As one of probably three people on Earth fixated on early '70s sex film star Gerard Broulard, I was beyond excited to see the previously-lost 1971 film THE LOVE GAMBLER pop up after having long been tantalized by its herky-jerk trailer on Something Weird's XXX GRINDHOUSE TRAILER CLASSICS Volume 6. A masterpiece of the bizarre, the trailer is narrated direct-to-camera by Broulard in his trademark French purr and seemingly cobbled together out of sync-sound elements, meaning each shot features long sections of dead image at the head as the sound struggles to catch up with the picture (audio being located about a second behind image on 16mm film). Of course, it's no surprise that the full feature could never live up to this masterpiece of cut-rate claptrap, but thankfully it still offers enough ambition (and ineptitude) to be of marginal interest.
The plot is the kind of threadbare nonsense that served as framework for innumerable soft- and hard-core grinders of the era. Broulard is a compulsive gambler whose marriage to his wife is on the rocks since he's always playing poker or at the racetrack. While he comes home every once in a while to attempt marital intimacy, his wife is having little of it and things perpetually devolve into a prolonged shouting match. Of course, when Broulard is away both their libidos miraculously recover, and his wife gets it on with various local boys while Broulard hooks up with a hot blonde at the track. Running away to Vegas, the two go on a gambling spree, but things go south when the blonde tries to abscond with a large wad of Broulard's winnings. It all leads to the expected downbeat conclusion at what looks to be the actual Hoover Dam, where the spoils of chance prove the downfall of the two lovers.
What's fascinating (and distinctive) about LOVE GAMBLER is the strange balance it strikes between outright ineptitude and surprising ambition. About 75% of the film is shot in the standard threadbare '70s apartments of so many early sex flicks, filmed from a static camera angle and featuring interminable groping by the two parties. Still, given that the film generally bears the editorial and stylistic finesse of a typical one-day wonder, its production is surprisingly ambitious, featuring on-location photography at both an LA racetrack and what appear to be a number of actual Las Vegas landmarks. Occasionally, the film's drive outstrips its means, with one fascinating sequence depicting Broulard and companion's Vegas gambling spree through of crude montage of still photos of the two playing tables at an actual casino. For such a cheap-jack production, it's surprising to see this level of attention spent on location photography, and while it doesn't exactly elevate the film's production value, it at least forces an appreciation for sheer panache. Furthermore, these scenes serve as an excellent (inadvertent) record of Broulard in his element, whether rocking a '70s leisure suit on the casino floor or a virtually nonexistent Speedo by the hotel pool. For me and the planet's two other Broulard-o-philes, it's a rare opportunity to see the elusive actor in something resembling his natural state, and a more than worthy reason for resurrecting this awkward transitional relic from the dustbin of hardcore history.
(Versioning note: While the print presented by Vinegar Syndrome is fully soft-core, an extended variant with at least one hardcore sex scene does exist, a brief shot of which can be glimpsed in the film's trailer.)
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