We’ll Always Love You

The enduring appeal of The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas.

LET ME BEGIN WITH A CONFESSION: From age eleven, when my overly permissive parents first allowed me to see the movie, until my early twenties, when I first visited Dallas—Fort Worth, virtually my entire understanding of contemporary Texas was based on The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, the bawdy musical comedy starring Burt Reynolds and Dolly Parton. This is probably not something I should be publicly admitting. But I spent most of my adolescence in New York City watching movies instead of TV, hence my obliviousness to the (slightly) more accurate vision of the state being offered up in those days by the prime-time soap Dallas. Besides, the Texas of Whorehouse struck me as a pretty fabulous place, a freewheeling fantasyland that I willed myself into believing was real. The towns were all charmingly sleepy and dusty; the lawmen kept order with a mixture of testosterone and good-heartedness; the prostitutes were as wholesome and motherly as my sixth-grade math teacher. All that, and people periodically broke into country-western song-and-dance numbers. What was not to love?

Alas, most critics felt otherwise. Produced for a then-considerable $26 million, Whorehouse—which opened in the United States in July 1982—managed to find box-office success (it grossed almost $70 million) and even earned Charles Durning an Oscar nomination for his supporting role as the shady governor. But the reviews were blistering (the New York Times wrote, “This film lacks even the inadvertently buoyant awfulness that makes some bad movies fun”), and the picture’s reputation has never quite recovered. These days it tends to be regarded as one of those curiosities you stumble upon on late-night cable TV, gawk at for a minute or two, and then skip right past. The DVD version, finally released in 2003, is so unremarkable—and the image transfer so flat and muddy—that it might as well have never been issued at all.

Okay, I’ll admit it’s not exactly Singin’ in the Rain. And granted, the sequence in which Burt Reynolds sings and dances half-naked remains a blight on American cinema history that will likely never be erased. But Whorehouse’s twenty-fifth anniversary this summer should not be allowed to pass without at least a modest reconsideration. For one thing, this movie’s kitsch-tastic blend of burlesque, slapstick, and unabashed celebration of the prodigious Parton bosom seems all the more enjoyably whacked-out in an era where Pirates of the Caribbean qualifies as offbeat filmmaking. Much more notably, Whorehouse actually does manage to tap into certain truths about life in Texas: the politics, the religious influences, even the widespread affinity for aggressively teased hair and severely plunging necklines. Besides, can you name another movie musical that features song lyrics as immortal and instructive as “Pimps are something you don’t need/To get your daily business done”? I didn’t think so.

Based on a 1978 stage show (which in turn was based on a 1974 Playboy article by Larry L. King about a real-life crusade to close a brothel in La Grange), Whorehouse unfolds in the fictional town of Gilbert, where the Chicken Ranch has been engaged in the business of pleasure for more than a century. Its current proprietor is Miss Mona (Parton), who carries on a casual affair with Sheriff Ed Earl Dodd (Reynolds), who keeps an eye on the place and Mona out of legal trouble. Until, that is, a television “consumer advocate” named Melvin P. Thorpe (Dom DeLuise, wearing a wig that seems to have been purchased at a Benedictine monk’s garage sale) decides to broadcast an exposé on the Chicken Ranch and stoke the ire of religious conservatives across the state.

Watching this in 2007, it’s hard to believe that Whorehouse ever got made; can you imagine two of the biggest actors of today—say, Reese Witherspoon and Leonardo DiCaprio—starring in something so singularly focused on sex and so nonjudgmental and casual about prostitution? The movie, directed by Colin Higgins, features a certifiably deranged prologue, as narrator Jim Nabors recounts the history of the Chicken Ranch, including the curious detail that the prostitutes always check their johns for the clap before getting down to business. In the scenes that follow, things only turn weirder and more frenzied (watch for Dodd’s first encounter with Thorpe, who spends part of the scene trying to squeeze into a girdle). By the time the members of the Texas A&M football team are singing and twirling through the air in their jockstraps, the audience seems to have entered an alternate universe where just about anything can, and will, happen.

But underlying all the camp pleasure is something unexpected: a movie that grasps the unique social divisions within the state, divisions that have probably only become more pronounced over the past 25 years. Take the character of Thorpe, a New Jerseyan who moved to Houston because he thought it was a burgeoning media market where he’d be able to make

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