Cheryl Stratton, a runaway teen in sleazy L.A., moves in with her estranged Aunt Martha, the proprietor of the last respectable hotel in the city, the King Edward. While Cheryl figures her life out, she comes into contact with the many weird denizens of this hotel — some debaucherous, some voyeuristic, some living double lives. They're all in some way shape or form sexually or morally deviant. Things take a turn when she runs into George, a young man living in the hotel who loves to spy on Cheryl, leaving gifts and notes in her room while she's out. To say anything else is to ruin the experience that is Private Parts.
But I will say this if you're still on the fence. This is a truly perverted psychological thriller with bursts of bizarre black comedy and disturbing horror that makes you go "woah, De Palma much?" — except it predates De Palma's first thriller, Sisters, by a couple of months, and is way more grindhouse and exploitative than even his trashiest of trash. Private Parts is simultaneously shocking, gleeful, and tastelessly ribald, in a way that only Paul Bartel could pull off. The final 5 minutes with the cops is like a comedic victory lap for the film — after trudging through all the weirdo sick shit you're gifted to an effortlessly hilarious sequence. Hard to recommend if you don't already have a propensity for low-rent trash that treat the taboo with a smile, but I live and breathe that shit, so this was an easy win.
Cheryl Stratton, a runaway teen in sleazy L.A., moves in with her estranged Aunt Martha, the proprietor of the last respectable hotel in the city, the King Edward. While Cheryl figures her life out, she comes into contact with the many weird denizens of this hotel — some debaucherous, some voyeuristic, some living double lives. They're all in some way shape or form sexually or morally deviant. Things take a turn when she runs into George, a young man living in the hotel who loves to spy on Cheryl, leaving gifts and notes in her room while she's out. To say anything else is to ruin the experience that is Private Parts.
But I will say this if you're still on the fence. This is a truly perverted psychological thriller with bursts of bizarre black comedy and disturbing horror that makes you go "woah, De Palma much?" — except it predates De Palma's first thriller, Sisters, by a couple of months, and is way more grindhouse and exploitative than even his trashiest of trash. Private Parts is simultaneously shocking, gleeful, and tastelessly ribald, in a way that only Paul Bartel could pull off. The final 5 minutes with the cops is like a comedic victory lap for the film — after trudging through all the weirdo sick shit you're gifted to an effortlessly hilarious sequence. Hard to recommend if you don't already have a propensity for low-rent trash that treat the taboo with a smile, but I live and breathe that shit, so this was an easy win.
