Originally one of the key players in San Francisco's anarchic early hardcore scene, within just a few years Lowell Pickett had degenerated into pumping out generic storefront grinders barely hinting at the wit and creativity he managed prior. His last credited directorial effort on IMDb, DIARY OF A YOUNG EROTIC WRITER, is just such an example: a sad, shaggy-dog epitaph to a once vibrant career.
Like most of Pickett's storefronts, WRITER is structured as a series of vignettes, with a framing sequence featuring the director and at least one other character at what appears to be a San Francisco kitchen table. Here that partner is the writer of the title. Pickett, her publisher, tells her her latest work isn't marketable, and all that's selling today is sex. Lacking the requisite experience to write what she knows, our protagonist heads out to do a bit of research.
Film at least proceeds in a semi-logical fashion, following this introduction with a solo scene where the heroine begins by exploring herself before heading to the streets. Unfortunately, following that, there's little of interest: she first hooks up with Jon Martin, looking about as youthful and handsome as I've seen him, before moving on to seduce gay interior decorator Paul Thomas (one more manifestation of a bizarre gay-to-straight seduction fixation common to a number of mid-'70s hetero films), trying a lesbian encounter, and finally experimenting with an orgy. It's all standard, off-the-shelf porn, mechanically performed and ticking boxes for all quadrants before returning to the office for a wrap-up. By this point in the '70s, any writer could have churned out this scenario and a corresponding treatment in his (or her) sleep.
Production values are threadbare, with the film looking like it was shot in a day in a bunch of apartment living rooms (which it surely was). Shooting for a bit of pizzaz, Pickett hangs some reflecting paper on the walls for the big climactic number, the closest this lazy farrago comes to panache. It's a sad and lazy conclusion to one of the seminal careers in film erotica, but judging by the quality onscreen, it's still best Pickett got out when he did - I'd hate to think of him stooping any lower.
Like most of Pickett's storefronts, WRITER is structured as a series of vignettes, with a framing sequence featuring the director and at least one other character at what appears to be a San Francisco kitchen table. Here that partner is the writer of the title. Pickett, her publisher, tells her her latest work isn't marketable, and all that's selling today is sex. Lacking the requisite experience to write what she knows, our protagonist heads out to do a bit of research.
Film at least proceeds in a semi-logical fashion, following this introduction with a solo scene where the heroine begins by exploring herself before heading to the streets. Unfortunately, following that, there's little of interest: she first hooks up with Jon Martin, looking about as youthful and handsome as I've seen him, before moving on to seduce gay interior decorator Paul Thomas (one more manifestation of a bizarre gay-to-straight seduction fixation common to a number of mid-'70s hetero films), trying a lesbian encounter, and finally experimenting with an orgy. It's all standard, off-the-shelf porn, mechanically performed and ticking boxes for all quadrants before returning to the office for a wrap-up. By this point in the '70s, any writer could have churned out this scenario and a corresponding treatment in his (or her) sleep.
Production values are threadbare, with the film looking like it was shot in a day in a bunch of apartment living rooms (which it surely was). Shooting for a bit of pizzaz, Pickett hangs some reflecting paper on the walls for the big climactic number, the closest this lazy farrago comes to panache. It's a sad and lazy conclusion to one of the seminal careers in film erotica, but judging by the quality onscreen, it's still best Pickett got out when he did - I'd hate to think of him stooping any lower.