|Gerald Foos, the subject of Gay Talese's new book, The Voyeur's Motel, behind the desk at the Manor House Motel in Aurora, Colorado.|
We who profess a helpless fascination with human nature were sitting ducks for The Voyeur’s Motel, Gay Talese’s book about an Aurora, Colorado, motel owner who made a secret vocation of spying on the sexual activities of his guests. On April 11, The New Yorker ran a lengthy excerpt to herald the publication, and though the reaction of commentators was largely hostile, the material had an undeniable, if unwholesome, allure. Many were compelled to read it, and Steven Spielberg was compelled to option it, probably for more or less the reason Talese was compelled to write it. It was just so … odd.
The motelier, Gerald Foos, had contacted Talese in the late 1970s. The latter was then writing Thy Neighbor’s Wife (1980), a social history of sexuality in American life and law, and a book whose research phase had been widely publicized. In his letter, Foos said that his life as a sexual voyeur had begun in boyhood, when he spied regularly on his naked aunt; that he had purchased his motel, The Manor House, in late 1965, specifically to watch other people have sex; that he had fashioned peepholes, disguised as air vents, in the ceilings of the units; and that he had been maintaining a detailed journal of his observations for well over a decade. While candid about his masturbatory interest, Foos cited a larger mission that was both scientific and sociological. His notes, he claimed, charted the evolution of Americans’ bedroom behavior over the years of the Sexual Revolution and were thus a trove of priceless data, particularly on the widespread practice of supposedly “deviant” sexualities. “I did this purely out of my unlimited curiosity about people and not as just a deranged voyeur,” Foos informed Talese. “If sexual researchers & people in general could have the ability to see into other people’s private lives and see this practiced & performed, and to ascertain exactly how large a percentage of normal people indulge in these so-called deviations, their minds would change immediately.” Elsewhere, he described his project in philanthropic-therapeutic terms: “The only way that our society is going to achieve proper sexual stability and mental health … is to know the truth of what people are actually doing in the privacy of their own bedrooms.”
From the beginning, Talese was dubious about Foos’s complete trustworthiness, not to mention properly put off by the man himself and his “strange and distasteful project.” Foos claimed to have witnessed the amatory gamut from masturbation and standard straight and gay intercourse to group sex, costumed role play, and incest. Most sensationally, he claimed to have witnessed a murder – the strangling of a woman by her male companion, a drug dealer. Talese could neither confirm nor disconfirm that the killing had occurred, but after the New Yorker excerpt was published, one of Talese’s editors at Grove Atlantic discovered, via some cursory internetting, that a quite similar murder had taken place a few days before Foos’s corresponding journal entry – only it had happened in a hotel ten miles away. Talese updated his book to countenance the discrepancy, but a check of property records exposed others. Though Foos’s voyeuristic journal was begun in late 1965, records indicated he hadn’t purchased The Manor House Motel until 1969; Talese fudged the gap by suggesting that Foos had not been meticulous in his dating. Then came the news that neither had Foos owned the motel between 1980 and 1988, years he had claimed to be in full voyeur mode. Foos’s versions of how, when, and to whom he had sold The Manor House, how he repurchased it, and how he retained access to the secret attic all the while were contradicted by documented bills and titles. Confronted with these, Foos held firm, saying he’d told the truth to the best of his recollection. Talese basically threw up his hands, saying he would do no more interviews or appearances for the book: “Its credibility is down the toilet.” He backtracked soon after, saying that while he did not stand by Foos, he stood by the book. But he would still decline to promote it.
What a mess. Gerald Foos turns out to be something less, or at least other, than he presented himself to be, while Talese comes out seriously compromised, having failed to corroborate much of what he presented sufficiently, with only minimal disclaimers (“I cannot vouch for every detail”), as a predominantly factual story. Especially for an admirer of Talese’s innovations as a journalist (see the celebrity profiles collected in 1970’s Fame and Obscurity) and immense skills as a popular historian (magisterial works like 1969’s The Kingdom and the Power, about The New York Times, and Thy Neighbor’s Wife itself), The Voyeur’s Motel is grim reading: it represents a failure of both journalistic diligence and authorial craft.
Talese seems to have been so held by the sordid uniqueness of the Foos narrative (just so … odd) that he abrogated minimum standards of verification with regard to publicly accessible facts. But going back even further – to the ur-text, as it were – he is distressingly uncritical of transparently implausible events described in the Foos journal. Two especially absurd scenarios involve dark rooms and headlights. When a man turns off the lamp before making love to a particularly enticing female guest, Foos goes into a rage: “I feel like killing him.” He scrambles from his attic, races to the parking lot, turns on his car’s headlights, and points them at the couple’s room. Back in his attic, he watches the couple commingle, noting with pleasure the male subject’s irritation at the distracting glare. Soon after, two men and an “absolutely stunning” woman check in together; one of the men rooms singly, the others as a couple. Again, the lights go out just before coitus. Hurrying to position his headlights, Foos finds no proximate parking space. But he snatches a small voyeuristic victory: the curtains of the adjacent room are parted just enough for the passing Foos to see the third man listening through the adjoining door, while masturbating to the sound of his friends’ lovemaking. To which even the generously imaginative reader can only sneer: Come on. Real life doesn’t go down like that; fantasy and fiction do.
|Gay Talese. (Photo: Joyce Tenneson)|
It can be justly concluded that Gerald Foos is a liar, whatever bits of truth might float in his brain fluid. But a literary work is before us, a work which gives his story a context and a semblance of form, and so Foos’s lies are not only lies, they are confabulations. His journals (for which Talese’s publishers paid “an undisclosed amount”) are quoted at length in The Voyeur’s Motel; for long stretches, the book is effectively a set of annotated journal entries. These are a patchwork of unbridled fantasy and autoerotic self-study which Talese aptly compares to the once notorious and widely banned My Secret Life, the sexual memoir of an anonymous Victorian gentleman – a book whose veracity long ago became impossible to ascertain, and beside the point. Rather, its value, as Talese quotes scholar Steven Marcus, is to show “that amid and underneath the world of Victorian England as we know it – and as it tended to represent itself to itself – a real, secret social life was being conducted, the secret life of sexuality.” Conceivably, the long-term value of The Voyeur’s Motel will likewise be as the chronicle of an imagination, of a certain mind fantasizing within, and against, the socio-sexual parameters of a certain time. If read from that perspective today, it can give insight – though not the kind which, as a work of nonfiction, it purports to give.
As curious in his mental constructions as ever, Foos wrote Talese in 2012 that by documenting his voyeurism he had meant to oppose “any attempt to subvert reality, substance, the truth.” A confounding trinity: inasmuch as he pretended to stern factuality, and got Talese to believe him, Foos subverted reality rather effectively, while the “truth” of his narrative is so degraded as to require the distanciation of quotation marks. As for the trinity’s third prong, substance: Talese asks at one point, “And where was I in all this?” For the reader, the more immediate and vexing question is “Where am I?” Again, it may be that The Voyeur’s Motel will find its rightful audience in a time as far removed from ours as My Secret Life was from the exploratory sixties, which unearthed it as an illuminating curiosity. Even spurious books gain historical weight with age, and it’s hardly impossible that one day Talese’s book will be read for whatever it reveals to others about our time. But if it is reprinted, it will have to be as a casebook, with surrounding police reports and investigative articles alerting readers to what was and was not true. The book by itself does not tell us that, nor can it: its subject did not tell the truth, and its author did not allow himself to know it.
– Devin McKinney is the author of Magic Circles: The Beatles in Dream and History (Harvard, 2003) and The Man Who Saw a Ghost: The Life and Work of Henry Fonda (St. Martin’s, 2012), and a contributor to the anthologies Sam Peckinpah’s The Wild Bunch (Cambridge, 1999) and Screening Violence (Rutgers, 2001). Formerly a music columnist (The American Prospect Online), blogger (Pop with a Shotgun, Hey Dullblog), and TV writer (The Food Network), he writes regularly for Critics at Large and the pop culture site Hi Lobrow. He works as an archivist in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, where he lives with his wife and their three cats. His latest book, Jesusmania! The Bootleg Superstar of Gettysburg College, was published earlier this month.