throat. Such a one was Gerard Rocco Damiano, aka Jerry Gerard, who died this weekend in Fort Myers, Fla., at 80, from complications after a stroke. With Deep Throat and his second film, Devil in Miss Jones, Damiano launched the 1970s movie craze of porno chic...
...dream of being a respected film auteur, though still in hardcore. Most directors with a left-field mega-hit would instantly crank out another picture in the same genre. Not Damiano. He used his cash, and cachet, from his silly porno comedy to make a super-serioso drama: Devil in Miss Jones. And this time under his own name. Reading the script, Reems told his friend: "Gerry, it's a steal. This is No Exit in its thinnest disguise." To which Damiano replied: "Well, what do you expect? I wrote it in a weekend...
...eternity that she wants to live out her sexual urges, to be "filled, engulfed, consumed by lust." She briefly gets that wish - which includes intimate contact with bananas and grapes, a snake and (Damiano's favorite marital aid) a water tube. With plenty of boy/girl, girl/girl and orgy "action," Devil still takes itself solemnly enough to risk being laughable. But heaven knows it's intense, and an honorable attempt to blur the line between porn and "real" films. As for Spelvin, she isn't a slut; she is a theater-trained actress giving...
...cruel irony: in an age when straight talk and authenticity are all anybody wants from writers, Updike is cursed with the unfashionable gift of eloquence. His prose is so effortlessly fluid, it gets him tagged as a lightweight, a silver-tongued devil: all art, no matter. But who has written more intelligently or more ruthlessly about sex and the suburbs than Updike? At least from the admittedly oversubscribed male point of view? Reread Couples--I dare you. Forty years on, it'll still rock you back on your heels. How did people know about that stuff in 1963? They didn...