There are films that tiptoe into depravity, politely knocking at the door of taboo topics. Private Parts is not one of those films. No—Paul Bartel’s feature debut kicks the door down, plops onto the couch with muddy boots, and immediately starts rummaging through your underwear drawer while asking if you want to see his photography portfolio. It’s unhinged, darkly funny, deeply uncomfortable, and absolutely hypnotic.
This gritty little slice of 1972 Los Angeles weirdness combines horror, psychological thriller, and dark comedy into something that feels like Psycho and Peeping Tom got drunk, hooked up, and produced a child raised by John Waters.
It is, to put it mildly, fabulous.
Cheryl Stratton: Patron Saint of Terrible Decisions
Our heroine, Cheryl (Ayn Ruymen), is a troubled young woman whose life choices can best be described as “bold but questionable.” After a fight with her roommate Judy, Cheryl steals her wallet—a classy move—and instead of going home to Ohio like a responsible person, she decides to visit Aunt Martha’s hotel in downtown L.A.
This is the first of many, many decisions Cheryl makes that suggest she is not only running from her problems but sprinting directly into the jaws of new, significantly more dangerous ones.
Aunt Martha operates the King Edward Hotel, a building so dilapidated it looks like it’s seen things, whispered about them, and then politely requested therapy. The place is filled with eccentrics, voyeurs, religious fanatics, misfits, and at least one murderer. A normal person would turn around immediately.
Cheryl checks in.
Aunt Martha: Conservatism Taken to Nightmarish Extremes
Lucille Benson steals the film as Aunt Martha, a woman who calls her crumbling hotel “one of the last respectable establishments in the city” with the sincerity of someone describing the Ritz-Carlton. Martha’s moral worldview is a toxic brew of puritanical repression, deep-seated misogyny, and the self-righteousness of a woman who has never had fun.
Ever.
Her central rule for Cheryl is simple:
Do not wander the hotel at night.
Naturally, Cheryl does so immediately. If Cheryl followed warnings, the movie would be ten minutes long.
Welcome to the King Edward Hotel, Please Enjoy the Peep Holes
The King Edward is a place where the walls have eyes—literally. Peepholes everywhere. Hidden pathways. Darkrooms in basements. Unlocked rooms full of unspeakable kink. It’s less a hotel and more a voyeuristic funhouse designed by a schizophrenic pervert with a flair for interior design.
Cheryl senses she’s being watched. She is correct. The disturbing part is that practically everyone in the building is watching her. The only mystery is which one is the serial killer.
Meet George: The Photographer With More Red Flags Than a Communist Parade
George (John Ventantonio) is a handsome, soft-spoken young photographer living in the basement, which is already a giant red flag. Martha dotes on him suspiciously. He lurks suspiciously. He leaves lingerie gifts for Cheryl suspiciously. He injects his own blood into a water-filled inflatable sex doll wearing Cheryl’s face, which, shocker, is also suspicious.
George is the kind of man you would absolutely swipe left on, even if you were lonely, drunk, and temporarily blind.
When Cheryl sneaks into his room, she finds avant-garde nude photography lining the walls and an inflatable doll waiting on the bed. Her reaction is not to leave the building and call the police but to continue investigating.
Cheryl’s curiosity is stronger than her survival instinct.
**The Body Count Begins:
Now With 100% More Furnace Disposal**
Poor Mike, Judy’s boyfriend, shows up looking for Cheryl and gets a priestly greeting from Reverend Moon, a religious guest who dresses like a man of the cloth but has the spiritual authority of a sock puppet. Moments later, Mike is brutally murdered and shoved into the furnace like yesterday’s laundry.
Judy shows up. Judy dies.
Jeff, the locksmith boy who’s into Cheryl, arrives for a date. Jeff nearly dies.
Cheryl herself survives two assaults, including one in the shower where a butcher breaks in and rapes her—
or does he?
Later, the sheriff reveals the scene bore no signs of forced entry… nor evidence Cheryl was even touched.
This is the moment the film pulls the rug out so hard the audience gets whiplash.
Sex, Death, Photography, and One Very Unsettling Needle
George, obsessed with Cheryl, prepares for a romantic evening by:
-
Dressing his doll in Cheryl’s lingerie
-
Listening to a tape recording of a woman’s murder
-
Drawing his own blood and injecting it into the doll
Let us pause here and acknowledge that Private Parts is probably the only film where a character tries to seduce someone with a needle full of self-blood and an inflatable girlfriend.
Cheryl finally decides to confront him sexually—because nothing says “romance” like murder vibes—and George responds by trying to jab her with a hypodermic needle. During the chaotic struggle, Cheryl knocks over a stage light, killing him.
She thinks she killed a man.
She did not.
Oh no.
**The Big Twist:
Gender, Identity, and One Toxic Mother of All Mothers**
Martha arrives and opens George’s shirt to find—
Breasts.
George is not a man at all, but Martha’s biological daughter, who has been forced to live as a male to avoid becoming a “wanton, sinful girl” like all those morally degenerate females Martha loathes.
It is a twist so audacious, so outrageous, and so wildly inappropriate by modern standards that it loops around and becomes a deranged masterpiece of early-70s exploitation cinema.
Martha raves that George’s spirit is now “liberated.” Then she tries to murder Cheryl with a butcher knife.
Honestly, this family needs counseling. And possibly an exorcist.
**The Ending:
Cheryl Becomes… Martha?**
After the bloodshed, police arrive, discovering George and Martha’s bodies—Martha now grotesquely posed in Cheryl’s lingerie. It’s camp. It’s tragic. It’s disturbing in exactly the way Paul Bartel intended.
Cheryl emerges dazed and glassy-eyed.
She repeats Martha’s mantra about running “one of the last respectable hotels in the city” and being “extremely selective” about guests.
In other words:
The cycle continues.
Cheryl has snapped. The King Edward Hotel has claimed another soul.
It’s bleak. It’s darkly funny. It’s unforgettable.
**Final Verdict:
A Sleazy, Surreal, Deliciously Uncomfortable Cult Treasure**
Private Parts is a blackly comedic, sleazy, psychosexual puzzle-box wrapped in cheap wallpaper and bad decisions. Its performances are bold, its humor unsettling, and its finale a descent into madness worthy of early De Palma.
It’s not “tasteful,” but tasteful horror is boring.
It’s not “normal,” but normal movies don’t haunt you for decades.
It’s not “safe,” but safe movies don’t become cult classics.
This film is pure exploitation oddity—bold, bizarre, uncomfortable, and brilliant.
Check into the King Edward Hotel at your own risk.
Check out?
Good luck.
