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The Ghastly One: The Sex-Gore Netherworld of Filmmaker Andy Milligan
"From 1965 to 1988, Andy Milligan made an astounding 29 exploitation movies, including Gutter Trash , Torture Dungeon , The Ghastly Ones , Seeds , Bloodthirsty Butchers , and Fleshpot on 42nd Street . For most of the shlockmeisters, exploitation was a joke. But for Milliganùa sadist, a misogynist, a maniacùthis was his own private reality. The Fassbinder of 42nd Street, Milligan brought a crazed intensity to his work, making films of the heart in a milieu where the only art was the con. Based on hundreds of interviews, excerpts from lost movies and plays, and ranting narratives from Milligan himself, this is a story of how one unrelenting soul attempted to escape his demons and create his own twisted universe, a universe peopled by abortion-clinic bombers, undercover transsexuals, disgruntled hustlers, and bestiality-loving exhibitionists. This is a tale of violenceùphysical, sexual, and psychological. Even the author himself got sucked in, appearing in one of MilliganÆs last gore-fests and nearly getting killed in the process. The sick secrets revealed in this book will unnerve even hard-core grind house fans. But The Ghastly One ùprofusely illustrated with rare and strange stills shot by Milligan himselfùisnÆt just about a lone lunatic with a movie camera. ItÆs a funny, unbelievable, and oddly moving history of exploitation films as well as a vivid portrait of New YorkÆs infamous CaffT Cino, the Warhol crowd, and the vibrant but malevolent place called Times Square and what got lost when it sold its soul to Mickey Mouse. This replaces 1556524269."
400 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2001
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September 3, 2016I was at Skylight Books here in L.A. a few days ago, and I saw, taped to a shelf, a sign that recommended this book. You must know the kind of sign I mean: it was written by an employee. All indie bookstores nowadays seem to have these signs: "Miranda recommends Room!" (I look around. Without a name tag to identify her, I'm sure that girl at the cash register is Miranda.) "Saul recommends Freedom!" (I look around. Without a name tag to identify him, I'm sure that guy grinding coffee is Saul.) Sometimes the signs are embroidered with hand-drawn flowers.
But I digress. This particular sign, which had no flowers drawn on it, said it didn't matter if the reader knew anything about "Andy," The Ghastly One was nevertheless a "wild ride." I thought, "Who the fuck is Andy?" But I love a wild ride, so I flipped through a copy of The Ghastly One, and I thought, "Oh, wow, this is about exploitation movies from the late sixties and early seventies." I've always wanted to read more about those movies, and specifically about the people who made them, and this "Andy" was apparently one of those people. Also, I was just in the mood to buy a book.
So I took this copy of The Ghastly One to the register, and I said to the guy working there, "You know, I've never done this before. I've never taken a recommendation from one of those little signs in a bookstore." And the guy said, "Oh, well, I'm the one who wrote it."
It hadn't even occurred to me. My powers of deduction must be in decline.
"I hope you like it," he said. "If you don't, just come back and punch me in the face."
What a strange thing to say! On the other hand, considering the kind of book The Ghastly One is, a punch in the face might be appropriate. Andy -- that is, Andy Milligan -- was a sadist. There's a lot of sadism in the book, along with, inevitably, masochism. Name the depravity, and it's probably in there. I thought I had a strong stomach for depravity. I've been around, and if I haven't witnessed or even experienced something depraved firsthand, I would bet that I'm acquainted with it secondhand. Still, this book managed to make me feel queasy. After a while, my soul longed for a lengthy shower.
Still, I'm happy to have read it. I knew practically nothing about Caffe Cino, for instance, the experimental theater in New York that launched Andy Milligan. I'd heard a little about its proprietor, Joe Cino, who, I was told when I lived in New York many years later, had hacked himself to death, but the version I heard (from an actor who'd worked at Caffe Cino) was inaccurate. And, of course, I learned about exploitation movies of the late sixties and early seventies, and it goes without saying that I learned much too much about Andy Milligan. In fact, I'm wondering if, at some point, my path didn't cross his. I was already living in L.A. around the time he died from AIDS just down the street from me. The book supplies his (former) address, and at dawn on July 4th, while walking home from an all-night party, I made an excursion past his house, which was said to have been haunted. It looks haunted, and it was eerie to pause on the street and know who used to inhabit that house, as well as some of the depraved things that went on there not so very long ago.
I am not going to punch that guy in the face. In fact, if you can stomach the depravity, as I wrongly believed I could, you may consider this post my own little sign of recommendation, without any hand-drawn flowers.
But I digress. This particular sign, which had no flowers drawn on it, said it didn't matter if the reader knew anything about "Andy," The Ghastly One was nevertheless a "wild ride." I thought, "Who the fuck is Andy?" But I love a wild ride, so I flipped through a copy of The Ghastly One, and I thought, "Oh, wow, this is about exploitation movies from the late sixties and early seventies." I've always wanted to read more about those movies, and specifically about the people who made them, and this "Andy" was apparently one of those people. Also, I was just in the mood to buy a book.
So I took this copy of The Ghastly One to the register, and I said to the guy working there, "You know, I've never done this before. I've never taken a recommendation from one of those little signs in a bookstore." And the guy said, "Oh, well, I'm the one who wrote it."
It hadn't even occurred to me. My powers of deduction must be in decline.
"I hope you like it," he said. "If you don't, just come back and punch me in the face."
What a strange thing to say! On the other hand, considering the kind of book The Ghastly One is, a punch in the face might be appropriate. Andy -- that is, Andy Milligan -- was a sadist. There's a lot of sadism in the book, along with, inevitably, masochism. Name the depravity, and it's probably in there. I thought I had a strong stomach for depravity. I've been around, and if I haven't witnessed or even experienced something depraved firsthand, I would bet that I'm acquainted with it secondhand. Still, this book managed to make me feel queasy. After a while, my soul longed for a lengthy shower.
Still, I'm happy to have read it. I knew practically nothing about Caffe Cino, for instance, the experimental theater in New York that launched Andy Milligan. I'd heard a little about its proprietor, Joe Cino, who, I was told when I lived in New York many years later, had hacked himself to death, but the version I heard (from an actor who'd worked at Caffe Cino) was inaccurate. And, of course, I learned about exploitation movies of the late sixties and early seventies, and it goes without saying that I learned much too much about Andy Milligan. In fact, I'm wondering if, at some point, my path didn't cross his. I was already living in L.A. around the time he died from AIDS just down the street from me. The book supplies his (former) address, and at dawn on July 4th, while walking home from an all-night party, I made an excursion past his house, which was said to have been haunted. It looks haunted, and it was eerie to pause on the street and know who used to inhabit that house, as well as some of the depraved things that went on there not so very long ago.
I am not going to punch that guy in the face. In fact, if you can stomach the depravity, as I wrongly believed I could, you may consider this post my own little sign of recommendation, without any hand-drawn flowers.
May 24, 2018
However big a scumbag asshole you think you are, however perverted and sick you think your buddies are, you all probably still seem pretty average when compared with Andy Milligan and his cohorts. The stories still seem shocking today, which is something I never say (I don’t think I need to explain why). I’m only 50 pages in and already engrossed in the stories of Cine’s strange theater and its debauchery. The people inhabiting this world are simultaneously horrific and fascinating. Milligan pushed his actors (and audience) beyond their breaking points before it was an accepted, even appreciated, way of directing. De Sade would be proud. I normally don’t write reviews until I’m finished with a book, but I’m impressed.
Recommended for S&M enthusiasts, fans of odd biographies, memories of the old seedy New York that is no longer.
Recommended for S&M enthusiasts, fans of odd biographies, memories of the old seedy New York that is no longer.
February 25, 2014
Weirdest of many weird facts in this bio: Milligan's obsession with the Golden Girls. Hang my brain upside-down and it makes sense -- a hit sitcom with a secret queer aesthetic and misanthropic angle, what else could comfort this guy as his hospice Boswell wiped his incontinent ass?
Except Milligan -- whose sexual attentions usually focused on ugly, mentally-challenged, messed up dudes -- hated "queers". And if he had a sense of humor, there's no evidence in this bio or in his dire body of work. The man's films -- I've seen two -- are a fascinating but unendurable hybrid of Coleman Francis and Herschell Gordon Lewis. Claustrophobic, cruel, exhausting -- how did this handsome boy from St. Paul, MN end up here?
The bio -- which ranks with Tosches' Dino as one of the best I've read -- not only enlarges the guy, but gives us a deep look at two NYC scenes. First, the Cafe Cino off-off Broadway scene where Milligan, remarkably, began as an auteur. The same community that also launched Bernadette Peters and Abe Vigoda (in one of Milligan's Bernard Shaw productions). And then we get the 42nd Street sleaze-cinema world where Milligan's odd flicks sometimes made green. The decline and demise of both was echoed in Milligan's hatred of NYC, just about the time the Deuce got bowlderized. He exiled himself to LA, delivered in a car by an oddball named Dennis Malvasi, yes, that guy Made a couple even crappier flicks there, posed for an RV ad while dying of AIDS, muttered and harangued to the luckiest biographer ever.
McDonough's posthumous research into Milligan's childhood in St. Paul, added as a surprise ending here, should give this a sixth star. A creepy sexual mismatch between a pedophile and an adipose nympho begat a rage-fetus whose exit from the womb actually scarred him physically.
I'd like to think Andy knew the shot from day zero, but there's a tale of discovery here, from acting, to puppeteer, to dressmaking, to the grimy Auricon of his stories, slipping on blood, costumes, and hate. All this gives him -- and the bio -- an element of rational wisdom. The rat's are coming. The werewolves are here.
Except Milligan -- whose sexual attentions usually focused on ugly, mentally-challenged, messed up dudes -- hated "queers". And if he had a sense of humor, there's no evidence in this bio or in his dire body of work. The man's films -- I've seen two -- are a fascinating but unendurable hybrid of Coleman Francis and Herschell Gordon Lewis. Claustrophobic, cruel, exhausting -- how did this handsome boy from St. Paul, MN end up here?
The bio -- which ranks with Tosches' Dino as one of the best I've read -- not only enlarges the guy, but gives us a deep look at two NYC scenes. First, the Cafe Cino off-off Broadway scene where Milligan, remarkably, began as an auteur. The same community that also launched Bernadette Peters and Abe Vigoda (in one of Milligan's Bernard Shaw productions). And then we get the 42nd Street sleaze-cinema world where Milligan's odd flicks sometimes made green. The decline and demise of both was echoed in Milligan's hatred of NYC, just about the time the Deuce got bowlderized. He exiled himself to LA, delivered in a car by an oddball named Dennis Malvasi, yes, that guy Made a couple even crappier flicks there, posed for an RV ad while dying of AIDS, muttered and harangued to the luckiest biographer ever.
McDonough's posthumous research into Milligan's childhood in St. Paul, added as a surprise ending here, should give this a sixth star. A creepy sexual mismatch between a pedophile and an adipose nympho begat a rage-fetus whose exit from the womb actually scarred him physically.
I'd like to think Andy knew the shot from day zero, but there's a tale of discovery here, from acting, to puppeteer, to dressmaking, to the grimy Auricon of his stories, slipping on blood, costumes, and hate. All this gives him -- and the bio -- an element of rational wisdom. The rat's are coming. The werewolves are here.
May 13, 2009
I've never seen any of Andy Milligan's films, though I've read about them previously. The majority of them were shot for $10,000-15,000 and played largely in Times Square grindhouses (an overused term at these days but appropriate). I understand that the ones that survived (half are believed destroyed) are pretty difficult to watch. I still want to see some of them.
As for the book itself: I must admit I got hooked into it. I wasn't sure at first; I wasn't fond of the author placing himself into the narrative and writing in the first person. Over the length of the book it makes more sense, due to his personal involvement in Andy's life. The author does make nearly constant use of footnotes for sidebar commentary, which I always found to be annoying. A better author might have been able to work those things into the narrative a little more effectively.
The book is at its best early in the text, when the author makes a surprisingly detailed description of the Caffe Cino, one of the original homes of off-off-(off-) Broadway plays in the early 60s. Andy becomes one of the directors for the 8x8'stage, where his particular brand of intensity and his obsessions become apparent.
Milligan was quite the character: he was a gay man who hated nearly all women and most gay men. He was a sadist, both on and off set. He surrounded himself with a nearly-equally odd group of cohorts, one of whom later went on to bomb abortion clinics in Manhattan.
The book, in the end, actually raises more questions than it answers, but I don't have a problem with that. Despite my reservations, I do recommend it. The same author wrote a biography of filmmaker Russ Meyer, which I'm reading currently. I don't think I like it as much as this short, sharp little bit of craziness.
As for the book itself: I must admit I got hooked into it. I wasn't sure at first; I wasn't fond of the author placing himself into the narrative and writing in the first person. Over the length of the book it makes more sense, due to his personal involvement in Andy's life. The author does make nearly constant use of footnotes for sidebar commentary, which I always found to be annoying. A better author might have been able to work those things into the narrative a little more effectively.
The book is at its best early in the text, when the author makes a surprisingly detailed description of the Caffe Cino, one of the original homes of off-off-(off-) Broadway plays in the early 60s. Andy becomes one of the directors for the 8x8'stage, where his particular brand of intensity and his obsessions become apparent.
Milligan was quite the character: he was a gay man who hated nearly all women and most gay men. He was a sadist, both on and off set. He surrounded himself with a nearly-equally odd group of cohorts, one of whom later went on to bomb abortion clinics in Manhattan.
The book, in the end, actually raises more questions than it answers, but I don't have a problem with that. Despite my reservations, I do recommend it. The same author wrote a biography of filmmaker Russ Meyer, which I'm reading currently. I don't think I like it as much as this short, sharp little bit of craziness.
August 17, 2014
Really really entertaining. Milligan and everyone around him is a total trainwreck. Pure voyuerism and a great view into the insane world of b-movies and exploitation.
December 7, 2022
An absolutely fantastic read!
I've never managed to sit through an Andy Milligan film, and his life story makes clear that he was a less than pleasant person to be around. But this book is quite superb. Not only does it capture the essence of this evasive and bitter man, it also brings to life a New York which is long gone and a hive of creativity which sounds both fun and frightening in equal measure.
If you've never heard of Andy Milligan, but are interested in film making in anyway, I'd recommend THE GHASTLY ONE.
I've never managed to sit through an Andy Milligan film, and his life story makes clear that he was a less than pleasant person to be around. But this book is quite superb. Not only does it capture the essence of this evasive and bitter man, it also brings to life a New York which is long gone and a hive of creativity which sounds both fun and frightening in equal measure.
If you've never heard of Andy Milligan, but are interested in film making in anyway, I'd recommend THE GHASTLY ONE.
February 17, 2020
There is a peculiar kind of cinephile who only loves one flavor. It is the aberrant stink of sewer gas, mixed with the piss of a toothless hobo, the phlegm of a slumlord and the failing colostomy bag of a Vietnam vet turned maniac sniper. These are grindhouse addicts—and I find even in this fetid subcult there is a dividing line that cordons off the Way Too Far. Take a look at the brand Something Weird Video some time...its admixture of cardboard dreck made by a consortium of dentists in Nebraska with expressionistic gism shot out by crackpots is far more inept than anything you will see in one of Tarantino’s grindhouse fests. But that’s the way they like it, as KC and the Sunshine Band once told us. It stinks to high heaven—which is its only virtue, so called.
The author of THE GHASTLY ONE is such a glutton for punishment. Andy Milligan—the man John Waters called “a genius with no talent”—made a dozen or so Z-minus abortions, notable for their theatrical style and for the almost unbearable screeching and wailing Milligan demanded from his actors. A Milligan picture may fitfully fascinate yet is a hard sit. What are these Sleazoid Express freakazoids after, exactly? I’d say it is a hankering for a lost realness. As we enter the deep fake era, the palpability, the sheer quiddity of grindhouse cinema, with its torn, skipping prints, and surrounding aura of rats and dried semen, feels consolingly real to some. But then, hipsters love living in ghettos—they love that which would scandalize their mommy and daddy above all!
The book picks up when the author enters the picture, adhering himself to the falling-apart, abusive yet sentimental Milligan, who sobs over Cathy Rigby in “Peter Pan.” If Milligan resembles any real auteur, it is not Fassbinder (whom the book incessantly name checks) but Paul Morrissey—large, gay, angry, religiously inclined and using Puritanism as a cover for pure sadism. But Paul’s movies were, like...sittable through. Milligan is for gutter fetishists only.
The author of THE GHASTLY ONE is such a glutton for punishment. Andy Milligan—the man John Waters called “a genius with no talent”—made a dozen or so Z-minus abortions, notable for their theatrical style and for the almost unbearable screeching and wailing Milligan demanded from his actors. A Milligan picture may fitfully fascinate yet is a hard sit. What are these Sleazoid Express freakazoids after, exactly? I’d say it is a hankering for a lost realness. As we enter the deep fake era, the palpability, the sheer quiddity of grindhouse cinema, with its torn, skipping prints, and surrounding aura of rats and dried semen, feels consolingly real to some. But then, hipsters love living in ghettos—they love that which would scandalize their mommy and daddy above all!
The book picks up when the author enters the picture, adhering himself to the falling-apart, abusive yet sentimental Milligan, who sobs over Cathy Rigby in “Peter Pan.” If Milligan resembles any real auteur, it is not Fassbinder (whom the book incessantly name checks) but Paul Morrissey—large, gay, angry, religiously inclined and using Puritanism as a cover for pure sadism. But Paul’s movies were, like...sittable through. Milligan is for gutter fetishists only.
November 29, 2011
OK, OK...I know who Andy Milligan is...or do I? I've seen a few of his films. As the great Psychotronic famously mentions, "If you're a Milligan fan, there's no hope for you." Milligan's movies, to put it bluntly, suck. Even his fans admit this. But there's something about McDonough's bio that goes beyond the subject and straight into the heart and soul of an artist and what makes him tick. Yes, Andy Milligan was an artist. There can be no denying it. The first part of the book delves into the rather interesting subject of underground (or Off-off-Broadway) theater in New York circa 1960. Milligan was there and all indications point to the fact that he was an artistic if not commercial success. Why then is he known as a maker of schlocky, boring, thread-bare horror pictures (most of which are long lost)? I think the answer is spelled out pretty explicitly in this book. Even if you don't know who Milligan is it's still an interesting read since it cuts across two completely different worlds in 1960s NYC. Milligan doesn't come off as a good guy but if you're even a little bit interested in 60s homosexual sub-culture, underground theater or 42nd St. grindhouse then this is the book for you. I liked it better than McDonough's Russ Meyer bio.
May 2, 2020
This book, an exquisitely written biography of an almost forgotten underground film maker, is one of the best books I’ve ever read. The writing is precisely evocative, and as a whole it’s definitely a weird example of the biography being better than the work of its subject. Oddly touching, this book is also a meticulous love letter to the old, seedy New York as well as a big-hearted portrayal of Andy Milligan, a cantankerous sociophobe. Occasionally shocking and insanely hard to put down, as well as often very, very funny, The Ghastly One is a must read for anyone who likes underground film, sleaze or smut. I loved this book so much.
November 22, 2020
"For wardrobe, Milligan tended to use couch upholstery material - the heaviest, most uncomfortable fabric possible. "The costumes in TORTURE DUNGEON- that was the real torture," said Dillon. Of course Milligan had no money for transportation to his obscure Staten Island locations. Borske remembered seeing the entire lot of medieval misfits "standing at the bus station in these fuckin' costumes. They said, 'we tried to hitch a ride, but nobody would pick us up.'"
X
"Will you shut up about your fucking mother?" is the theme song of Milligan's Supreme attack on Mommy, THE BITCH. Andy wrote it after seeing a girl in a West Village diner get hauled off by the police in the throes of an epileptic fit that occurred after she put Streisand's "People" on the jukebox."
Unbelievable, hilarious quotes like that one (and it is all one quote-see p197!) line every page of THE GHASTLY ONE. Half the time I can't resist sharing bits like these, and half the time I bite my tongue when I wonder what people will think about me when I try to explain what a "stab queen" is. I mean is that even real? Or is the fact I can't help laughing a sign that I have been corrupted just by reading this?
Milligan was a puppeteer, a designer, a dress-maker ("Gowns by Raffiné"), a director, a writer, editor, and a builder. For the most part, all these efforts seem more like tools of sadism Milligan employed to derive enjoyment from yelling at women, rather than artistic endeavors created in pursuit of perfecting a craft. The movies are not perfect - but they are unforgettable. I remember the first time I saw one, TORTURE DUNGEON. The 'swirling camera' drove me nuts, and still does. So, I'm not the biggest fan, but I like them in small doses. I've never seen his more serious films mentioned here (he sounds proud of LIZ, SECTION 8, and COCTEAU) but my favorite of the hysterical, melodramatic movies I've seen is GURU THE MAD MONK- partly because it is so short.
Anyway. This incredible book asks: what happens when art becomes a vice? Consider the end of underground theater Cafe Cino: "Torrey destroyed all these Tiffany lamp shades, about thirty of them (...) it was anarchy. A true movie." Did art slowly kill Milligan the way alcohol kills its victims? Consider the seven years (77-84) he spent constantly maintaining different shows on two stages SEVEN DAYS A WEEK in an effort to keep his Times Square theater (the 'Troupe' at 335 West 39th Street) afloat, mostly alone(!) - casting, rehearsing, designing, building, costuming, selling tickets, dealing with board members, actors, patrons. I was on the board of a small theatre for four years and just working on one or two shows a year exhausted me to the point where I can't imagine why anyone would do what he did. It's certainly not for appreciation, so was he exorcising his demons, or indulging them?
Here's another typically astonishing quote about that period:
"You really had to be there in the middle of winter-when the wind howled through it-to appreciate the beauty of the place (...) the audience would be sitting there in their scarves, mufflers, and gloves while the rain came in. You'd lose actors because they came down with the flu (...) It was a really horrible scene. This broken-down theater with heroin addicts outside-you had to step over dead bodies to get in. It was the end of the line ..."
I should end with a warning that this book includes brief profiles of terrorists, drug dealers, pedophiles, and others (some I don't want to know the name for) as they orbit the subject. They are represented plainly, perhaps even with dignity, not as an endorsement, but to spare the reader the insult of mocking them for entertainment. I think I would have been offended had I been prompted to uselessly cluck in disapproval. I could go on and on - this was one of the strangest, saddest, funniest books I have read this year.
X
"Will you shut up about your fucking mother?" is the theme song of Milligan's Supreme attack on Mommy, THE BITCH. Andy wrote it after seeing a girl in a West Village diner get hauled off by the police in the throes of an epileptic fit that occurred after she put Streisand's "People" on the jukebox."
Unbelievable, hilarious quotes like that one (and it is all one quote-see p197!) line every page of THE GHASTLY ONE. Half the time I can't resist sharing bits like these, and half the time I bite my tongue when I wonder what people will think about me when I try to explain what a "stab queen" is. I mean is that even real? Or is the fact I can't help laughing a sign that I have been corrupted just by reading this?
Milligan was a puppeteer, a designer, a dress-maker ("Gowns by Raffiné"), a director, a writer, editor, and a builder. For the most part, all these efforts seem more like tools of sadism Milligan employed to derive enjoyment from yelling at women, rather than artistic endeavors created in pursuit of perfecting a craft. The movies are not perfect - but they are unforgettable. I remember the first time I saw one, TORTURE DUNGEON. The 'swirling camera' drove me nuts, and still does. So, I'm not the biggest fan, but I like them in small doses. I've never seen his more serious films mentioned here (he sounds proud of LIZ, SECTION 8, and COCTEAU) but my favorite of the hysterical, melodramatic movies I've seen is GURU THE MAD MONK- partly because it is so short.
Anyway. This incredible book asks: what happens when art becomes a vice? Consider the end of underground theater Cafe Cino: "Torrey destroyed all these Tiffany lamp shades, about thirty of them (...) it was anarchy. A true movie." Did art slowly kill Milligan the way alcohol kills its victims? Consider the seven years (77-84) he spent constantly maintaining different shows on two stages SEVEN DAYS A WEEK in an effort to keep his Times Square theater (the 'Troupe' at 335 West 39th Street) afloat, mostly alone(!) - casting, rehearsing, designing, building, costuming, selling tickets, dealing with board members, actors, patrons. I was on the board of a small theatre for four years and just working on one or two shows a year exhausted me to the point where I can't imagine why anyone would do what he did. It's certainly not for appreciation, so was he exorcising his demons, or indulging them?
Here's another typically astonishing quote about that period:
"You really had to be there in the middle of winter-when the wind howled through it-to appreciate the beauty of the place (...) the audience would be sitting there in their scarves, mufflers, and gloves while the rain came in. You'd lose actors because they came down with the flu (...) It was a really horrible scene. This broken-down theater with heroin addicts outside-you had to step over dead bodies to get in. It was the end of the line ..."
I should end with a warning that this book includes brief profiles of terrorists, drug dealers, pedophiles, and others (some I don't want to know the name for) as they orbit the subject. They are represented plainly, perhaps even with dignity, not as an endorsement, but to spare the reader the insult of mocking them for entertainment. I think I would have been offended had I been prompted to uselessly cluck in disapproval. I could go on and on - this was one of the strangest, saddest, funniest books I have read this year.
May 12, 2025
Incredible.
August 26, 2020
“I should have killed Andy,” Jimmy McDonough says at the beginning of his biography of Andy Milligan, director of such cinematic travesties as Torture Dungeon (1970) and Fleshpot on 42nd Street (1973).
Very often artistic creation allows a civilised individual to give expression to their dark side. “Who would think that such a sweet guy could come up with such dark and twisted novels/movies?” we ask.
This isn’t that kind of story. The depravity of Milligan’s sex melodramas and the sadistic violence of his horror pictures was of a piece with his personality and his behaviour and that of others in his social circle.
Milligan was resolutely misanthropic. He claimed to have been born with his fists clenched. And he was a sadist. A real one, not the “safe and consensual” BSDM kind. He delighted in inflicting psychological and physical abuse in or out of a sexual context. (Sexually, his principle, but not exclusive, interest was in men.)
He was given to misogynistic rants.
But McDonough came to love Cap’n Andy, as he calls him. And he wasn’t alone. Milligan aroused great loyalty in those who worked with him on his theatrical productions and his movies.
What was admirable about Milligan was his creative drive. He produced live theatre under the worst of circumstances for years on end. He made movies with next to no money, sometimes historical period pieces for which he would create all the costumes. The results were mixed. Most of his sexploitation movies have been lost. Those that are left - Vapors (1965), Seeds (1968), Nightbirds (1970) and Fleshpot on 42nd Street (1973), are fascinating if, technically, extremely crude films. While the short Vapors, which he didn’t write, has a softer, more tender, quality, the others are bitter and bleak. I’ve only seen three of his horror films, which are, if anything, even more of an acquired taste - very stagey. This book perhaps helps to increase appreciation for his work by allowing us to see the man and his experience of life animating the tale on the screen. For most, that won’t be enough. Milligan was a sadist and those of us who enjoy his films probably have to have a little of the masochist in us.
This isn’t a book for the faint of heart or those unwilling to look at the human face of the monstrous. McDonough has given us a moving account of a bitter soul whose creative drive enriched the lives of those around him on his journey from traumatic childhood to torturous death from AIDS. Perhaps it helps us also to not be quick to judge. Some of Milligan’s actions should appall us, but he paid a heavy price. Both prejudice and sadism are about discounting the complex humanity of the other, so to appreciate the complex human experience which lies behind these sick forms of thought and behaviour is to stand in opposition to the tendency which characterises them.
McDonough also does a remarkable job when it comes to presenting the context for Andy’s story in his account of Caffe Cino, a Greenwich Village coffeehouse where he began staging his plays, as well as classics by such authors as Shaw and Genet. The Cino would become an important launching pad for rising playwrights and was the inspiration for La Mama, and its habitués were a wild bunch. He does the same when it comes to the New York exploitation movie business of the late sixties and early seventies and the cinema culture of The Deuce, 42nd Street during its sleazy heyday.
This book may not turn you into a fan of Andy Milligan films, but it will take you for a walk on the wild side you won’t soon forget.
Very often artistic creation allows a civilised individual to give expression to their dark side. “Who would think that such a sweet guy could come up with such dark and twisted novels/movies?” we ask.
This isn’t that kind of story. The depravity of Milligan’s sex melodramas and the sadistic violence of his horror pictures was of a piece with his personality and his behaviour and that of others in his social circle.
Milligan was resolutely misanthropic. He claimed to have been born with his fists clenched. And he was a sadist. A real one, not the “safe and consensual” BSDM kind. He delighted in inflicting psychological and physical abuse in or out of a sexual context. (Sexually, his principle, but not exclusive, interest was in men.)
He was given to misogynistic rants.
But McDonough came to love Cap’n Andy, as he calls him. And he wasn’t alone. Milligan aroused great loyalty in those who worked with him on his theatrical productions and his movies.
What was admirable about Milligan was his creative drive. He produced live theatre under the worst of circumstances for years on end. He made movies with next to no money, sometimes historical period pieces for which he would create all the costumes. The results were mixed. Most of his sexploitation movies have been lost. Those that are left - Vapors (1965), Seeds (1968), Nightbirds (1970) and Fleshpot on 42nd Street (1973), are fascinating if, technically, extremely crude films. While the short Vapors, which he didn’t write, has a softer, more tender, quality, the others are bitter and bleak. I’ve only seen three of his horror films, which are, if anything, even more of an acquired taste - very stagey. This book perhaps helps to increase appreciation for his work by allowing us to see the man and his experience of life animating the tale on the screen. For most, that won’t be enough. Milligan was a sadist and those of us who enjoy his films probably have to have a little of the masochist in us.
This isn’t a book for the faint of heart or those unwilling to look at the human face of the monstrous. McDonough has given us a moving account of a bitter soul whose creative drive enriched the lives of those around him on his journey from traumatic childhood to torturous death from AIDS. Perhaps it helps us also to not be quick to judge. Some of Milligan’s actions should appall us, but he paid a heavy price. Both prejudice and sadism are about discounting the complex humanity of the other, so to appreciate the complex human experience which lies behind these sick forms of thought and behaviour is to stand in opposition to the tendency which characterises them.
McDonough also does a remarkable job when it comes to presenting the context for Andy’s story in his account of Caffe Cino, a Greenwich Village coffeehouse where he began staging his plays, as well as classics by such authors as Shaw and Genet. The Cino would become an important launching pad for rising playwrights and was the inspiration for La Mama, and its habitués were a wild bunch. He does the same when it comes to the New York exploitation movie business of the late sixties and early seventies and the cinema culture of The Deuce, 42nd Street during its sleazy heyday.
This book may not turn you into a fan of Andy Milligan films, but it will take you for a walk on the wild side you won’t soon forget.
January 19, 2013
I read this book after reading the author's other bio on Russ Meyer. I have yet to see an Andy Milligan film, but this book gave me an idea as to what to expect. Probably one of the most sadistic filmmakers of all time, the behind-the-scenes stories on how he got off on putting his crew through hell were jaw dropping. A bigger surprise from this book was the history of 42nd street and what a dangerous and scummy place it was before it got cleaned up. I understand the nostalgia for it, but after reading about what actually happened there, I don't know that I'd ever have wanted to go there. The strange thing about this book is that it continues to be disturbing even after Andy's death, when the author describes family interviews and includes excepts from some of his scripts. Perhaps the most shocking thing is reading about the budgets he worked with, and how he made his film for nothing. There will probably never be a revival of Milligan's work the way there was for directors such as Ed Wood, but I'm glad that this book exists to showcase his career and keep it from being forgotten.
April 19, 2015
I'm a big fan of trash/horror/exploitation movies and have only seen one Mr Milligan film:"The Ghastly Ones", and I genuinely hoped it was the last I ever saw by him.
The problem with it was that it committed the worst crime in movies:it was boring.
Having now read this very well written and researched book, I must say it's made me want to see other films by him.
Or rather, it's made me want to have been able to see his theatre productions, to me it seems that's really where his crazed imagination and raw power worked.
He doesn't sound a particularly pleasant individual, but you had to hand it to him, he took life by the bollocks and gave them a bloody good squeeze!
A fascinating life and a fascinating book. Shame about those movies.
The problem with it was that it committed the worst crime in movies:it was boring.
Having now read this very well written and researched book, I must say it's made me want to see other films by him.
Or rather, it's made me want to have been able to see his theatre productions, to me it seems that's really where his crazed imagination and raw power worked.
He doesn't sound a particularly pleasant individual, but you had to hand it to him, he took life by the bollocks and gave them a bloody good squeeze!
A fascinating life and a fascinating book. Shame about those movies.
April 23, 2020
An exhaustive deep dive into the beautifully weird and warped world of Andy Milligan, exploring his background, experiences, and of course his utterly unique and painfully personal body of work. McDonough does a great job contextualizing Milligan's oeuvre with respect to the attitudes and environments that informed it, including a very in-depth and eye-opening detour into "The Deuce" and the downtown theater scene in NYC in the '60s and '70s. It's a riveting read, by turns hilarious and appalling, and the fact that McDonough knew Milligan personally lends it a nice personal touch, though it's by no means a fluff piece or uncritical.
July 17, 2007
Illuminating, incredibly absorbing, and weirdly touching. I might find it difficult to appreciate Milligan's insane, unpleasant, confronational films without having read this book--but knowing about his life, the films are fascinating. Each one is like a corrupted, tortured soul. Sort of like Lance Loud (but, I'd say, much less admirable as a person), Milligan was like the Forrest Gump of New York underground/trash culture in the '60s and '70s. Between the two of them, they did everything, knew everyone, and were everywhere. This is maybe the best biography I've ever read.
August 16, 2008
jimmy mcdonough makes this asshole nobody's ever heard of your slimy, pornography-obsessed, slightly uncle-ish hero. i, personally, have a deep love and appreciation of horror movies and a facsination with exploitation pictures, so that and the incredible writing make this one of my all time favorites. this author is best known as neil young's only authorized biographer, so that give you an ideas of what caliber non-fiction you will get from checkin this out. also a real-feeling portrait of old-school, gritty nyc. i love it!
October 26, 2008
An amazing biography. The life of ultra-low budget filmmaker Andy Milligan is a journey through hell -- the polar opposite of redemption through art.
The cast of real-life personalities range through the days of Cafe Cino (where off-broadway was born) through 42nd Street Grindhouse theater owners up to those faithful few who knew Milligan during his protracted death from AIDS in the 90s. There is nary a redeemable person in the lot.
It is a fascinating read for those with the stomach.
The cast of real-life personalities range through the days of Cafe Cino (where off-broadway was born) through 42nd Street Grindhouse theater owners up to those faithful few who knew Milligan during his protracted death from AIDS in the 90s. There is nary a redeemable person in the lot.
It is a fascinating read for those with the stomach.
April 9, 2020
Thoroughly researched and ultimately devastating, this is the ultimate guide to the life and work of one of the truest artists of the 20th century.
April 13, 2023
I’m not going to improve on John Waters’ many recommendations. Read it, it’s colorful and lurid and horrifying and very, very sad.
November 21, 2023
Chronicler of outsider history and biography of the highest order, McDonough tackles the life and work of one of the stranger characters to make movies in the second half of the 20th Century. I've only seen a couple of Milligan's films and had no idea of his work prior to becoming an exploitation king, so the insight into the early days of queer, off-broadway drama at the Caffe Cino was horizon-expanding stuff. Likewise, the first person accounts of Times Square at its glorious depths are more interesting than the sad minutia of Milligan's mostly disastrous film career. Once we're in the world of one-take sleaze, there is a grim inevitability to the unfolding disaster, brilliantly told by the author, who manages to keep a sense of perspective and even humor as he's pulled deeper into the obsessive career of his subject. Early in the book, there's a rather slighting mention of Burton's ED WOOD as a kind of glossy, fairy tale take on the world of ultra low-budget cinema, but THE GHASTLY ONE left me wanting something similar for Milligan because, for all of the guy's flaws and foibles, he was certainly dedicated to his art.
August 20, 2024
A straight-up sleazebag masterpiece about a real sick son of a bitch. Absolutely essential for anyone interested in Milligan, underground off-Broadway theater, pre-Disneyfied New York City, independent film, drug taking, ass-fucking, sadism, masochism, and general scumbaggery. I sure as hell wouldnt wanna be Andy's friend, but I'd give my big toe to have caught a production of Deathwatch or The Maids at Caffe Cino, or to have washed down a fistful of speed with jug wine as Andy talks shit on Andy Warhol. What can I say? I'm romantic about these things.
January 2, 2017
A really great read. Milligan, and those individuals in his orbit, are such great characters and the reader is taken omn a tour through sleazy NYC/Times Square during this period of time (late '60s/early '70s).
April 5, 2021
If you don't like the movies of Andy Milligan, you might like the story of his wild and slightly wicked life. As of now, it's my favorite biography. And I love his films.
September 13, 2021
Very creepy and unsettling read about the life of a seriously disturbed individual and the sleazy world surrounding him
December 15, 2023
This book is extremely entertaining and well-written. When I first read it years ago I was corresponding with the author through email, and he seemed to think I was similar to the subject of this book in that we both made bizarre, low-budget, disarmingly sincere labor-of-love films and sewed medieval costumes for them etc. I think this era of my life, where I was corresponding regularly with Jimmy McDonough about how insane he thought I was, was even before I made my first feature film Viva. So yes, my budgets were low and I was shooting on 16mm and I was fervent and obsessive and insane. Anyway, if you want to know all about the world of the grind house theaters on 42nd street in the middle of the sleaze era, by all means read this book. It's great.
August 14, 2007
I'd never heard of Milligan but he was a madman according to this biography. He churned out c-film after c-film for $10,000 and they played in the seedy 42nd St. area theatres before disappearing from the world entirely. Lots of underground NY theatre stuff as well. Milligan was kind of a sadist who loved to torment actors/friends/anyone and some of the crazy stories of his films and film shoots almost seem made up. Not sure I even want to watch some of his sex and horror exploitation films but they were entertaining to read about here.
November 12, 2018
"Andy Milligan screamed his soul out in his dime-store creations. It was the wail of a banshee, of a werewolf, of a shrieking skeleton mocking the black night. A voice too painful for the world to hear."
Hands down the single best biography I've ever read. A seriously life-changing read.
Hands down the single best biography I've ever read. A seriously life-changing read.
February 9, 2008
The title really says it all...
April 27, 2009
Good so far. Can't wait till he starts directing.
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