Captivity Party Report

Does Rotten walk away unscathed?

Gutted pigs and racks of meat, skewered on chains, surround Dave “I shoulda never ditched Carmen Electra” Navarro. He’s seated on a bed, looking over a script, marinating in his environment which is an aberrant spectacle of skin and sin. He’s comfortable. You’re instantly jealous by his situation. There’s an HD camera in his face. The white light blasting from the bulb affixed above the lens is invasive, casting a glow on the scene that threatens to sap this live portrait of its raunchy, surreal qualities, much like the effect you get when a bartender flips the lights on at “last call” opening the door to an unwanted reality after a night of drinking. In addition to the swinging swine around him, Navarro is accompanied by a handful of bronzed hardbodies wrapped in red rope and black bikinis. These toned gals hold their balance while all crowding around on the bed; a few writhe to the pulsing music winking at nearby spectators – save for one model who held the constant look of “oh…my…gawd, I’m firing my booking agent” on her face.

Tonight, flesh will be bared, hooked, taped, bound, whipped, worshipped, licked, spanked, nibbled on and desired without a single cenobite in sight. Welcome to After Dark’s Captivity premiere party, a ballsy, sweaty blitz celebrating the release of the Elisha Cuthbert-starring film. The shindig that draws an estimated 450 guests is a culmination of advertising controversy, MPAA troubles and reshoots – an orgasmic release of pent-up tension that will be washed away in an evening equipped with an open bar, Suicide Girls, electrical tape and a sundry of oddities to sober you up or make you fall in love. Why hold a proper press screening (we didn’t get one) when you can throw a partaaaay?

No complaining here.

This writer spies the Privilege nightclub from the Sunset strip. On an ordinary night there’d be a line of mini-skirted mamas curving around the block, dudes prowling the sidewalk seeking admittance with their slicked back hair and pungent aroma of Axe body spray. Instead, the club is decked out in Captivity art, a reminder of the trouble kicked up months earlier when parental groups and other sissies called in to complain about After Dark’s marketing campaign. If they caught a glimpse of the deviant displays taking place within this evening’s event, heart attacks would ensue or full-on exorcisms would be underway from the religious right.

Navarro and his aforementioned harem greet unsuspecting guests. Later, the bed he sits on will later serve as an S&M room where a full-grown, overweight gentleman will bare his hairy ass and take several lashes from a blonde dominatrix while another Buddha-bellied chap, with a tattoo across his chest, will wait for his turn by a slab of ribs dangling from the ceiling.

A few feet deeper into Privilege’s improvised dungeon, seemingly lit by Luciano Tovoli, are two rooms. The first, a square space inspired by a tarot reader’s den, sports fine leather chairs, a chandelier and a circulating round table. On top, a lithe specimen dressed in panties, fishnets and black tape covering her nipples lies on her back, spinning away. A gal pal looms over this tabletop vixen caressing her face as she goes. The sexual display begs for companionship – so naturally this writer and a few others sit in the empty seats to enjoy the show.

Again, no complaints here.

Next door is a “torture chamber,” or, a barbershop from hell. Barber seats and more Suicide Girls (and more black tape!) beckon the passerby to join them for a photo opportunity. Aw, hell, why not? We participate for some quick, deep conversation.

Us: “Having fun?”

Our Raven-Haired Tattooed Torturer for the evening: “Yeah, it’s really hot in here.”

Us: “You mean hot as in sexy? Or…just hot, like, in general?”

RHTT: “I’m going to tie your wrists and ankles.”

Us: “Whatever you say.”

Spared any pain we push on towards the back of the club, scoping for celebrities. Elisha Cuthbert, we learn, is a no-show. Same goes for Eva Longoria who is supposedly on the guest list. We pass former American Idol contestant Ryan Starr tucked away in a dark corner, gabbing on her cell phone. Somewhere Rachel Leigh Cook and hubby – Captivity co-star – David Gillies, Bai Ling, Barbara Nedeljakova and a bevy of horror writers and directors mingle near a large black curtain.

The music takes a turn, buckling from a poppy remix of The Bravery’s “An Honest Mistake” to the grind of Pantera’s “Walk.” And on cue, like a magician removing a cloth to reveal his latest bit of trickery, the curtain drops and a steel cage full of Suicide Girls spill out, teasing on-lookers, teasing each other, dancing to the music. Hallelujah. This moment crescendos with the entrance of a bald fella who proceeds to hang himself from the top of the cage by hooks in his chest. His skin stretches like rubber. The audience gasps. Those aforementioned tanned bedmates who befriended Navarro? They stand by the sidelines, cameras in hand. Eyes wide and flawless lips curled up in shock. It becomes apparent these are not Suicide Girls by any means. Likely wannabe actresses/models hired for the show. Sheep in a den of wolves.

With the main event over, four hours later, this carnival of corruption ends. Bouncers – Privilege staffers awestruck and befuddled by the sights they have witnessed – herd stragglers out into the parking lot.

Preceded by an air of promised audaciousness, the party lived up to the hype, but barely broke any laws. Who knows if the bash ultimately raised any particular awareness for Captivity itself. Advertising was everywhere. Plasma televisions ran the trailer on loop. Web cameras broadcast the event to the Suicide Girls site. The sober mind wonders what the price tag is for a publicity event like this. We’ll find out soon enough if it was all worth it when After Dark releases the pic on July 13th.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, this writer has a thigh of welts from an unprompted whipping to tend to…

Source: Ryan Rotten


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