F Gwynplaine MacIntyre
I've seen references to this film which incorrectly identify it as 'The Queens', plural, apparently referring to the participants as a bunch of "queens". The film's correct title is 'The Queen', singular, and I do mean singular. This is not a drag ball, in the style of 'Paris Is Burning' and other such affairs: this is a drag beauty pageant, with contestants vying in the knowledge that only one can be crowned: hence that title.'The Queen' was bankrolled(?) by the late Lewis M Allen, elsewhere a Wall Street financier and Broadway producer, but you wouldn't know it from watching this movie. This is a no-budget documentary, and the cheapness and shoddiness of the production values make the subject matter look even cheaper and shoddier than necessary. I'm frankly surprised that this movie got made at ALL in the 1960s, and even more surprised that it received a general (not underground) release in 1968. Credit for the film's distribution -- spasmodic as it was -- goes to Grove Press, a publishing house notorious for issuing high-quality editions of 'Fanny Hill', 'Harriet Marwood, Governess' and other erotica of the past.Beauty pageants in general don't much interest me, as I tend to find them demeaning ... and that goes regardless of the contenders' genders. In this movie, the sequence (sequins?) which I found most bizarre didn't involve cross-dressing at all. This was when one of the contestants, still in male attire, speaks to the interviewer in an epicene voice which falls precisely between the male and female registers. Then, suddenly, he bursts into song ... still in that same twilight register. Even more oddly, the song he's singing is 'Honey Bun', from 'South Pacific'. This is ostensibly a song performed by a macho sailor bragging about his curvaceous girlfriend, but -- as staged in 'South Pacific' -- it's actually a song written for a woman in male drag, singing about a man in female drag. I wonder if the singer in this movie intended those layers of gender-bending.Any transvestites in the audience for this movie will probably glean some comfort from the fact that the cross-dressers shown here are (mostly) very ordinary-looking men -- overweight, balding -- with no special entree to feminine beauty nor daintiness. Any big hairy bloke who wants to look pretty has as good a chance as most of the males in this film.For those of us not into beauty pageants, drag or otherwise, this film's major significance is historical. Among the people we see here is Richard Finnochio, now forgotten but once deeply notorious. Finnochio was the proprietor of a San Francisco nightclub which openly advertised drag acts, but which also booked stand-up comedians who were too edgy or raw to be able to get bookings elsewhere. Lenny Bruce honed his early act at Finocchio's.Also seen here is an effeminate Latino boy named Mario Montez. I had assumed that this was a stage name, playing on MARIA Montez, a 'camp' actress who has a large gay following. I was wrong; according to the very minimal press kit for 'The Queen', that was his real name. Nice to know that something in this movie is genuine. (UPDATE: I was wrong twice; after posting this review, I received reliable information that Mario Montez was born Rene Rivera, and he did indeed name himself for Maria Motez.)Towards the end of the film, there is some slight genuine suspense as we wait to see which of these would-be's will be crowned the queen. I shan't offer a rating for 'The Queen': it certainly does deserve one, but I'm probably not qualified to rate it objectively. Maybe this film broke some ground in 1968, but it has long since been eclipsed by far more outrageous sexual fare. Possibly that's a good thing. To anyone who thinks I disrespect the subject matter or the people depicted in this film: please note that I managed to get through this entire review without resorting to cheap wisecracks like "What a drag!"
michael.will
1968's "The Queen" is a slight but fascinating time capsule, probably one of, if not THE earliest in-depth glimpse at the drag queen subculture in its final days as a solidly underground phenomenon. This doesn't concentrate on professional female impersonators, who'd been a legitimate part of show biz for decades, but specifically on effeminate men whose cross-dressing was an active part of their social lives in the homosexual milieu, which as a North American whole was still trying to struggle along beneath the radar of vice laws. Taking place a couple years before the Stonewall riots, which engineered the gay rights movement, this documentary is strikingly non-politicized and thus warts-and-all candid, taking the viewer into this insular world of long ago in a manner that's never preachy and rarely poignant, but shows an amused affection for its marginalized subjects, rather than leering at them in the "Mondo" shock value style that was then the exploitive norm for this kind of subject matter.That isn't to say that "The Queen" lacks a sleazy expo-zay appeal, just by the nature of the annual event it covers. It's the way downscale, transvestite answer to the 1967 Miss America Pageant. More of a glamour than a beauty contest, elected "empresses" from cities nationwide flock into New York, to vie for the title of that year's national reigning drag queen. Out of drag, they come in all shapes -- spindly teenagers and gawky nerds and big hairy trucker types and fat balding guys nearing middle age. Followed around with hand held 16mm cameras, the contestants get to know one another in the dilapidated hotel where they're billeted, swapping remarkably upbeat life stories and opinions on gender issues in the spirit of outcast camaraderie. One notable exception, focused on immediately as resentments begin to simmer, is the aloof Philadelphia representative, Richard, alias Miss Harlow, a very pretty blond lad whose rise to drag circuit stardom has been a little too rapid for most everyone's taste. His cause isn't helped by his sulky attitude.In preparation, they're choreographed and groomed and grilled on rules of stage conduct, by a pair of established drag queen organizers who, with New Yawky know-it-all-ness, are as fiercely demanding as drill sergeants. Here's where the film's period is especially evident, inviting comparisons to later drag show docs like 1995's "Wigstock", with its wild and free-wheeling variety of bizarre drag performances. No such freedom of expression thirty years earlier, as the conventions of these fringe dwellers' burlesque are rigidly enforced, with the unquestioned conformity of regional folk dancing. In fact, it's written that the legendary Divine helped break this mass creative stranglehold, after violent opposition early in his stage career.It's the transformation process on the big night that's really captivating, as the boys pluck away body hair, pile on make-up, pad and corset their figures, and fret over wigs and gowns. As we watch, this rather goofy looking bunch not only shed their maleness, but their individualism, as they turn into a small army of statuesque glamour girls. The look, an exaggerated version of the Ursula Andriss 60s Greek goddess in a towering bouffant and streams of diaphanous chiffon, is a fun one but utterly uniform, and one all but loses track of the different players. The pageant itself is an embarrassing disaster, clearly sucked dry of any spontaneity in the planning stages, in a grubby old theatre with a bored society crowd in trendy attendance, and a catatonic Andy Warhol chairing the panel of judges. The competitors themselves are merely paraded about, not even allowed to lip-sync girl songs like they'd do in the clubs back home -- they're simply gaudy mannequins. Entertainment, such as it is, is provided by talentless local transies doing drunken versions of dreary old show tunes, while a tired strip joint orchestra tries valiantly to match their ever-changing tempos and keys. The night is a catastrophe in the making.Tempers start to flare when the five finalists are announced, and some of those left backstage go ballistic with unconcealed envy. This shameless poor sportsmanship is carried onto the stage, when the fourth runner-up, a certain Miss Crystal, storms off in a huff. The crown, of course, goes to the undeniably prettiest, the reviled Miss Harlow, to politely thunderous applause, and in rivers of mascara, he weeps over this greatest moment of his life. The magic is short-lived, though, when who should be waiting backstage but Miss Crystal, who tears into Harlow, mocking his shoddy make-up and ugly dress that wasn't even clean, and insisting Harlow was not the prettiest -- Crystal was! The organizers spring to Harlow's defence, diverting Crystal's rage, with accusations that the whole pageant was rigged and they'll be sorry. As Harlow sobs, the threats and insults fly back and forth, with increasing shrillness, until the theatre management shows up and unceremoniously tosses everyone out. So much for that year's pinnacle of appreciation for the American cross-dressing arts.As cheerfully tasteless a finale this is, celebrating bitchy stereotypes while pulling out on a note of cheap hilarity, it's refreshingly free of judgment pro or con, making for the best sort of historical artefact, superficial in its mood and thus unbiased as an accurate documentation for future cultural study. If, on EBay or wherever, you can track down "The Queen", enjoy it in good conscience --your neighbourhood drag queen certainly would.
