Sin, Flicks, and Tech

M.I.T. is very secretive about its prurient interest. The entire campus, at least on the side away from the river, is based on deception. Going up Mass. Ave. all you can see on your left is a gigantic building in Chicago Roman, looking like something left over from the 1893 Columbian Exposition. But this is a front. Behind the building are acres of sleek, naked towers in Brasilia modern, cleverly obscured from the street, and dirty movies.

A week or so ago I went among the sleek, naked towers to see some Kenneth Anger films. Anger is best known for Fireworks, a gay dream film featuring him projecting a roman candle from his fly and lighting it. Scorpio Rising (1963), a later work, is a slightly premature pop culture lick featuring motorcycles, an overripe rock soundtrack, and genitals. The genitals are only there for a couple of frames. But the audience at M.I.T. was very fond of them. Especially a group of aging motorcyclists sitting next to me.

They were all dressed up to see the dirty movies. Their leather clothes, like their paunches, were old but dignified. They had apparently seen the Wild One, and liked it. Even if Brando's hair was thinning they were loyally going to grow old with him. The leather pulls on their zippers were frayed, or, as in the case of the oldest, a nervous gentleman who had to be helped to his seat, they were entirely chewed away.

The genitals made this group's day. They nervously sat through Eaux d' Artifice, a film disappointingly about fountains. The old gentleman, who apparently had seen Scorpio Rising before, attempted to quiet the group's unrest. "Never you mind," he told his followers, squinting down a neighboring dress with his one good eye, "They'll be on that screen (snicker) in the Lord's good time." The religious reference disturbed a young rebel next to him, who sank back in his seat combing his 1956 ducktail, and angrily staring at the more Modish haircuts of the collegians.

Scorpio's orgy scene finally sprang on the silver screen. The old man jumped up and down in his seat, "They're a-coming, they're a-coming," he wheezed. The genitals shot was in ten seconds. He was up on his feet, treacherously supporting the spindly legs bowed by years of riding. Tears came to his eyes. His Polident began to loosen. His friends frantically pulled the zippers on their storm cuffs back and forth until. . . .

The old man missed the shot. But his friends had seen it. They snickered, applauded. The old man slumped to the seat, content. Like Moses, he had been denied the vision, but had led the people. But he felt the need for some sort of monument, something to remember the experience by. He turned to his followers and murmured, with a cracked voice, "You know, the Genitals would be a great name for a rock 'n' roll group. His eyes closed, and life left him.