THE BEST LITTLE WHOREHOUSE IN TEXAS: Blu-ray (Universal-RKO, 1982) Universal Home Video
Sex and politics. Were there ever two more perfectly
attuned commodities destined to share the big screen…except - perhaps,
prostitution and politics? The parallel is astutely pointed out in Collin
Higgin’s The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas (1982) - both, screwing
people for money. Beginning life as a book by Larry L. King and Peter
Masterson, itself based on a real-life incident taking place at an old
established bordello in La Grange, Texas, the Broadway incarnation of this
all-but-forgotten slice o’ life would also include an ebullient score by Carol
Hall, setting the precepts and preconceptions of public morality on end with a
self-effacing ‘nothin’ dirty goin’ on’, pie-eyed attitude about the life
of a small town madam and her most ardent client, the beloved sheriff, Ed Earl
Dodd. With its shameless razzamatazz,
featuring high-stepping young bucks and bell-kicking broads leaping across the
proscenium, The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas on stage was proof
positive even the most seemingly ‘unseemly’ subject matter could set
toes tapping, enough to appeal to the secularist and more ‘morally high-minded’
prudes among us. As if more proof were needed, the original 1978 Broadway
spectacle, starring veteran actress, Alexis Smith as the flamboyant Miss Mona
and directed by Masterson, ran for a whopping 1,584 performances. As such, it
was only a matter of time before Hollywood took an interest.
The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas really falls
under the old rubric of ‘truth being far stranger than fiction’. The
tale of a civic-minded madam and her rocky romance with the ever-devoted town
sheriff really is the stuff of legend, prominently featured in a 1970 Playboy
magazine article. But the story of this ‘little house’ of ill repute was
actually first brought to light by white-haired muckraking sensationalist,
Houston KTRK-TV ‘watchdog’ reporter, Marvin Zindler. The real Chicken Ranch had
a history perhaps even more ridiculous and striking than its filmic
incarnation. The name derives from the ‘ranch’s need to accept live poultry in
trade for services rendered during the Great Depression, the girl’s income
supplemented by selling surplus chickens and eggs to the local town’s folk –
or, as the film’s opening narration charmingly puts it “one bird, one lay.”
Established in 1844, the quiet little house achieved a new level of renown when
its second proprietress, Miss Jessie Williams took over operations in 1908.
From 1917 onward, Williams proudly advertised the Chicken Ranch as a respite
for visiting servicemen. Outwardly, it resembled nothing more than a large
farmhouse, ever expanding to handle the steadily increasing foot traffic. To
ensure the safety of her clientele and her girls, Williams would patrol the
hallways at night with an iron baton in hand, ready to strike if she heard
murmurs of some ‘spurious’ activity threatening the welfare of her working
girls from beyond closed doors. In the evenings, local sheriff, Will Loessin
would pay a ‘friendly call’ on Williams, gaining valuable insight into guests
who often felt free to brag about their complicity in local crimes.
Inadvertently, the brothel was responsible for decreasing the overall crime
rate in La Grange and Fayette County.
In 1946, T.J. Flournoy assumed the role of sheriff,
installing a direct line so he could pursue his predecessor’s policy of gaining
information without actually driving out to the ranch. By the time Williams’
favorite working girl, Edna Milton assumed control of the property in 1961, the
Chicken Ranch was one of Texas’ most profitable ‘institutions’, drawing a
yearly income of $500,000 while blissfully flying under the radar of local law
enforcement. It was also generally tolerated by the citizens of La Grange.
Milton, in fact, became something of a respected business woman, supporting
local charities, providing generous donations to the hospital fund and
supplying the little league baseball club with its necessities to operate. She
also maintained a strict set of house rules for ‘her girls’, paying all of
their living and medical expenses, plus a small stipend afforded each as
spending money. Williams’ rules were simple. Every girl working at the ranch
would be a lady: no drinking, carousing or visits to bars. No tattoos either,
because, again as the movie puts it, “brands belong on cattle and that ain’t
what they’re sellin’ at Miss Mona’s!” Each girl was fingerprinted and
underwent an extensive background check. And, every last one was required to
submit to regularly administered health exams. A lot of this history is covered
in the prologue to the movie version of The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas,
and in the song ‘Twenty Fans’ that serves as a historical montage for
the Chicken Ranch’s varied history.
Alas, Milton and her brothel were much too public to
remain a secret for very long. Indeed, by the time Zindler broke his story, the
Chicken Ranch had played host to scores of politicians. A nearby military base
readily taxied its personnel back and forth for ‘recreational purposes’ by
helicopter, while Texas A&M University marked an annual tradition by
sending its freshmen, graduating class and winning football teams there for
exclusive ‘celebrations’. Despite
Milton’s claim in later years, that the only part of this history the movie
‘got right’ was that ‘there was a chicken ranch in Texas’, a lot of the
screenplay, co-written by the play’s originators, Larry L. King and Peter
Masterson, with an assist from Colin Higgins, remains faithful to this vibrant
memoir and the little house’s lamentable downfall, adding music and comedy to
its tapestry of life, while fabricating a ‘romance’ between its rechristened
main characters, madam, Miss Mona (Dolly Parton) and Sheriff Ed Earl Dodd. Perhaps
Milton took umbrage to these artistic embellishments because they seemed so
clearly to mirror Marvin Zindler’s flamboyant and ongoing exposĂ© to have
toppled her empire. Zindler attempted to draw an amorous causal link between
Williams and Flournoy, also suggesting to Governor Dolph Briscoe that Williams
was rolling in millions and heavily mobbed up with organized crime. Flournoy
readily denied either he or his deputies had received payoffs or bribes to look
the other way or to keep the peace at the Chicken Ranch. Despite his best
efforts, Zindler was never able to prove any of his accusations. In the end, he
merely exposed to the nation at large the ‘great shame’ of a bordello in
operation for more than a hundred years. This, it seems, was enough to force
Briscoe’s hand. He ordered the Chicken Ranch immediately shut down, despite
Flournoy arriving at his offices with a hand-signed petition of 3,000
signatures to counter the closure.
Director/writer, Colin Higgins had seen The Best
Little Whorehouse in Texas on Broadway; enchanted by its lighthearted
approach to telling this tall tale. Higgins, who earned a Masters of Fine Arts
from UCLA and had a pair of sizable hits under his belt with 1971’s Harold
and Maude and 1980’s 9 to 5 would see his final flourish of success
co-writing and directing The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas; a
promising career cut short by the AIDS virus in 1988. In 1982, Higgins endured
the slings and arrows of a more conservative mindset. The word ‘whorehouse’ was
actually considered an obscenity in parts of the U.S., necessitating the film’s
title being changed in some print ads to ‘The Best Little Cathouse in Texas’.
To help bolster public appeal, Higgins went for the high-gloss treatment,
signing Burt Reynolds, Dolly Parton and Dom DeLuise to helm the picture. Even
so, it became necessary for all three stars to go on an aggressive PR campaign
to explain their participation on the project. Not surprising, Parton became
the most outspoken of the group, saying “I think it’s a big responsibility
we have to protect the public. So, I gave it a lot of thought. I talked to my
folks…I saw it as a story about life…these people, have personalities and
reasons for being who and what they are. I think I know what my audience wants
from me. I depend on the audience a lot.” Both Reynolds and DeLuise backed
up their decision by basically initiating the argument that ‘hookers are
people too’. Reynolds drew upon remembrances of his own father who was a
Southern law man, defending Sheriff Dodd as a ‘moral man’ who cannot bring
himself to propose to the woman he loves because of his own conflicted morality
regarding her chosen profession, even if it was the second oldest one in the
world. In reality, Reynolds’ apprehensions while making the picture had more to
do with his lack of skills as a singer. His previous foray into musicals,
1975’s At Long Last Love, had been an unmitigated disaster. Yet, on The
Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, he almost pulls off the illusion of being
a musical/comedy star, studying with a vocal coach for nearly two months, and
taught to half-speak his lines on pitch, much in the way Rex Harrison had done
for My Fair Lady (1964).
In transposing the property from stage to screen,
director, Colin Higgins thinned out Carol Hall’s song catalog considerably. He
also made alterations to the remaining score, chiefly to ‘clean up’ its
explicit and sexually charged references to avoid the dreaded ‘X’ rating,
coming up with even more cleverly masked and subliminal double entendre and
innuendo. Gone was the ‘prologue’, the song ‘Twenty Fans’ serving
as the film’s opener, married to ‘A Lil' Ole Bitty Pissant Country Place’.
Both numbers provide the necessary musical bridge to cover a vast spectrum of
time and ‘lay’ of the land, to be covered in greater detail thereafter. Also
lost were several ballads including, ‘Girl, You're a Woman’ meant as a
tender moment between Miss Mona and her girls, and ‘Twenty Four Hours of
Lovin’ – another female bonding moment, between Mona’s cook, Jewel (Theresa
Meritt) and the girls. The rambunctious ‘Watch Dog Theme’ and ‘Texas
Has A Whorehouse in It’ were combined into a single number for Melvin P.
Thorpe’s television broadcast. Two more novelty songs, ‘Doatsy Mae’ and
the ‘Angelette March’, plus Miss Mona’s introspective, ‘The Bus from
Amarillo’ were left on the cutting room floor. Higgins also showed no mercy
to the slower paced ‘No Lies’ and ‘Good Old Girl’ - the former, a
charmer featuring Mona, Jewel and the girls, the latter a farewell counterpoint
to the triumphant ‘Aggie’s Song’ as A&M’s football seniors lament
the passing of an era with the enforced shut down of the Chicken Ranch. To
compensate for these omissions, Dolly Parton contributed four new songs and a
reprise of her 1974 smash single, ‘I Will Always Love You’. Another, ‘Down
at the Chick-Chick-Chicken Ranch’ would be used for the film’s trailer
only. Ultimately, ‘Sneakin’ Around’ was the only ‘new’ song to appear in
the film. Parton’ s other major contribution, ‘Where The Stallions Run’ was
recorded and filmed by Burt Reynolds, but cut from the final print for time
constraints before the general release. Ironically, when the American censors
had their way with the televised broadcast of the movie, this latter song was
reinstated into the picture to make up for the ruthless discrepancies in
editing that had whittled down the movie’s 2 hr. run time to barely 88 minutes.
For the cast album, contractual obligations necessitated the re-recording of
two songs - a more complete rendition of ‘I Will Always Love You’ and a
repurposed ‘Hard Candy Christmas’, featuring only Dolly Parton’s vocals.
In the film, this latter number is sung by Parton’s Miss Mona and the departing
prostitutes awaiting the bus to take them to parts unknown.
The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas is a charmingly
bucolic piece of cinema escapism, beginning with its opener, relocated to the
town of Gilbert, Texas. Deputy Fred (Jim Nabors) leads us through the movie’s
prologue, touching upon some of the little house’s history already mentioned in
this review. We are introduced to Sheriff Ed Earl Dodd (Burt Reynolds), a
beloved authority figure who likes himself just a wee too much. We also meet
Miss Mona Stangley (Dolly Parton), the buxom proprietress of the bordello, her
devoted cook and housekeeper, Jewel (Theresa Merritt) and ‘the girls’, an
eclectic ensemble of taut bodies, peroxide blondes, raven-haired brunettes, and
henna-colored harlots, wearing a stunning assortment of feather boas, halters,
sequined panties and other sundry costuming, designed by Theodora Van Runkle,
whose creations leave very little to the imagination. Deputy Fred informs us of
his predecessor’s quandary. Ed Earl’s enduring passion for Mona. The two are
having an affair. On the flipside, the sheriff is admired by café owner, Dulcie
Mae (Lois Nettleton), a widow with a young son (Bobby Fite). Ed Earl enjoys
being a weekend daddy to the boy. But he doesn’t love Dulcie Mae. And he is
commitment shy too, fearing what marrying Miss Mona might do to his future
ambitions to pursue a career in the state legislature. The town is quite
contented to have Miss Mona and her girls living on the outskirts of their small
hamlet. After all, most of the menfolk frequent the bordello. The girls are
respectable and generate revenue by frequenting the shops and restaurants. And
Miss Mona is a civic-minded and very generous philanthropist, even buying
uniforms for the town’s little league baseball team.
Trouble arises when the town’s council gets wind of a
news story about the Chicken Ranch to be broadcast from Houston as part of
Melvin P. Thorpe’s (Dom DeLuise) Watchdog Report telecast. Ed Earl promises to
make Melvin see things his way. Indeed, despite their hurried meeting inside
Melvin’s dressing room as he prepares for the telecast by stuffing a sock down
his underpants and strapping his formidable paunch into a girdle, Melvin seems
to be a very congenial and accommodating sort, explaining the awesome power of
TV as able to ‘get the mayor’s own children to throw rocks at him’. Melvin
promises Ed Earl he will be firm, but kind, in his assessment of the Chicken
Ranch - all evidence to the contrary as the broadcast begins. Melvin turns on
Ed Earl whom he has ushered into the sponsor’s booth, clearly visible by the
audience, pointing a violent finger to shame him and the Chicken Ranch as
blights on the good name of Texas. A few days later, Melvin arrives in Gilbert
to pursue a live broadcast follow-up. Ed Earl has had quite enough of Melvin,
threatening him with his gun and sending the newscaster frantically scrambling
for the relative safety of his truck after causing him to slip and fall in the
town square’s lily pond. That evening, Melvin eviscerates Ed Earl’s reputation
on air, heavily censoring the raw footage shot in Gilbert to present Dodd as a
foul-mouthed dictator. Tensions mount as Texas A&M Aggie football game
approaches. The seniors have already been promised a party at the ranch if they
win. But Ed Earl encourages Mona to shut down for a few days – at least until
the fervor created by Melvin’s broadcast can blow over. Mona agrees, but then
remembers her commitment to the team and Senator Charles Wingwood (Robert Mandan)
whom she has known for years. Electing to merely close the brothel to local
traffic, but still entertain the Aggies, Mona’s decision proves fatal when
Melvin assails the Chicken Ranch in the dead of night with his television crew,
filming the footballers and Wingwood in various stages of undress and in the
comfort of Mona’s girls, gleefully shouting, ‘Senator…the eyes of Texas are
upon you’ and ‘Miss Mona? Gottcha!’
Ed Earl arrives too late to prevent this media deluge,
later confronting Mona about her betrayal of the promise she made to him to
remain closed for a few days. As push turns to shove, Mona admonishes Ed Earl’s
dreams for the legislature as just that – dreams – never to be fulfilled
because Dodd is just a ‘chicken-shit sheriff in a chicken-shit town.’ “Maybe
so,” he cruelly admits, “But it’s a hell of a lot better than being a
whore.” Mona is deeply wounded by Ed Earl’s accusation precisely because
she has not been with any other man since having fallen in love with him. He,
of course, does not know this. And she will also remain in the dark about his
deep regrets over their heated exchange and his impassioned plea to the
Governor (Charles Durning), filing a counter petition to keep the Chicken Ranch
open. Alas, the Governor is dictated by the polls. The numbers suggest more
Texans want the bordello shuttered for good.
Ed Earl telephone’s Mona with the news without ever telling her of his
valiant trip to Austin. Instead, she learns the truth from one of her girls. As
each prepares to depart, Mona bids a bittersweet farewell to the lives they
have all known with the film’s second-most potent ballad, ‘Hard Candy
Christmas’.
After the bus leaves, Mona and Jewel prepare the
house, selling off the fixtures and furniture, except for the few meager
belongings they intend to take with them as they prepare to move in together in
another place in another town. These plans are thwarted with Ed Earl’s arrival.
He proposes marriage. Mona confesses her enduring love for him but also
confides she has known all along Ed Earl’s aspirations for the legislature were
feasible, if only he would forsake their romance and move on. We hear the most
poignant ballad ‘I Will Always Love You’ – the song, Dolly Parton made
famous in 1974. It would again rise in the top ten on the billboards after
The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas’ debut. Ed Earl interrupts Mona. He
does not give a damn about the future if she is not there to share it. Sweeping
Mona off her feet – literally (in a chivalrous and spontaneous gesture that
actually gave Burt Reynolds a hernia), Ed Earl carries Mona to his waiting
truck, tossing her luggage into the back and tearing off across the open field
toward parts unknown. In a voiceover narration, we learn from Deputy Fred that
Ed Earl made it to the state legislature and he and Miss Mona were eventually
married – presumably, living happily ever after, marking an end to the legend
of the Chicken Ranch.
In spite of its ‘R’ rating, The Best Little
Whorehouse in Texas went on to gross $69,701,637 in its initial release, a
sizable hit for Universal who had initially tread very reluctantly on the
project, despite Colin Higgin’s passion to direct it. Production designer,
Robert F. Boyle’s quaint recreation of the sprawling farmhouse subbing in for
the real Chicken Ranch has long since been a part of Universal’s backlot studio
tour, appearing slightly redressed in episodes of TV’s Murder She Wrote,
The Ghost Whisper and Providence, as well as prominently featured
in several movies shot on the backlot. The house is as much a character in this
film as its flesh and blood inhabitants, a multi-room, cozily lit and welcoming
series of interiors with a crooked staircase rising to its second story of
bedrooms. In the final analysis, The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas
lives up to its trailer’s invitation for ‘slick talkin’, quick walkin’ sexy
good fun’, the lyrics to Parton’s song encouraging viewers to ‘come on
down and get them some’…her final declaration in the actual movie, ‘Y’all
come back now, y’hear?’ serving as a perennial RSVP to partake of its
cheerful idiocy and countrified charm. As the original poster art suggests “With
Burt and Dolly this much fun can’t be legal.”
The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas found its way
to Blu-ray back in 2016. And while much of it looked passably attractive then, the 2.35:1
image exhibiting bouncy colors, natural flesh tones, and, some solid contrast,
there is little doubt the elements used were from a print master and not an
OCN. There’s just a lack of total refinement to this image and a lingering
residual softness with ever so slightly scrubbed film grain, though mercifully,
not to egregious waxy levels Uni is sometimes prone. Close-ups of Dolly Parton look
about as appealing as orange sherbet at a springtime country fair – two scoops,
please! I’ve always loved Dolly and in
Theodora Van Runkle’s cleavage-revealing costumes, she bursts forth a bona fide
and very glamorous musical/comedy star. William A. Fraker’s sumptuous
cinematography is compromised however. Shots of the Governor’s mansion exhibit
a slight strobe effect, akin to watching an analog broadcast while a plane is
flying overhead. And outdoor photography can occasionally veer toward some
harsh contrast with anemic colors. We do get some gorgeous aerial shots of
Texas, burnt brown pastures and green foliage very expressively represented. Age-related
artifacts are gone. But the intermittent telecine wobble is fairly distracting. The brand spanking new 5.1 DTS greatly benefits
the score. Even so, dialogue continues to sound tinny, lacking bass. I am
pretty certain this is in keeping with the original thin Foley for which a good
many early 80’s movies are guilty. Extras are limited to something Universal
calls a ‘making of’ – actually a press junket slapped together at the
time Higgins was shooting the movie to promote its upcoming release. We also
get a few hilarious outtakes, the cast flubbing their lines, plus, the
exceptionally badly worn trailer incorporating Dolly Parton’s unused song ‘Down
at the Chick-Chick-Chicken Ranch’ initially planned as the musical prologue
to the actual movie. Still missing is Burt Reynold’s solo number, Where The
Stallions Run – excised from the film before it his theaters, but later
reinstated for the network television debut of the movie – and sorely missed
herein. I think if nothing else, Reynolds singing abilities in Peter
Bogdanovich’s At Long Last Love (1975) prove he was no Mario Lanza. But
I fondly remember his solo from this movie as it had the right sad and far away
reminiscences of an aging cowboy who suddenly realizes his life isn’t worth a
damn without the woman he truly loves lying by his side. Again, not great in
terms of musical range, but affecting nonetheless. Bottom line: The Best Little Whorehouse in
Texas is a joyously obtuse and highly enjoyable trip to the backwoods for a
little R&R.
FILM RATING (out of 5 – 5 being the
best)
4
VIDEO/AUDIO
3.5
EXTRAS
1
Comments