Queen of the Deuce: the grandmother lesbian who mainstreamed gay porn 

REVIEW by Drew Rowsome - photos courtesy of publicist
27 APR 2023 -

Amidst the hectic confluence of the continuing Inside Out festival and impending Pride event tsunami, there is a documentary that should not be missed. Queen of the Deuce is the saga, and it is an epic saga, of Chelly Wilson. Though Wilson was famous, and notorious, in New York City in the '70s when 42nd St, The Deuce, was at its sleaziest and most fabulous the name may not be familiar. Wilson owned and operated many of the major porn theatres that lined and anchored the area, including the iconic Adonis. And that is just an interlude in a life that spanned the second world war, the swinging '60s, continents, the rise and fall of theatrical porn, and the first flourishing of gay liberation.

Wilson was also a film producer, there was more money to be made if she owned and distributed the films shown in her theatres. Scandalous then, innocent now, are titles like Scarf of Mist Thigh of Satin and Come Ride the Wild Pink Horse. Almost in homage to Wilson's pulpy and sexy entertainments, Queen of the Deuce director Valerie Kontakos keeps the action snappy and visually intriguing. Queen of the Deuce may be a conventional, somewhat linear, bio-pic, but the subject has so many layers that Kontakos has multiple reveals to play with, making for a rollicking ride. Even when Wilson faces seemingly indomitable and horrific events.

Queen of the Deuce begins with an animated sequence interspersed with archival photos. The narrator tells of going to her grandmother's for Christmas. The first reveal is that the family is Jewish. The second is that the grandmother, Wilson, lives in a lavish and kitschy apartment above a porn theatre. The entrance is through the lobby with its lurid posters and then up a steep flight of stairs to a multiple padlocked door. The grandmother's apartment was always filled with people and, as the granddaughter says, "we never knew who was a lover, who was a friend, who was an ex." Behind the Christmas tree were the feeds from the black and white surveillance cameras, and when the children were younger—and not being entertained by the assorted porn stars, butches, mafiosos, filmmakers and hangers on—they would compete who could spot the most men with raincoats or umbrellas entering the theatres. Christmases were magical.

Not all of Wilson's life was as Hallmark gritty. Born Jewish in Greece, she was married off to a man she did not love or even fancy. Fortunately some of Wilson's distinctive rasp, she was rarely found without a cigar in hand, exists on tape and her description of her husband and her wedding night are hilarious. Two children later she kicked him out and then World War II began and Europe was no longer safe for Greeks or Jews. Wilson's adventures during the war are dramatic enough, but Queen of the Deuce also personalizes the Holocaust in a way that no facts of figures can: Wilson's family was decimated, her children almost lost, and her need for a certain emotional detachment due to trauma explained. It is heartrending, the specific as universal, in what is otherwise a riveting recounting of the rise and rise of a plucky and determined woman.

Wilson's children and grandchildren—who all had complicated lives both in relation to their grandmother, their places in the business of porn, and with their very identities—offer anecdotes and perspectives that all reveal some facets of an enigma. Sadly we never hear from Wilson's lovers, of which there were many, but the photos of the ménage of butches and femmes who lived with, looked after and cared for Wilson are delightful. As is the section on Mykonos, a restaurant Wilson ran initially as a venue for an exceptionally sultry opera singer girlfriend. The restaurant became a huge success and thrived at the intersection of porn, Hollywood, lesbianism and the creation of celebrity culture. It is fascinating and a glimpse at a golden era now long gone. An era when Wilson would take delivery of shopping bags full of cash to fuel her gambling habit and the poker games she hosted.

But of course it was the vintage gay porn theatres and what they screened that was the hook to lure me to watch Queen of the Deuce. Tragically, by the time I visited New York City, 42nd St was already mostly sanitized and I will never forgive myself for not braving the Adonis before it closed. Seeing a clip from 1978's  A Night at the Adonis where Jack Wrangler drawls, "I love this place. I don't think there's a room in this place I haven't fucked in," reminds us just how revolutionary what Wilson did was. She was the first to show explicit gay films in a theatre and, as she named her theatres after Greek gods (and not just because of her heritage), she knew exactly what happened in the aisles and rows of seats. Queen of the Deuce never makes it clear how much of that was Wilson advocating for the queer community (she did an astounding amount of work for the Greek community) and how much was in pursuit of profit. Fortunately it doesn't matter, the portrait that emerges, partial as it must remain, is so enthralling and outrageous that we can just be grateful for her to be immortalized in such an entertaining way.