The writer-director’s second movie lacks some of the craft shown in his later work, but remains a stylish and energetic descent into the cocaine-fulled world of the 70s adult film industry
Masculinity was never more fragile than in Paul Thomas Anderson’s picaresque porn comedy from 1997, inspired by the life and times of 70s/80s LA adult movie star John Holmes. It’s a film that delivers the era’s jukebox slams on the soundtrack, though oddly not the Heatwave classic that provides the title. But Boogie Nights gives the male-gaze world of porn a taste of its own phallocentric medicine. How does it feel for a guy to be known and valued for just one thing, and then mocked and even hated when that one thing shrivels?
What happens, in fact, is that our detumescent hero symbolically turns to the more reliably priapic world of guns and crime, although not without first embarrassingly trying to make it as a singer. (David Foster Wallace, in his 1998 essay Big Red Son, about the Adult Movie awards in Las Vegas, compares the event’s musical interludes to the ghastly screeching in Boogie Nights.) Twenty-six-year-old Mark Wahlberg plays handsome young teen Eddie, or Dirk Diggler, as he is later professionally to style himself who, while working behind the bar in a nightclub in California’s San Fernando Valley in 1977 (where he supplements his income by jerking off in the kitchens at the bidding of paying voyeur customers) he meets silver-fox porn impresario Jack Horner, played with leathery assurance and style by Burt Reynolds.
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