By John Sanchez
True to its title, In Man’s Country was shot in Man’s Country, the venerable Clark Street bathhouse where generations of men have met without speaking. On the night the scene I’m in was taped, the extras were told we could keep on our street clothes or wear the bathhouse uniform–a towel. I decided that for the measly pay I was getting–a copy of the video–I’d stay in my clothes. The extras were to play a strip-show audience, and the director asked that we cheer loudly and with our hands above our heads.
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After being told that we weren’t wild enough in the first few takes, we screamed and cheered and generally worked ourselves into a frenzy, even in the shots in which no strippers were in sight. The script called for a sex scene to follow, but it had already been shot. Through the magic of editing, we enjoyed it quite a bit. After the taping was done, we were told to expect invitations to the premiere.
Moviegoers fill the bathhouse’s lobby, and there seems to be some confusion over the cost of admission. The invitation will get you into the screening, but if you want to lock up your clothes or rent a room for discreet encounters, you have to pay the usual fees. Fortunately, we run into Chuck, the owner. My date goes all doe-eyed and dumb. “We didn’t think we’d have to pay,” he pouts. The effect is so Monroe-esque, I half-expect a rendition of “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.” Chuck seems impressed too, though he says we’ll have to wait until after the show to get our lockers.
Then we pause to consider the negatives. What if we get caught? Imagine the shame. Will our lifetime memberships be revoked? Maybe the staff, in a rage over our chipping away at their livelihood, will beat us savagely and humiliate us. But still, we’ve been waiting so long. Back and forth we go until Chuck finally appears.
