Paul Schrader’s third directorial feature branches off from his previous work in its depiction of the other side of the seedy urban underbelly George C. Scott navigates in Hardcore. If Jake Van Dorn’s search for his daughter had taken him to the more chic and upscale sections of Los Angeles, perhaps he would have run into Julian Kaye, the male escort with inflated prices and an even more inflated view of himself. Unlike Van Dorn, who seeks personal redemption via his travails through a wicked environment, Kaye genuinely believes that what he does is not only helpful but, in some way, righteous: “Giving pleasure to women…Should I feel guilty about that?” Despite Kaye’s rationalizing, Schrader makes it clear from the opening scenes that this man views his job as work, with little emotional involvement. His detached relationship to the women he services as well as his procurer hints at well-founded narcissism but also his inability (or lack of interest) to connect on a deep level with anyone in his life. For Julian, the women he services are no different than the one who sends him to the jobs in the first place. What seems to be of real value to him are his material possessions: his Mercedes-Benz, his enormous closet of designer clothing, his luxurious Westwood apartment, but also his status with nearly everyone with whom he comes into contact. As he walks down the strjeet or through a crowd, Schrader makes sure the camera, the extras, and the audience focus solely on Julian, who seems to revel in the limelight. Women aren’t objectified because, for Julian, that takes the attention off of him.

The title sequence of the film establishes many of its themes and aspects, not the least of which is the mood and tone of the story, which illustrates the movie’s reaction to a slimy but intriguing creature. With a pulsating rhythm leading into Blondie’s upbeat but forlorn ‘Call Me’ over the opening credits, to see Julian work showcases how much he enjoys the benefits of his job, which include a luxurious lifestyle. Driving all over the Los Angeles area doesn’t seem to bother him; if there are beautiful clothes, restaurants and older women waiting, he is happy to travel. Yet, this sequence establishes the central truth of Julian’s existence: he is lonely, as isolated as Travis Bickle or Jake Van Dorn. What is unusual is that Julian Kaye appears to enjoy his solitude, using almost every waking moment to prepare for the next job in one form or another. In a sense, Schrader crafts a character who works as hard as his automakers in Blue Collar. The fact that what he does is unseemly only highlights the difference in moral values. Additionally, American Gigolo shows an evolution in Schrader’s treatment of lonely men. Initially they were bitter and occasionally self-reflective, but mostly in denial about their true feelings. Julian, however, is initially at ease with his isolation, using it as a source of power and fascination, and shows no resentment about being framed for murder. What is most upsetting is his loss of status and the realization that much of his existence was based upon a fragile construct of lies, deceit, and ersatz relationships.

Despite his continuing fascination with solitary men traversing specific subcultures, what is least memorable of Schrader’s character study here is the murder subplot which feels shoe-horned into the life of a man too careful to leave himself vulnerable to such machinations. In a way, this may be Schrader’s intention. One of the clearest influences on this film is Robert Bresson’s Pickpocket, which tells a similar tale of a crooked, lonely man whose frequent encounters with a young woman chip away at his selfishness and indifference until he cannot resist any longer. The thought of combining Bresson’s religious, unadorned themes with a materialistic, narcissistic male prostitute must have been too good for Schrader to resist. Yet, with all the style Schrader employs to tell this story, upon closesr inspection the ending appears less plausible. The pulsing, synchronized score by Giorgio Moroder, the harsh cool blues of John Bailey’s photography and the chic, simplistically elegant clothing of Giorgio Armani all contribute to the construction of a man who works for his own shallow interests and the brief, carnal pleasures of his clientele. Anything else is out of his reach and interest, including eroticism and love. Before the false ending there is a glaringly ‘false’ love scene in which the editing and score make it seem more like a calisthenics video of the latter half of the decade than two people throwing inhibitions aside and dangerously getting involved with one another. In the scene, Schrader’s camera focuses on legs, arms, hands, and the chest of Lauren Hutton, but it is filmed in as un-erotic a manner as possible. Immediately after this passionless moment is a scene in which Julian describes to his love interest Michelle why he does his job. While his explanation of pleasuring a woman who hasn’t orgasmed in ten years may be true, it runs counter to the type of sex we just witnessed between himself and a woman his age. Perhaps Schrader would be better off focusing on the aftermath rather than the act of, or signifying Julian’s inability to connect with a woman he should love but cannot find himself attracted to in the same way as his clients. So much falseness surrounds the character of Julian it’s no wonder when it is stripped away, all that is left is the skeletal structure of what this movie might have been.