by Addison DeWitt

In all of my years of watching porn, and movies in general, I don’t think I’ve ever come across a film as lousy, and as unintentionally hilarious, as 1973’s Night of the Occultist. This is the Plan 9 from Outer Space of gay porn.

Directed by Kenneth Andrews, Night begins somewhat promisingly as we find our hero, Chuck, (Quave Dalton) tossing and turning in bed. Dressed in nothing but a white pair of boxer shorts, the fuzzy guy’s current condition is related to us via a voice-over. As Dalton squirms and kicks the covers off his body, we find out that he and his wife have agreed to a trial separation due to sexual problems that have visited their once tranquil domestic situation.

The next morning Chuck picks up a newspaper on his way to work where he discovers an ad for a sexual therapist. That evening, back in his swinging 70’s bachelor pad, seemingly pleased that he might have found a solution to his problem, our boy lights a fire, puts on a record of (what seems to be) The Montovani Orchestra, pours himself a cocktail and then settles back on his crushed velvet sofa and jerks off. This entire scene is shot like some arty kind of television commercial, but still, watching Dalton stroke his long, thick stalk is one of the few erotic pleasures that Night offers. Savor it because it’s all downhill from there.

The following day Chuck has his appointment with the so-called sex therapist. Now even though our hero has entered a Bank of America skyscraper and takes the elevator to the tenth floor, the actual office of the therapist appears to be nothing more than a tiny motel room.

When Chuck enters the small room he finds an elfin man chain smoking and sitting on a sofa. The man (Gareth Burton) resembles Ron Howard’s troll-like brother, Clint. To add injury to insult, the man claims to be Egyptian (and that would explain the shoe polish-like make up on his face made to darken his complexion).

Appearances aside, the therapist goes on a long-winded explanation of why sexual problems occur to married couples. It is clear that he’s reading from a cue card as his eyes are constantly darting back and forth -- what makes this even more ludicrous is the totally unconvincing way that Burton delivers his dialogue; flat and emotionless…and this scene goes on, and on, and on.

Finally the therapist brings up the possibility that his client might be gay. Chuck’s response is a hoot: “No, I have not had sex with a guy since college, so, no, I’m not gay.”

Nonetheless the dweeb in minstrel-show make up continues and tells the story of Ancient Egyptian priests who often took young men to the temple of Isis so that they could ravish the youth and clean themselves of their impure impulses.

At this point, through the magic of movies, we are transported thousands of years back in time to said ritual. Here we find a lanky young man on an altar in what is supposed to be an ancient temple (an ancient temple with wall-to-wall shag carpet, I might add). As the youth lay patiently, a group of men enter who are all dressed in ridiculous outfits that make them look more like Mexican masked wrestlers than Egyptian priests. This is the point where I laughed out loud…I was especially fond of the obvious cardboard collars that each of the priests wore.

Be that as it may, the young man is fucked by each of the priests (who keep their Lucha libre masks on). Unfortunately, the sex here is about as erotic as watching Joan Rivers sell cheap jewelry on QVC. And this deadly boring scene goes on forever.

Finally, we fade back to the therapist who insists that the only way Chuck can get back on top of his wife is to explore his gay yearnings.

It does not take long for Chuck to follow that advice, and the next thing you know he’s at a gay go-go bar (and we know this for a fact because of a hand stenciled sign on a wall that says, “Gay Go-Go Dancing”). Once inside, it’s no holds barred erotic energy as Chuck and the viewer are treated to the sight of two very androgynous blonds (one whom bears a frightening resemblance to Suzanne Somers) do a completely inept dance to what is probably the worst piece of music ever recorded. Seriously, it sounds like the theme song to a 70’s game show. Between the lame dancing, the bad music and the scrawny bodies of the two Go-Go boys, you’d think that Chuck would have had enough and gone back to his wife.

You’d have thought wrong.

The next stop on Chuck’s quest for gayness is a grind house where he makes himself comfortable and once more jerks off while watching a dirty film.

Obviously comfortable with his new found sexuality, the next thing you know Chuck is cruising town in his convertible, top down, jerking off while driving. Ever the multi-tasker, our boy decides to have a cigarette also. But what’s this? Oh no! The cigarette lighter in the dashboard is missing. What’s a horny nicotine addict to do?

Pulling into a car repair shop, Chuck meets a rather sexy greaser type complete with a D.A. and a pack of cigarettes rolled up in his t shirt sleeve. He asks the greaser where the bathroom is and is shocked (as well as delighted) to find the walls of the john covered in glossy photos of naked muscle men. When he’s finished up Chuck goes back to the front of the store and makes mention of the loo’s decorative motif. The greaser agrees with him and tells him that he’s rather fond of those pictures also.

Later on Fonzie finds the lighter for Chuck’s car and instead of asking for payment he’s asking our hero if he can suck his dick. Reticent at first, Chuck finally agrees and for the first time in this film a somewhat authentic sex scene takes place. Oddly enough, no clothes are removed. It’s a simple whip-it-out-and-gobble-it-up moment and the greaser proves not only to be a great cocksucker but also one of the only people in Night of the Occultist who can deliver a line without sounding like he’s reading off a cue card. For some reason this scene ends abruptly and suddenly we are transported to a dark room where a group of men are engaging all kinds of sexual shenanigans. One guy is strung up and is being assaulted from behind by another guy. Another man is getting fucked on the floor, and in the corner are two guys taking turns sucking each other off. Meanwhile a rather paunchy guy stands in the background brandishing a whip and spouting off such bon mots as, “Take it, you bastard!” Strangely enough, Chuck is nowhere to be found, nor is Fonzie. It seems that the filmmaker sort of ran out of ideas and stitched on this orgy at film’s end.

While the sex and the bodies are pretty hot, this scene is shot so dark that it’s hard to make out much of anything. And suddenly, just when things should be getting good, everything comes to a halt and we see a guy spread-eagle with the words “The End” painted on his ass. A voiceover from the therapist is heard, but frankly, the sound quality being what it is in this film it was pretty difficult to make out what he was saying.

Make no mistake, Night of the Occultist has absolutely nothing going for it. It is not one of those so-bad-it’s-good films. Frankly it is a poorly shot, poorly acted, poorly conceived piece of tripe. I am sure that the title of the movie was an afterthought since this film was released during The Exorcist craze, so anything that had even the slightest hint of black magic or demonology in its title was the way to go.

If you do happen upon this film, go right to the go-go boys and have a good laugh over the bad dancing, inane music, and obvious attempt at making three people stuffed onto an amateur set seem like a crowded night club or better yet, watch the scene with the therapist and see if it reminds you of the infamous scene in Plan 9 From Outer Space where the main actor is reading his lines directly from the piece of paper in front of him. Seriously, those are the only two things worth watching in this rotten attempt at erotic cinema.

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