ABSTRACT
A soft and slow romantic tune sets the mood as the opening credits role. The camera settles on a motel parking lot and takes us inside one room. A middle-aged man and young woman meet surreptitiously. They hold each other, embracing and kissing. When she mentions her plan to move to New York City, we learn that she’s an aspiring actress and he’s her drama professor. She’s in love with him, but he’s married to another woman. As soon as she brings up New York, he tells her that her chances of success are slim and moving would be a “mistake”: “Thousands of girls every year go to New York and fall on their faces . . . most of them end up as broken down waitresses. . . .” He delivers this news matter-of-factly as he begins to undress. She listens with folded arms and a defiant look, facing away from him as he nonchalantly delivers his discouraging words and pulls off his tie. Hurt by his dismissal of her dream, she defends her decision-“You told me I was good!” She pulls away as he slips off her shirt and tries to kiss her breasts. He takes down his pants and pulls her head toward his penis: “C’mon,” he beckons. She readily meets him with her lips. “I want some of that,” he says, gesturing toward her pelvis: “It’s been so long.” As he climbs on top of her, she is reluctant and asks about his wife. He tells her that he and his wife don’t have sex anymore. Not satisfi ed, she wriggles beneath him and tries to stop him: “Oh, Ted, I’m not ready!” He thrusts into her and she keeps protesting: “Hold on!”, “No, not yet!” The camera lands on the sexual action for a moment, scans her body, and stays with her face-in obvious pain. As he thrusts, she repeats, “no, no, no,” half panting and half sobbing. Her words fall on deaf ears; he continues his business for a minute or two until he falls back in orgasm, satisfied and tired. Discontent, she looks at him and begs: “Tell me you love me.” He’s happy to comply, but his tone does not match hers in sobriety or sincerity: “Sure-oh, baby, I love you.” He gets up to leave and she tells him again that she’s going to New York. Again, he tries to dissuade her: “You’re the only woman I care about. . . . We’ve got a good thing going.” When she
is unmoved, he says he’ll visit her often: “Get yourself a little apartment . . . we can fuck all night.” Walking out the door, he offers to pay for the room, and she tells him to “forget about it.” As he leaves, he tells her to remember him when she accepts her first Tony Award. She responds with a halfhearted smile. As the scene comes to a close, the camera stays with her. She is curled up on the bed naked, her arms wrapped around her legs. Alone, she shakes her head in disappointment. (Roommates [Vincent 1981])
The opening scene in Roommates (1981) shows that director Chuck Vincent is concerned with character development as much as sexual action. The raw use and abuse of an aspiring actress-Joan-prepares the viewer to confront her sexual trials and tribulations as well as her excitement and pleasure. Nothing about Joan’s brief encounter with her professor invites viewers to glory in the sexual action or to masturbate to it: the sex is quick and hardly explicit, devoid of the genital close-ups and rhythmic penetration shots that are ubiquitous in the genre. There is no real rhythm to the professor’s thrusts, and they are the center of attention for only a moment. During the encounter, we don’t see his face, but hers; it is not the professor’s sexual satisfaction but rather Joan’s apparent and well-voiced dissatisfaction that confront the viewer. Joan is not happy; we, the viewers, know it even if the professor doesn’t.
