Never has sexuality looked so unsexy. Schisgall’s documentary explores the semi-hidden world of “the lifestyle” — swingers in suburbia — and what it finds is decidedly unappealing. The myth of wild, sexy swingers, in suburbia and elsewhere, is dealt a killing blow in this nonetheless engaging peek into what goes on behind closed doors. While there’s plenty of, ah, lip service given to the practice of wife-swapping having saved marriages and turned doomed relationships around, you can’t help but wince as Schisgall’s camera pokes into this strenuously unerotic world. Really, it’s just as unappealing as you might think: Overweight, balding folks, drooping in all the wrong places, wax ineloquently about how the lifestyle has changed their lives, and then go on about how normal it all is. That may well be. The key parties of Ang Lee’s The Ice Storm are alive and well and going on next door, apparently, with otherwise conservative couples meeting bi-monthly to engage in wild orgies complete with bad shrimp dip and some of the whitest dancing ever caught on film. “We’re living a double life,” one elderly man notes. “We’re mom and pop to the kids, we’re conservative, we don’t know much … but this is what we do for entertainment and if anyone knew, it would blow their minds.” Consider them blown. To his credit, Schisgall has managed to gain entrée into swingers’ homes outside of California. New Orleans is unsurprisingly rich in lifestyling-couples, while a Littleton, Colorado, husband and wife (she’s a secretary, he’s a sales manager) prep their living room for the big night by hanging red, white, and blue bunting over the mantle and giving the hot tub a good scrubbing. Schisgall tackles the obvious (condoms are a must, and gay or bisexual men are strictly forbidden) and the not-so-obvious (an Animal Planet documentary on the mating habits of chimpanzees is used as a social lubricant). Of course, all this seems like a convenient way for randy old guys to get their rods waxed without having to “cheat” on their spouses, right? Not so, says one horny grandpa: “A lady’s pleasure always come first.” Uh-huh. Perhaps the most notable aspect of Schisgall’s film is how much access he obtains from people whom you’d assume would be rather secretive about their after-dark hobbies. Not only is he and his crew readily welcomed into the homes of his subjects, they’re virtually invited to join in. (To Schisgall’s credit, he abstains.) Three-quarters of the way through the film the screen goes black and the title “one year later” appears. Not everything is copacetic, it seems, in the world of the lifestyle, as one couple, a New Orleans teacher and her grad-student husband, have exited the swinging life in the interim. As the wife tearfully reveals, she ended up feeling “forced” into situations that she might not otherwise have participated in. Schisgall’s film ends on a high note, of sorts, with a preternaturally distasteful glimpse into a full-blown orgy, with more wrinkles and baleful gazes than a dead manatee. As the brisket appetizers remain uneaten on the buffet table, the swinging couple (in a swing, natch) and one eager-eyed gent cries “It’s sport fucking!” Thank you, Mr. Schisgall, for confirming the worst.
This article appears in December 29 • 2000.