It’s An Orifice, Not A Theme

VCA Pictures, 1993, the first Martin Brimmer-penned feature

Interesting but not terribly groundbreaking article in today’s NYT by Matt Richtel titled Lights, Camera, Lots of Action, Forget the Script, focusing on the rise of plotless porn over the last few years. The lede:

The actress known as Savanna Samson once relished preparing for a role. “I couldn’t wait to get my next script,” she said.

There’s no reason to look at them anymore, she said, because her movies now call almost exclusively for action. Specifically, sex.

The pornographic movie industry has long had only a casual interest in plot and dialogue. But moviemakers are focusing even less on narrative arcs these days. Instead, they are filming more short scenes that can be easily uploaded to Web sites and sold in several-minute chunks.

“On the Internet, the average attention span is three to five minutes,” said Steven Hirsch, co-chairman of Vivid Entertainment. “We have to cater to that.”

Those who have been following my up-and-down career as a writer for the last twenty years are aware of the fact that I spent almost a decade toiling in the adult film industry as a three-time AVN-award winning screenwriter (under the pseudonym Martin Brimmer) and as a journalist and editor for countless magazines, including Hustler, X Biz World, and Adult Video News. It was a ghetto I was glad to get out of when I finally made the final break but it was disheartening to watch the business move away from plot-centric adult entertainment and more toward an emphasis on “theme-diven” X-rated entertainment. From Richtel’s brief feature:

In lieu of plot, there are themes. Among the new releases from New Sensations, a studio that makes 24 movies a month, is “Girls ’n Glasses,” made up of scenes of women having sex while wearing glasses.

“It’s almost like we’re back to the late ’70s or early ’80s when the average movie was eight minutes and just a sex scene,” Mr. Hirsch said, sounding wistful.

At the height of my screenwriting “career” in adult I was writing 50-55 page screenplays for Wicked Pictures, stories with a compact three-act structure and actual character development, films aimed at couples watching at home on the VCR or through the lucrative pay-per-view markets. By 2005, that market had all but collapsed as I essayed through episodes of my alter-ego-driven Trace Stories, such as Trash from December 5, 2005:

Norman began badgering his old friend, a technique that usually worked after Trace had his requisite temper tantrum.

“C’mon, Trace, it’ll take you all of fifteen minutes and you’ll earn a quick four hundred dollars.”

Trace took a deep breath and silently counted to five before answering.

“Do you know what they say about a sow’s ear and a silk purse?”

“I don’t want to turn it into a silk purse. I just want it to be better!”

“It can’t be better, Norman. The movie is garbage. The whole genre is garbage. Look, there’s a reason I was never associated with these kind of movies when I was writing porn.”

“Oh bullshit,” Norman shot back, “you wrote gonzo.”

“Okay. Fine. I did. But you can count on one hand how many I did. And they were very theme specific. This movie isn’t.”

“It’s anal!” Norman shouted over the line.

“That’s not a theme. It’s an orifice.”

After ten more minutes of debate, the lure of the quick payday compelled Trace to take the job.

An emphasis on young-as-you-can-em-as-long-as-they’re-legal talent didn’t help matters much either. Gone were the days when the industry was employing performers who actually had some thespian training and the directors and producers didn’t give much of a goddamn either. From Cellular (07-27-06):

“Listen to yourself, Norman. Listen to how jaded you’ve become.”

“I’m not jaded!” Norman insisted. He was speaking from his car phone somewhere in the Santa Clarita Valley.

“You’re trying to tell me that a 27-year old porn star is old enough to play a middle aged woman, someone’s aunt no less.”

“She is older,” Norman persisted. “Twenty-seven is old in this business now.”

“I’m not writing the role of Aunt Jesse for a twenty-seven year old, Norman. You’ve lost your mind.”

“Trace, just keep repeating to yourself: it’s only a porno, it’s only a porno, it’s only a porno. Now go smoke a bowl and write something, goddamnit.”

Any shred of legitimacy that the industry ever had as a form of alternative entertainment for mature adults is now scattered to the four winds because if the New York Times is now declaring that plot-centric porn is dead — around five years after the fact — then the final nail must’ve been driven into the coffin at last.