A CHEAPLY MADE black-and-white film, The Beatniks (1960) was voice actor Paul Frees’ only directing venture. It succeeded with neither critics nor the public, and it boasts a pitiful 2.1 rating on IMDB. However, I would contend that this B-minus movie is significant for its homosexual subtext.
The Beatniks was badly mistitled. Beatnik culture—bongos, berets, goatees, marijuana, poetry in coffee shops—is nowhere to be seen. The movie may have been given the misleading moniker to cash in on contemporary interest in “youth rebellion.” Another possibility is that the filmmakers believed—or thought the public believed—that “beatnik” was a synonym for “hoodlum.” In fact, the film is about a robbery gang made up of leader Eddy Crane, members Bob Mooney, Chuck, Red, and Eddy’s girlfriend Iris.
The movie begins with a car stopping in a small store’s parking lot. Eddy orders, “Put your masks on.” Inside the store, an elderly man and woman hold their arms up. Mooney acrobatically whirls around as he robs the cash register. Mooney makes a show of taking a liquor bottle, asking, “How much is that?” The male victim replies, “Be my guest.”
Establishing himself as the gang’s clown, Mooney asks, “What do you think we are—moochers?” before dramatically handing the man a coin from among those just stolen. After the robbery, the thieves return to the car; Iris drives. Eventually, she parks beside a sidewalk. An older man, Harry Bayliss, stands by a car. Mooney mocks, “Don’t you know it’s against the law, daddy, to obstruct traffic?” Bayliss says his car has stalled. The gang offers to “give him a push.” Iris mischievously rams the gang car into Bayliss’ car. The gang walks into Nadine’s Diner and counts the loot. Bayliss goes into the diner to make a phone call. Iris asks Eddy to start the jukebox. They dance. Eddy sings: “Leather coat, duckbill hair, call me wild, I don’t care. Sideburns don’t need your sympathy. Playing it cool, real slick, having a ball with a crazy chick.” Eddy’s singing intrigues Bayliss, who says he’s a talent agent and wants to represent Eddy as a singer. As soon as Eddy indicates openness to a singing career, it becomes obvious that this prospect is deeply unsettling to Mooney: “Eddy, if you become a big fat star, you ain’t gonna forget your old friends who stuck by you, are you?” “Of course not,” Eddy replies. “Of course not,” Mooney repeats, giving it a cynical spin and letting on that Eddy is central to his life. In true Hollywood fashion, Eddy is whisked away to an audition where he impresses the bigwigs. He shows his loyalty to the gang by insisting that the record people provide his friends with hotel accommodations. “My friends go where I go.” He’s less loyal romantically, however. He’s holding Iris’ arm when he first gazes yearningly at Bayliss’ secretary Helen Tracy. Helen is assigned to buy appropriate clothing for Eddy. At the lunch that follows, Eddy and Helen disclose the special feelings they have for each other. The film presents Helen as a “clean” contrast to Eddy’s partner-in-crime Iris. Of course, the film must have an “official” heterosexual story. But the true passion is Mooney’s attachment to Eddy. Mooney couches his terror of losing Eddy in terms of Eddy’s prospective desertion of the gang: “Maybe you can just walk out of here and forget you ever knew us!” Mooney says “we” and “us,” but Red and Chuck appear little troubled by the possibility of losing Eddy’s company. They are chums; Mooney is in love. There’s an edge of desperation in Mooney’s voice as he makes these declarations, revealing the depth of his feelings for Eddy. Bayliss arranges for Eddy to sing on television, and the studio audience cheers wildly. Mooney appears confused: delighted to be friends with an up-and-coming celebrity, but terrified that Eddy’s success will separate them. His conflicted feelings lead him to start a silly fight by pouring a beverage over a backstage worker. Eddy breaks things up, and Bayliss arrives on the scene. Seemingly sensing the strength of Mooney’s attachment to Eddy, Bayliss looks at Eddy, then pointedly at Mooney, and asks to see Eddy in an office “alone.” The look on Mooney’s face is unmistakably one of disappointment and jealousy. Later, the gang parties to celebrate Eddy’s success. A hassle in a bar leads Mooney to murder a bartender. “I did it for you, man,” Mooney tells Eddy pleadingly. Later, when Mooney repeats these words, Eddy retorts sardonically: “It’s always for me.” This is as close to the language of what we would call life partners as they dared to come in a conservative era. The police want both men for murder, so Mooney invites Eddy to flee with him to Mexico. “We can be banditos!” Mooney enthusiastically asserts. Eddy makes it clear he intends to turn both himself and Mooney in. The outrage of a rejected lover blazes from Mooney as he pulls a knife and declares, “I’m going to get you. I’m going to spread you all over this alley!” A double entendre may or may not have been intended here. But Eddy pins Mooney to the wall, and the latter suddenly speaks in a girlishly high-pitched tone and begs: “Eddy, please don’t hurt me.” The Beatniks may not be a great film, but is an important one. Its significance lies in its pre-Stonewall depiction of male-to-male love. The film deserves to be examined freshly and appreciated as an early attempt to depict a gay love affair. Denise Noe is a writer whose work has been published in The Humanist, The Literary Hatchet, and other periodicals.
