By Keegan Hamilton
By Albert Samaha
By Village Voice staff
By Tessa Stuart
By Albert Samaha
By Steve Weinstein
By Devon Maloney
By Tessa Stuart
Startsev was then introduced to Yekaterina, a girl of 18, who looked amazingly like her mother and was just as thin and good-looking. Her expression was still childish, her waist slender and delicate, and her already fully developed virginal bosom, healthy and beautiful, held promise of spring, real spring. A little later they had tea with jam, honey, sweets, and very delicious pastries which melted in your mouth. Anton Chekhov, "Ionych"
Spring chickens get chicken hawks sprungeven if that usually means popping a wishbone. In spoofing that obvious fact, the above "pastries" line never fails to make me giggle like a schoolgirl. Chekhov's a funny guyfunnier, anyhow, than Tolstoyand get this: He died of consumption. How early 20th century! Things were different then. People still savored sweetmeats and worried about tuberculosis, and worms went for early birds . . . well, perhaps things havent changed.
Early-century lad m'self, I also like 'em tender and unstuffed. I'm not guilty, but y'all got to feel me: Virginal bosoms should be milked for all they're worth. (But those of us with bated breath should not bitethat hurts!) This week, I examine a not-a-girl-not-quite-a-woman voyeur vid angled toward twentysomething indie rockers and the story of an innocence-stealing alien. Forget mouths: Both should melt in your hand.
But the tattooed barely-legals of The Young Idea v.1.0 (Supercult) sure do talk a lot. Chase, founder of the Net's original indie-rock porn site, Boston's supercult.comthink punky tattoos, dyed-black hair, glasses, and white-fashionable threadsissues an extended disclaimer on the DVD's apostrophe-shy insert: "The editing is budget, and the camera work is shaky at best. I was Keith Richards drunk when I shot most of this. . . . There are more glitches in this movie than there are in Richard Simmons genes . . . this movie is cursed." For these reasons, the now-clean Chase made only 1,000 copieseach comes with a button and unique Polaroidand he plans on putting out a drastically edited version, presumably better fit for those of us with Y chromosomes.
This edition of The Young Idea lavishes attention on three chicks you might see at a Dashboard Confessional showor, better yet, on Supercult's website. Setting the vibe, the first lady up, Mary Ann, lounges on a couch, leisurely relating her first S.C. shoot and taking pulls off of a weed-packed pipe. As she babbles ("We broughtwhat do you call those water flippies? Water wings! And baby oil . . . "), we see stills of said poolside shoot. We're told Chase flipped veggie burgers on a Hibachi and "pitched a tent" at the photo session. I didn't pitch a tent until the following segment, showing the lush Mary Ann in action. Hitting the street, she awkwardly roller-skates in cut-off denim daisy-dukes so short the pockets show beneath the fringe, stopping to spread her legs, drop her bulging halter top, and go pant(y)less mere yards from a crowded basketball court. Later, wearing a white skirt, white knee socks, and a red top, she more gracefully rides an old bike while sucking on a lollipop. But can she walk and chew gum at the same time?
Or suck dick while getting ridden herself? Sadly, we never find out. For this, I was actually relieved, as I was visiting a friend while researching this column, and the friend's inquisitive boho mother asked to check out a vid with me. She enjoyed the very, very long pillow fight interludewhich features shy boys getting stripped out of tight Diesel jeans and Morrissey T-shirts by 'cult gals in undies, as feathers flybut I preferred a scene in which the slender and delicate Isabelle tries on different clothes from her closet, wriggling in and out of all manner of unbearably cute close-fitting outfits, zipping up tall black-leather boots, and eventually shedding her sheer white bra-and-panty set. (Isabelle, if you're reading this, I extend an open invitation to take you shopping, as long as you'll model whatever you pick out.)
There are very, very long (but imaginative) shorts strewn throughout the flick: "Spooked," in which Chase and others confront their fear of spiders in a dark basement, a silent-movie spoof in which Isabelle plays a lost student haunted by a mansion's masturbating female ghosts, etc. These cannot compare to Isabelle's simple physical radiance, best captured by her coy glances at the camera as she reclines on a bed, listening to a presumably drunken Chase monologue; her undulating waist as she swings a hula hoop naked; and the bounce of her pert breasts as she pogos, wearing a shirt but no bra, in slow motion. (Natashas third of the movie was . . . yawn . . . good, too.) Did you ever think youd see cool tattoos in porn?
Tats, no, but tits, yesand has Flick Shagwell got a pair! In marked contrast to The Young Idea, in which the actresses seem motivated by indie celebrity (a source tells me they don't make very much money), The Visitor (Elegant Angel) boils porn convention down to its essence. There is, remarkably, a plot but no dialogue. The also thin and delicate but definitely not virginal Shagwell sits in a convertible with a guy, fending off his advances. A bright light appears in the sky, from which a disembodied, almond-eyed alien head appears and transforms, in a spiffy bit of editing, into Shaggy's. Suddenly, she's making the advances. After the man shoots onto her crotch, she makes him disappear in a flash of green light. She then wanders the streets wearing only a skirt, searching for more victims to turn horny and then (presumably) transport to the mutha ship: a moderately dirty girl and guy; a dirtier female couple; two filthy face-fucking dudes and a phlegm-retching lady; and, finally, another couple that Shagwell joins for cum-swapping. (I won't give away the ending, because I didn't get it!)
Spermy kisses and penis-induced puking: Whatever happened to pastries?
Elegant Angel, 9801 Variel Street, Chatsworth, CA 91311, www.elegantangel.com Supercult, 4326 Camero Avenue, Los Angeles, CA, 90027, www.supercult.com