No. 103 - Sexual Boundaries - THE KILLING OF SISTER GEORGE (1968)

THE KILLING OF SISTER GEORGE (1968)

In 1968 the hit West End play THE KILLING OF SISTER GEORGE was adapted for the cinema. It contained a subtle lesbian theme rarely dealt with in that early climate of permissiveness and for the film version the Sapphic side was more overt. It also retained its lead actress Beryl Reid in the role of June Buckridge, a TV soap opera actress struggling more with age, vanity and jealousy than her sexuality. The director was Robert Aldrich, who would seem an unlikely choice if you only recognised him from the ‘guys on a mission’ machismo of THE DIRTY DOZEN. He had however already directed strong women to great acclaim in female-centric films: Bette Davis and Joan Crawford in WHATEVER HAPPENED TO BABY JANE and then Ms Davis in HUSH...HUSH SWEET CHARLOTTE.

The drama here focuses on Buckridge’s private and professional life crumbling around her. She plays a nurse, a long-running character in the TV series ‘Applehurst’ but her increasingly bad attitude will not go unpunished for much longer. The show is a quaint, rural piece reminiscent of ‘The Archers’, (indeed the axing of Grace Archer in that show is said to be a major satirical inspiration here). In ‘real life’ Buckridge’s nature is far from the sweetness of the nurse she plays. She is a masculine, rude and inconsiderate person, insensitive both to her colleagues and ‘Childie’ (Alice, played by the delectable Susannah York) the simple-minded young woman she lives with in a lesbian relationship. The last straw professionally comes after one of her thoughtless rehearsal exits in a script huff when she has a heavy session in the pub and then drunkenly molests two nuns in the back of a taxi. A complaint from the Mother Superior leads to a reprimand visit at Buckridge’s home by the powerful Mrs Croft (Coral Browne) from the production.  June is on a warning and after ludicrously protesting that the nuns frightened her, resembling “Albino mice”, she is forced to accept a two-week suspension. The pompous Mrs Crofts appears to take a personal interest in Alice and her poetry, who is described by Buckridge just as a flatmate, barely concealing her own jealousy at the attention her concealed lover is receiving.

The relationship between June and Alice is complex and sexually perverse. June is vindictive and sarcastic with her, alternating with mothering her and role-playing a sado-masochistic game where Alice is forced to eat her lover’s cigar-butts, feigning enjoyment. June’s selfish viciousness also spills over into their social life; when they impersonate Laurel and Hardy for a lesbian fancy-dress club night, June inevitably plays Ollie and torments Alice cruelly. Mrs Croft meets them at the party, invited by June on a whim, but after being surprised by the guests has a greater shock in store for June. She is to be written out of ‘Applehurst’ after all, dying when her beloved motorbike is hit by a truck. June’s reaction is ego-driven outrage: “I refuse to die in such a ridiculous manner!” (Her high-handedness echoes another possible influence on SISTER GEORGE, that of Tony Hancock’s hilarious episode ‘The Bowmans’ where he reacts the same way on hearing his radio soap regular will be killed off).

As if this isn’t bad enough, June’s constant paranoid insecurity about Alice having an affair reveals she’s actually been fraternising with Croft behind her back. With nothing to lose, June’s self-destructive side goes into over-drive, showing up drunk for the staged bike crash, trying to make the other actors ‘corpse’ and lashing out at her cast and crew at her farewell dinner. The final indignity is an offer by a producer for her to voice an animated cow for a children’s series. “Why don’t you piss off?” she replies, burning her last bridge.

Back home, Croft vows to protect Alice by taking her away, revealing her own lesbianism in a predatory attempted seduction of Alice in the bedroom. Just as this is about to be consummated, a dark silhouette is ominously framed in the door-way. It is June, looming like a Grand Guignol murderer. “What a perfect little gem for the Sunday press” she spits, her worst jealous fears proved correct. This is the catalyst for a slanging match of hugely enjoyable bile between she and Croft, the latter dropping her earlier smug diplomacy to give June a taste of her own bitter medicine with caustic home truths: “You’re a fat, boring actress and people are sick to death of you!. Look at yourself, you pathetic old dyke!”. Reeling from these unbridled blasts, June still has enough strength for a parting shot to wound both women as they go. She exposes Alice as being far from the little girl that Croft (and hypocritically herself) like to infantilise. Her escaping lover is really aged thirty-two, and has a daughter she abandoned. June tries to softly appeal to Alice, but as always it is a self-serving sensitivity and she is left alone.

Her final futile gesture is to break into the studio, where she knocks over a light and then proceeds to trash the set in disgust at what remains of her legacy: “Even the bloody coffin’s a fake…”. She sits down and then moos, a self-piteous imitation of where her career has led her…

THE KILLING OF SISTER GEORGE is a raging powerful piece whose battles weren’t just on-screen. Director Aldrich had to fight the censors in the USA and the UK. America’s new MPAA board critically sabotaged its box office by awarding it the kiss-of-death ‘X’ rating in order to keep the seduction scene in, which drastically reduced newspaper advertisements and wide release. In the UK, after a protracted battle with the BBFC over sexual language as much as content, the uncut version was only released nationally in 1970. The struggle for integrity was worth the effort, though. It’s a real pleasure to see a film dominated by a female ensemble that creates gutsy, meaty showcases for York, Browne and especially Beryl Reid who has a ball as the greedy, tyrannical June, allowing her to use multiple character voices and roar foul-mouthed insults at all and sundry as her world implodes. This is truly adult cinema and in dealing with edgy, controversial issues confounds preconceptions male audiences might have.

A cast without testosterone can create a film with balls…

No. 102. Sam Peckinpah - THE KILLER ELITE (1975)

THE KILLER ELITE (1975)

Arguably, BRING ME THE HEAD OF ALFREDO GARCIA signalled the start of the downward trajectory of Sam Peckinpah’s career. His next film THE KILLER ELITE, based on the novel ‘Monkey in the Middle’ seemed a promising return, involving assassination, ninja martial arts, espionage and the re-teaming of Robert Duvall and James Caan a few years after THE GODFATHER made their names, but it never really delivers on that promising material..

Caan and Duvall have an easy time of it playing on their chemistry, Caan’s macho ladies-man swagger and Duvall’s blue-collar craftiness. They are agents of Comteg, a shadowy CIA-employed organisation involved in the murky world of erasing defectors and those smuggling state secrets to other governments. The opening features a transcript extract of an interview conducted with an evasive senior operative denying their existence. Waggishly, the film offers a disclaimer that for the real CIA to use such tactics “…is, of course, preposterous”. Forty years on, in the era of global Wikileaks document leakage and government-sanctioned surveillance ‘for our security’, this kind of spy-craft suddenly seems a lot less far-fetched.

The plot of THE KILLER ELITE hinges on more personal vendettas though. George (Duvall) critically wounds his partner Mike (Caan) in the elbow and leg during a mission for some inexplicable reason and absconds, leaving him to rehabilitate himself gradually with the aid of a cane and newly-learned martial arts skills. Mike is eager to prove ready for active duty again, driven by a need for revenge. Despite his eastern defence technique with the cane, his superior Weybourne and uber-boss Collis want him to take a desk job.  They are forced to re-hire Mike though when a Japanese politician, Chung (esteemed actor Mako), needs protection and will be the intended target of an international team of ninja assassins plus an American group led by the re-surfaced George.

Caan tools up by recruiting his car-dealer friend Mac (Burt Young, literally spinning his wheels a year before playing the famously dead-beat Pauly in the ROCKY films) and firearms expert Miller (Peckinpah regular Bo Hopkins). They outwit a plastique bomb stuck to their car with the aid of a none-too-bright traffic cop and then do the best they can to shield their valuable ‘package’ whilst he is in America before Mike kills George and shoots Corliss who had secretly been playing both ends by employing the two of them…

THE KILLER ELITE could have been a sure-fire hit but it keeps missing its mark, courtesy of bad choices by Peckinpah throughout. It’s a shame that Weybourne didn’t take his own advice and be pensioned off as once again the director loyally cast his friend Gig Young in the part. The actor’s painfully-obvious terminal alcoholism renders his delivery so laid-back as to be narcoleptic.  This drags the pace of the film which is already mournfully slow at times for an action thriller.

Young’s behaviour could be seen as a barometer for his director who by now was also starting to sleep-walk through his films, rendering action sequences in a by-the-numbers slow motion without any of his former style. Peckinpah’s earlier films were stunningly edited under his watchful supervision; the gun-play in THE WILD BUNCH and the brilliantly cut twenty-minute siege climax of STRAW DOGS were rightfully praised for exciting, kinetic cutting. Here he either settles for formulaic shoot-outs, or more frustratingly tries to impose fast cuts onto martial-arts fights whose choreography needs to be allowed to play out, not irritatingly cut away from so often. It’s as though he’s never seen a Hong Kong film or Robert Clouse’s ENTER THE DRAGON to see how a Westerner can get the most out of the form. Every time Caan gets stuck into an opponent, there is an immediate cut to someone else and then back later, breaking the energy flow and rendering the fights truncated and uninvolving.

Another flaw is that, whilst I’m not advocating slavish screen-writer formula adherence, Peckinpah breaks the valid rule of never taking the plot out of the hands of your protagonist. He stages a final all-too-brief battle between the main ninja assassin and…Chung - not Mike.  It not only renders Caan as the star superfluous, but in exposing Chung to mortal danger, defeats the whole point of why Mike’s team were assigned to him in the first place.

Since Chung finishes off his own problem by the end, it at least allows Caan and his team to walk away at the end - and THE KILLER ELITE fizzles out, an uncommitted ending to a less than committed action movie.

Sam Peckinpah had two more films in him, the belatedly-praised WWII saga CROSS OF IRON and the entertaining THE OSTERMAN WEEKEND (1983) before his body fatally succumbed to the years of substance abuse. His body of work, however, has enough quality films overall to outlive him and many others as an iconoclastic talent.

No. 101 Sam Peckinpah - BRING ME THE HEAD OF ALFREDO GARCIA (1974)

BRING ME THE HEAD OF ALFREDO GARCIA (1974)

Whilst making his uncharacteristically light but pleasant western THE BALLAD OF CABLE HOGUE, Sam Peckinpah’s friend writer Frank Kowalski gave him the thinnest of premises for a movie: the title, BRING ME THE HEAD OF ALFREDO GARCIA, and the idea that the subject be already dead. Sketchy as the concept was, Peckinpah liked it enough to write it with Gordon Dawson during STRAW DOGS and the result is this demented gangster film which centres around a rare lead role for the under-used Warren Oates.

The fleshed-out plot sees a Spanish mafia boss demand to know which man has shamed his daughter by making her pregnant.  Degraded by having her blouse ripped by his henchmen (a sadly frequent example of the director’s misogynism rearing its head again), she reveals the man’s identity as one of the boss’s most favoured employees. The boss orders the titular contract to be carried out. He sends Robert Webber and Gig Young to Mexico City on the trail. (This is unfortunate as by now in real life Young was so in thrall to the alcoholism that would kill him a few years later that he looks and sounds half-asleep in most of his scenes. Until he uses a machine gun near the end he serves no purpose). The hit men meet Benny (Oates), a retired military man now working as a cool-cat bar pianist in shades. No-one in the bar reveals that Garcia is known to them – and is more importantly already dead due to drink-driving. Playing his cards craftily, Benny spies a chance to make easy money by fetching them the corpse’s head for the agreed fee of $10,000, knowing the hoods will be none the wiser.

Benny sets out with his girlfriend Elita, Alfredo’s first love, and while struggling with his jealousy also has to deal with a romantic night under the stars interrupted by two bikers intent on raping his lady and stealing their food. This again needlessly allows another topless blouse-ripping, twice in forty-five minutes, by Kristofferson, who then appears to lose interest in her, suggesting impotence. The other questionable aspect of this scene is the way it tastelessly echoes the rape scenes that could have spoilt STRAW DOGS by having Elita actually encouraging him to try to take her before Oates blows him and his buddy away. It’s dispiriting to defend a director capable of real art when he persisted in sympathising with male rape protagonists instead of their victims.

Benny’s belief that the mobsters won’t know they’re being fooled is proved dreadfully wrong when he is knocked out just before decapitating the body. He awakes, half-buried to find the gangsters have killed Elita in retribution. This sets up the crazy third act where a now-unrestrained Benny makes it his life’s mission to deliver the head in a bag to the boss at all costs as some kind of honour statement mixed with a tragic tribute to his girlfriend: “I’m gonna finish this with him!”. As he drives along, he forms a bizarre attachment to his cargo, talking to the head as though it’s still the living ex-lover of Elita.

Benny shoots dead Webber and Young amongst other hoods for hire, all of whom are given slow-motion deaths in loving detail no matter how inconsequential, before arriving at the home of the mafia boss as they celebrate the girl’s wedding day. He plonks down the head, and demands half-insanely to know what was so important about this man that it cost so many lives. The chief demonstrates he is already over his original blind anger that initiated the contract, but after handing over one million dollars casually as a fee he dismisses the bag’s contents now as meaningless rubbish. This incenses Benny to the point of red rage at such disrespect to his dead lover. He goes on a cathartic gun rampage killing the boss and every employee in the room, masked by the celebratory fireworks outside before leaving. However, unlike Steve McQueen in THE GETAWAY or Dustin Hoffman in STRAW DOGS, he does not get to live another day after purging himself with violence. An army of goons fill him full of lead in his car, leaving us a last lingering image of a gun barrel in close-up.

BRING ME THE HEAD OF ALFREDO GARCIA is a madcap revenge action movie that despite repeated unnecessary abuses of women features an enjoyably warped single-mindedness from Oates that helped it generate a cult appeal in common with other Peckinpah films after an initial failed release. References in TV shows and films from FLETCH to FUTURAMA have since prolonged its shelf-life.

No. 100 - THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING (1975)

THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING (1975)

Somewhere in the exotic India of the Raj days, an erudite gentleman sits at his desk writing. He is disturbed by a figure in the shadows who drags himself slowly into the light, revealing a horrifically-scarred face. To the writer’s bemusement, the man rasps: “I’ve come back…” He recalls a contract made in this very office so many years ago – one that would set out the terms before a most incredible undertaking. In shock, the writer suddenly recognises the man. “Carnahan”, he gasps…

In 1975, the release of JAWS changed the movie landscape for ever, ushering in a new wave of blockbusters and creating the phenomenon of the summer ‘tent-pole’ film that would build the studio year around increasingly FX-driven movies. Yet while a new generation took over - dubbed the ‘Movie Brats’ (Spielberg, De Palma, Scorcese, Lucas) - there was still room for a good old-fashioned traditional solid Hollywood epic still driven by story, character and practical effect set-pieces all filmed for real. One such crowd-pleaser was acclaimed old-school director John Huston’s film of Rudyard Kipling’s THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING.

Huston had planned to make this period action-adventure romp far enough back to have starred Clark Gable and Humphrey Bogart as the loveable con-men Peachy Carnahan and Daniel Dravot, but their deaths meant the project was shelved. Later, it was to be attempted with two other classic Hollywood real-life friends: Burt Lancaster and Kirk Douglas and even Burton and O’Toole (Huston being one of the few directors who could have handled the latter two hell-raisers). Finally, his ideal duo was found courtesy of Newman and Redford, another wonderful 1970s buddy-buddy pairing. Newman rightly felt that the old-world Britishness of the material (co-written by Huston and Gladys Hill) could only be done justice by actors from that world. This led to such a perfect combination that it’s hard to think of anyone else in the roles.

Michael Caine as Peachy and Sean Connery as Daniel were both at the height of their box-office appeal and the vital chemistry that the film hinges on came ready-made from their great friendship in real life. THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING is the kind of Boy’s Own tale of derring-do that really captures the imagination. It centres on Peachy and Danny under-taking the ultimate adventure for con artists, that of taking a kingdom and its riches by cunning and, to be fair, not entirely self-serving use of their ex-military skill - but that’s getting ahead of ourselves…

We mustn’t forget the pleasure of the whole story unfolding, beginning with Peachy’s reunion with Kipling as mentioned at the start. It’s a marvellous opening to the confident story-telling throughout, reeling us in with many questions and an immediate desire to hear what brought these men to their present. Christopher Plummer is an ideal Kipling, possessed of warmth and an indulgent twinkle of fondness toward these two scallywags. Caine is introduced to us with a roguish charm. He’s a quick-witted, cheeky chancer who knows how to parlay his Masonic membership “for the sake of a widow’s son” for all it’s worth to link him up with Connery, the more gruff and domineering of the two but lacking Peachy’s guile. These genial con-men are performances of huge charm and brashness AND BOTH Caine and Connery retain their natural accents to increase the snug fit of the parts. A signature famous scene is their entertainingly belligerent defence before the government official on a charge of impersonating Kipling’s credentials. After both men march in military-style, Caine produces the blackmail card they hold then loudly quashes the patronising official’s attempted besmirching of their names: “May I remind you it was ‘detriments’ like us what built the bloody empire!” before drilling themselves triumphantly out.

Peachy and Danny ask Kipling to witness their signed agreement that details the sharing of treasure and abstinence from women and liquor before they venture to far off Kafiristan: “We are not little men so we are going away to be kings”. They plan to offer their mercenary services to warring tribesmen, building selected ones up as puppet leaders, before subverting them so they can install themselves as rulers and loot the kingdoms. Kipling laughs at their grandiose scheming but wishes them well.

Once in the remote Kafiristan, after a dicey snow-bound trek, Peachy and Danny find themselves plunged straight into inter-village skirmishes. They are aided though by the unlikely appearance of an Indian who speaks English. This is the memorable Saeed Jaffrey, the recently-deceased distinguished British/Bollywood actor giving one of his most memorable roles as ‘Billy Fish’, Gurkha and invaluable translator of languages and culture to the boys. He injects an extra enthusiasm and knowledge peppered with quirky Raj-influenced anglicisms such as ‘Alas, by Jove’.

Through Billy, the Englishmen begin their campaign by assisting the cowardly thug leader Ootah with his local tribal conflicts against the neighbouring Bashkai, flattering him with their desire only to serve him. Peachy drills his hopeless rabble into a fighting force in a funny scene of un-coordinated exasperation. The resulting battle gives rise to another striking sequence where the entire battlefield of men abruptly and silently prostrate themselves before a crossing line of priests. They belong to Sikhander Gul, the Holy City and signal a turning point in the boys’ fortunes when a stray arrow caught by Danny’s bandolier is mistaken for him having the immortality of a God. This accelerates their plans when the high priests summon him to be verified in the Holy City, leading to a second stroke of luck courtesy of Masonry when his lodge pendant is judged to be proof that he is the coming of the fabled son of Sikhander(Alexander the Great).

From this point, Danny and Peachy find their wildest dreams have come true – but an ancient horde of priceless treasure and the unquestioning loyalty of a kingdom corrupts weak mortal men. Whereas Peachy is smart enough to want to leave in the spring while their luck holds, Danny gradually becomes fatally seduced by his position. He assumes a Solomon-like pose of wisdom in his dispensing of justice to the villagers and requests that even Peachy bows to him in public. He develops such delusions of grandeur that he views his entire life as fated to lead him here: “You call it luck. I call it destiny”. Despite the protestations of his old friend and the blasphemy accusations of the priests, he decrees he will take an earthly wife. (This turns out to be Michael Caine’s real-life wife, the beautiful Shakira Caine). It not only breaks Danny’s side of their pact, but seals their doom when she resists his advances with a cheek bite in the ceremony that reveals his mortal vulnerability. The men flee for their lives, loyally backed by Billy Fish who bravely sacrifices himself with swashbuckling sword to the vengeful crowd enveloping him.

As the incensed Kafiris descend on them, Peachy and Danny touchingly reaffirm their friendship, the strongest theme in the film. Danny asks his friend sincerely to forgive him “On account of being so bleedin’ high and bloody mighty”. Equally poignantly, Peachy does so instantly and unquestioningly. He is forced to watch his friend walk the rope bridge and have it cut from under him as he lustily sings a brave anthem falling to his death.

When Peachy completes his story in Kipling’s office, by way of proof of their unbelievable adventure, he leaves a memento that he kept with him all the way through his homeward ordeal. It is the crowned skull of his best friend who truly had become King of Kafiristan – an enduring testament not just to vanity and greed but to brotherhood and lives burned brightly…

THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING is a perfect Sunday afternoon escapist thrill-ride, a captivating tale enriched by terrific performances all round and spectacular sets of epic scale in the days before CGI.

No. 99 - Sexual Boundaries - SUNDAY BLOODY SUNDAY (1971)

SUNDAY BLOODY SUNDAY (1971)

After his superb yet bleak MIDNIGHT COWBOY, director John Schlesinger tackled gay characters again, but this time showed them absorbed more into mainstream middle-class society rather than portraying a marginalised seedy subculture as in the previous film. This makes SUNDAY BLOODY SUNDAY ahead of its time as the film deals not with homosexual relationships as an overt right-on crusade but as simply a part of accepted modernity and is all the more refreshing for it.

The story is a love triangle; at its centre is Bob, a young good-looking free-wheeling conceptual artist of businessmen’s stress relief office toys (Murray Head, notable later also for starring in the musical CHESS). He has simultaneous love affairs with Alex Greville (Glenda Jackson), a frustrated recruitment consultant as well as Daniel Hirsch, a Jewish G.P. For Bob, these affairs are fun stopping-off points in his wind-swept life, whereas to his older lovers, the relationship has more meaning. Both Daniel and Alex want more than he is prepared to give and in their own way demonstrate a poignant yearning for greater substance.

Alex spends a weekend with Bob house-sitting for the children of annoyingly ultra-liberal friends, the kind who call their Rottweiler ‘Kenyatta’ and allow their kids to run amok without traditional barriers. At one point their eldest little girl asks them: “Are you bourgeois?” whilst an even younger son (who can’t be more than six) sits on their bed smoking a doobie he’s pilfered from his dad’s stash. The cut-glass accents make this very middle-class world hard to relate to as well, but Jackson subtly conveys her need in a way that is universal as Bob vanishes to see Daniel. She can’t bring herself to say her competitor’s name. Bob spends the afternoon in a tryst with Daniel, all handled with admirable matter-of-fact ease including a full-mouthed kiss which must still have been rare on screen at this time.

On Bob’s return to fix a power cut, Alex seethes with barely-suppressed jealousy: “Perhaps you’re spreading yourself a little thin”. When the family dog is accidentally run over in the street, his death triggers a burst of remembered separation anxiety in Alex from when her father left the house in war-time without his gas-mask. She is a product of tough love by her parents, a wealthy but remote couple (Peggy Ashcroft and Maurice Denham). Her mother brusquely condemns her for not settling down, pessimistically summing up life as a dull enforced endurance of broken dreams: “There is no ‘whole thing’. You have to make it work”

Daniel also struggles with the knowledge that he is sharing his lover. There is a nice wordless sequence where both he and Alex consecutively drive past Bob’s flat, glancing up longingly at his window before passing by. Daniel has a history of troublesome lovers. There’s a brief sequence reuniting him with Jon Finch (sadly to be under-used in the 1970s) as a badly Glaswegian-accented thieving bit of rough trade. His patients present him with cases that cause him to reflect on the small emotional scraps he subsists on. He attempts to cheer up June Brown, (later to find fame as hard-bitten Dot Cotton in EASTENDERS) as she recounts her life’s sexless quiet desperation. “People can manage on very little” he tells the family of a patient of his at death’s door in hospital. Even civilised dinner parties reveal the cracks of others’ lives when a friend couple argue during a games night about the husband’s attention paid to their au pair. Daniel at least gains solace from the structure (or stricture) of his Jewish faith when he attends a Barmitzvah – a scene featuring some soaringly beautiful canto singing.

Finally, Alex and Daniel meet when Bob inevitably leaves for New York. They not only have their young lover in common – they also realise that each must move on instead of trying to cling to this youthful free spirit.

The three performances give SUNDAY BLOODY SUNDAY the engaging quality of many of its scenes. Head has the easier time of it but plays a maddening light elusiveness naturally. The heavy lifting is done by Finch and Jackson who both suffer with compelling gravity. Jackson has an unusual sex appeal that’s hard to define but has directness and sensitivity that deservedly helped her Academy Awards either side of this film in both drama and comedy. Finch conveys a subtler storm of anxiety than his riveting Howard Beale in NETWORK (1976) yet earns our sympathy, particularly in a final scene that breaks the fourth wall as a delicate confessional to camera. He echoes the film’s running theme of coping with ‘half a loaf’ of a relationship instead of nothing and is at last honest with himself and resigned about his needs: “All my life I’ve been looking for someone courageous, resourceful. He’s not it…but something”. This sequence has the power of Dysart’s end speech in EQUUS andeven more powerful for its understatement.

SUNDAY BLOODY SUNDAY is a rare film about permissive sexuality that achieves as much as an angry polemic arguing the case for acceptance by assuming we’re already in a society unsurprised by homosexual relationships, and focuses more on the vulnerabilities that unite us all regardless of orientation...