I saw Private Property for the first time last night, and came away thinking, ‘these are the most believably complex, twisted, adult screen characters I’ve seen in a long time.’ I also felt that I had witnessed some really extraordinary acting, given perfect direction. I’ll try not to oversell this, but I must report that I am really impressed.
We’ve been reading about Leslie Stevens’ Private Property seemingly forever, as a movie that could not be seen, that was presumed lost. In his The American Cinema Andrew Sarris was exceedingly unkind to it, leading me to expect that the independently-made 1960 film would someday appear and be revealed as a big disappointment, or a flawed curiosity like Stanley Kubrick’s Fear and Desire. Sarris wrote, “All that lingers in the mind … is Stevens’ flair for feelthy fetishism and the hauntingly stupid blonde beauty of the late Kate Manx, Stevens’ wife and garish Galatea.” That’s pretty rough, Andy, like, get yourself punched in the nose rough. When Sarris wrote his auteur roundup book in 1968 he apparently didn’t bother with Leslie Stevens’ third feature, Incubus. Maybe, because he heard that it had been performed in Esperanto, Sarris thought the movie was just was just a party joke.
Although I haven’t read the full story of its rebirth, Private Property was discovered sitting safely in a University vault, restored by the UCLA Film Archive last year and re-premiered at several festivals. It plays like yet another branch of creative filmmaking in the ’60s that didn’t get a chance to flower. United Artists released many impassioned indie pictures that were sidelined as ‘arty’ or esoteric. They were generally praised yet passed over, like Jack Garfein’s 1961 Something Wild (expected restored from Criterion soon!) or Alexander Singer’s unusually perceptive A Cold Wind in August. In the case of Private Property it wasn’t a case of mild rejection, but non-availability. Condemned by the Catholics and refused a Code seal, Stevens’ film attracted some pre-release buzz, but interest evaporated with indifferent reviews and a lack of a significant release. it was shunned as a vaguely dirty movie, and vanished from U.S. screens after a couple of weeks. Although it played off and on in Europe, it’s been out of reach here since it was new.
The picture is an almost perfectly judged psychodrama about two unsavory petty criminals, vagabonds in an unhealthy relationship. The brilliant but perverse Duke (Corey Allen) is working out a grudge against a world that has pegged him as a loser. Duke dominates the passive and worshipping Boots (Warren Oates), using him to feel more important. The awkward Boots defers to Duke for everything, even when they pull off the cheap crime of intimidating a gas station attendant, or conning, then threatening a motorist (Jerome Cowan) into giving them a ride. Entirely up to no good, Duke and Boots set their sights on Ann Carlyle (Kate Manx), a blonde in a Corvette. Their object is more ugly than a simple rape — Duke intends to prove his genius by seducing Ann, and then handing her over to Boots, a presumed virgin. They hide in the vacant house next door and spy on Ann in her swimming pool. Duke waits until her husband is missing and then drops by pretending to be a gardener drumming up business. Duke’s subtle suggestions hit their target — Ann is a sexually frustrated, pampered housewife in need of human contact. It takes him more than a day to move from ‘guy ringing doorbell’ to lunch guest, and then drinking & dancing partner. When will the rapists make their move?
Sordid enough for you? Private Property is too well written, directed and especially acted to be pigeonholed with sadistic home invasion fare like the exploitative Lady in a Cage. Literally filmed in Leslie Stevens’ backyard — in only ten days — for reportedly only $60,000 dollars, the show is far superior to movies made for multiples of that amount. Although Warren Oates is now a familiar face the film’s acting trio was all but unknown in 1960. That gambit adds to the suspense. Stevens’ direction shows not the least sign of budget compromise. His camera team consists of one veteran ace (Ted McCord) backed by a newcomer-genius (Conrad Hall). Together they pull off impressive sequence shots. When the images get a bit tricky, they never become pretentious. Even the brief suggestions of sexual symbolism — a candle, Duke’s belt — are too well handled to elicit knowing smirks.
So what’s so wicked about Private Property? The script uses no nudity and no outright profanity, but Duke and Boots are familiar with phrases like ‘making it’ and derogatory remarks about Ann as they observe her from afar. Referring to their quarry as ‘a cow,’ etc., reflects well the essential insecurity behind Duke’s bragging and painful need to be sexually dominant. Stevens’ script ignores the Hollywood edict that conventional values be upheld, and that the distribution of moral rewards and punishments be a first priority. Private Property still feels edgy today; in 1960 the thought of these creeps victimizing the inoffensive Ann Carlyle must have seemed obscene. The show is sensitive, realistic and reasonably compassionate, but nobody’s idea of a ‘nice’ movie.
The fact that the boys have rape on the brain from frame one, that it’s Subject A at all times, is what brought down the wrath of the Catholics. The Production Code office didn’t have to see overt violations of their thou-shalt-nots to reject the picture outright. A powerful producer like Otto Preminger could toy with the censors, but the establishment had a way of stomping on little films that dared to flout the rules. To distribute Private Property in more than a theater or two was financial suicide, unless important critics pleaded for it as a special case. And many of them saw Leslie Stevens’ film as sick, unworthy.
But the brilliant Private Property pegs contemporary values with uncommon clarity. The first clue comes straight from the title. Ann enjoys the benefits of prosperity, living in a swank house with a great view just above Sunset Blvd., where houses routinely go for $100,000 dollars (!!!). The place has everything — a two-car garage, a fancy kitchen, and a stereo phonograph for Ann to play her Bolero- like dance music. We hear about the money to be made in big insurance deals, in appliance sales, etc.. Those riding the boom economy reap the consumer spoils, and Ann’s bounty includes a new sports car and the ultimate 1960 California status symbol, a private swimming pool. It loses some of its privacy when the trespassing Duke and Boots peep at Ann from the high window next door — a view that’s like a widescreen movie starring everything in the world they want. The inescapable next step is to see Ann Carlyle as another piece of consumer property, an accessory to the perfect life. Always elegant, always presentable for guests, Ann spends her life shopping, swimming, and waiting for a husband who doesn’t return her amorous overtures. Stevens chooses odd angles of Ann splayed out under the sun, or sprawled suggestively on the floor while watching TV. Yet she’s unable to interest her husband. But the sick-minded Duke picks up on Ann’s inner need — he can see it from afar. He can sense that his nice-guy seduction / rape approach will work.
Critic Sarris calls Ann dumb and leaves it at that, whereas the movie presents her as a real person in a vulnerable position. She’s bright-faced, sincere and gullible, as sheltered good people can be. There’s real chemistry and tension between Ann and Duke, plus tension between Duke and the clueless, sexually confused Boots. But we also see Duke in conflict with himself. As he carries out his criminal pact, delivering up Ann for his friend, Duke seems to self-destruct. His outrage aimed at common decency is supposed to prove something, to validate his class hatred. Duke can’t handle his own attraction to this woman that doesn’t deserve the fate he’s ordained for her. His only choice is to find a new reason to hate her and vent his rage all at once. Stevens’ psychodrama has real power. The finish at first seems a little abrupt, but one begins to appreciate what has happened almost immediately.
How sophisticated is the show? It understands how some men habitually degrade women to avoid asking questions about themselves. Writers mention a homosexual subtext between the two men, they way they interpret sharing a sex conquest as brotherly comradeship. But Duke baits his friend with the truth right up front, saying that Boots is really not looking for a girl, but a ‘sugar daddy’ — and Boots reacts as if a guilty secret has been revealed. How more explicit can the film be? I particularly like the detail when they’re sitting on the ground drinking their stolen orange sodas — a pair of shapely female legs walks past them, twice, and neither man as much as looks up to see what the rest of the woman looks like. They don’t want girl friends, they want to punish women for being out of reach, for being somebody else’s private property.
Doing good work is no guarantee of success in Hollywood. Corey Allen and Kate Manx’s performances are possibly the best on film that year, but who saw them? Marginalized by the bluenoses and dismissed by too many critics, the show might as well have been invisible. The acting in this picture would elicit raves today. Corey Allen reminds me somewhat of a younger Ralph Meeker, but with a smile that’s less shark-like, that can actually be interpreted as sincere. Ms. Manx positively glows with wholesome vulnerability and a strong streak of unfulfilled desires. She seems entirely real, an innocent / not innocent victim that deserves better from men in general.
