When it comes to bad films, something that is not often discussed in much detail is that, if one waits long enough, even the worst films tend to have some kind of critical re-evaluation, even if it is small and restricted to quite a limited group of individuals. Every film considered the worst will be subjected to efforts to make it into a cult classic, and while the vast majority will fail, there are a select few that will succeed in this endeavour. For over half a century, Myra Breckinridge has been the subject of ridicule and scorn by the industry and audiences alike, and while it may have softened over time, it remains a polarizing work, but those who have a fondness for it will go to the ends of the earth to defend. Based on the novel by the iconic provocateur and intellectual Gore Vidal, who set out to write the most bawdy, off-colour satire imaginable, the film tells the simple story of Myra Breckinridge, formerly Myron, who undergoes a gender reassignment surgery to become the epitome of glamour, using her blend of cunning and seductive good looks to take advantage of everyone she encounters by pretending to be her widow, including the wealthy uncle that she plans to fleece for half of his fortune. Naturally, there are various twists and turns along the way, and it becomes a much more complex work after a while, but its attempts to weave together an intricate plot that is based around sexuality and gender is quite ahead of its time, and while it is by no means a good film in the traditional sense, it is not difficult to understand why there has been a concerted effort to reconfigure this film as something much more important than just pure trash cinema, and instead asking us to view it as both a product of its time and a daring attempt to take a few leaps forward in the direction of a more loosely-defined, libertarian style of filmmaking, which matches the direction in which a lot of art was moving at the time, with Vidal, in particular, being one of the most notable voices in subversive literature.

1970 was a banner year for supposed “trash cinema” – John Waters released Multiple Maniacs, which is considered his first official film after music rights kept Mondo Trasho in the vaults for decades, and Leonard Kastle helmed a harrowing account of true life lovers-on-the-run in the audacious and unsettling The Honeymoon Killers, a film far more terrifying than any traditional work of horror. It seemed like the industry was growing steadily more comfortable with the idea of producing films that set out to provoke audiences, or at least we could see this emerging from the roots of the independent film movement. Myra Breckinridge is quite an anomaly – it was a bigger production from a major studio and featured some of the most notable names working in Hollywood at the time, who somehow saw the script for this film and ultimately agreed to participate, even though this kind of subject matter was still somewhat taboo, or at the very least not seen as being part and parcel of conventional society. There is value in the concept of making films that push boundaries to the breaking point – consider how often have we seen variations of Water’s timeless adage that one has to have good taste to fully understand bad taste. This is something that Vidal implicitly understood, and which made his original novel such an unorthodox sensation. Whether or not the story’s journey to the screen was sufficient in capturing the same aspects is another matter entirely – Vidal was initially commissioned to write the screenplay before being booted off the project, and director Michael Sarne was asked to helm the project, despite not being the most seasoned of filmmakers, his only previous credit being Joanna, a mildly-appreciated drama about the Swinging Sixties, and a far cry from the level of eccentricity needed for this production. However, everyone seemed to be under the impression that the best way to explore this material would be through dismissing all logic and setting out to tell this story in as eccentric a way as possible without entirely losing the spark of ingenuity that defined the source text.

For some filmmakers, choosing the right actors for roles entails finding those who can embody the essence of the characters and play towards their strengths. Myra Breckinridge is the kind of film that forms itself from the opposite direction – the moment most of these actors signed on, the roles were reconfigured to fit them, and had anyone else played most of the central roles, we’d have gotten a radically different film. Raquel Welch, at the start of what was to be the peak of her career, takes a risk in playing the titular role, a transgender woman who weaponizes the fact that she is the spitting image of Raquel Welch (which becomes a plot point in the story, one of the many delightful metafictional aspects of the film) to take advantage of both men and women, using her bombastic sexuality as her greatest asset. Welch was never the strongest performer, but she knew how to command the screen, and she’s a delight in this film, which may not be her signature role, but certainly shows how she was willing to take a risk. Somehow, John Huston agreed to play quite a large supporting role in the film, and despite being the definition of Hollywood royalty, he paid no need to how he’d be perceived after starring in such a sordid, trashy comedy, which reflected in his performance, which is an off-the-wall, eccentric portrayal of the archetypal Hollywood megalomaniac – one even has to wonder whether or not he was riffing off the producers and executives he encountered throughout his career when forming this character. Finally, the main attraction of Myra Breckinridge is Mae West, who may have quite a small role, but proves to be the most memorable aspect of the film, to the point where she was first billed. Once again, much like Welch and Huston, she is cast simply to play a version of herself under a different name, the same wisecracking, brassy broad that she always portrayed being alive and well in this film – and if Myra Breckinridge does nothing else, at least it serves to be a reminder of how profoundly fortunate we were to have someone like West working in Hollywood. Not a film driven by performances, but still defined by them in quite an abstract way, Myra Breckinridge is quite a peculiar work, and the ensemble works closely with the text to create something quite compelling.

Myra Breckinridge is certainly an exercise in persistence if there ever was one, and it would be shocking to find anyone who actually can view this film as merely light entertainment, rather than an attempt to push boundaries further than any point of recognition would allow. There is merit to this kind of storytelling, and as we’ve seen from many directors who have built their careers on shocking audiences, the tone is always integral to such a project. Stepping into this film without prior knowledge is certainly bound to be quite an experience for the prospective viewer – the humour is off-the-wall and difficult to pinpoint, and the entire film is driven by a sense of eccentricity that eclipses the narrative, almost to the point where it is more appropriate to view the film as a stream-of-consciousness narrative. It’s foolish to even attempt to apply rational ideas to this film, and we soon find that the most meaningful elements are those that are less detailed and exist purely to draw our attention back to the sheer stupidity of this story. Tonally, Myra Breckinridge makes as much sense as it does narratively, which is to say that it is almost non-existent, which is part of the overall appeal of this film, which is a much more engaging work than we may expect at first, granted we can suspend disbelief and just surrender to the sheer absurdity that propels this film and pushes it forward. It’s not one in which logic ever applies, and while it may take a few scenes to fully understand the specific register it has chosen for itself, it is very clear that there is something very different about how this film approaches its ideas. For some viewers it can be off-putting and repulsive, and for others wickedly entertaining and profoundly interesting. Like everything else Vidal has written, Myra Breckinridge is a story that depends on the audience’s perspective, and while the film is unfortunately a pale imitation of the depth of the novel, it still retains a lot of the chaotic charm, which is why a lot of viewers have been swayed towards viewing it as a much more intriguing film than it may have appeared to be on the surface.

I find myself at something of a crossroads with Myra Breckinridge, which is not an easy film to discuss when you can see both sides of the critical debate – the reasons for it being a reviled work of trash cinema are just as evident as the elements that went into making it a film appreciated by a large portion of the audience, so choosing a side can be quite challenging. I veer towards the positive for the most part, especially since this was never meant to be a film that should be taken seriously, and any attempt to do so is bound to result in complete disappointment. It’s a hilariously irreverent film and one that does serve an unexpected purpose – the queer community has claimed this film as an early example of the cinema that was unequivocal in its portrayal of themes relating to supposed alternative lifestyles, and while it may be quite dated in its terminology, and the main character’s bisexuality is directly tied to her predatory behaviour, the film does ultimately prove to be quite a statement, which is essential all the queer community at the time was hoping to achieve through their art, which they believed could start the conversation, and if it wasn’t through peaceful means, it might as well be through disturbing the peace and ruffling a few feathers. It’s daring filmmaking that required a lot of nerve and gumption, and the final result may not be perfect, but Myra Breckinridge is still a terrific film, and one that is due for another retrospective by the broader audience, who may find more merit in this supposedly wretched film, and can hopefully bring it to a place where it is more appreciated as a piece of devil-may-care subversion handcrafted by some truly demented artists at their peak.