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Deep Throat is a prime example of a mediocre picture that appeared at exactly the right historical moment, and rode an astonishing wave of popularity that far outstrips any qualitative value it possesses. Though not the first mainstream hardcore film - Andy Warhol's 1969 Blue Movie holds that honor - it wins its laurels as the most iconic pornographic movie ever made, the one that legitimized theatrical skin films for American couples and launched the porno chic movement of the 70s. Then FBI Deputy Director Mark Felt's subsequent decision to co-opt the title as an alias through Watergate press leaks further emblazoned Throat into the US cultural lexicon.

It might surprise unfamiliar viewers to learn that Throat is in fact a comedy, filled with silly one-liners ("What if your balls were in your ears, doctor?" "Then I could hear myself coming!") and offbeat visual gags (when Harry Reems's Dr. Young inspects Linda, he uses what appears to be a small telescope).

Conceptually, the film at least purports to be pro-woman. The idea of the female seeking sexual pleasure proactively and aggressively in the manner of a man was a novel one at the time, and very much in line with some strains of thought among sexual revolutionaries in the early 70s; Damiano & company helped lead the vanguard. But the movie doesn't sustain that conceit; Linda seems so turned on and gratified throughout every assignation, whether she's fellating or not, that the film loses the strength of its convictions. Damiano may have been too craven to actually show his lead actress thoroughly put off and bored by other kinds of sex and then starkly contrast that with her reactions to oral encounters. He tries to compensate for that lapse with clever cutaways to visual metaphors for climax (bells going off, etc.). The effect is cute and droll, but not particularly convincing. Had he redirected Lovelace's actual dramatic responses, it would have delivered a stronger impact.

The much ballyhooed-close-ups of Linda in action may leave us agog, but call attention to the fact that she is the sole spectacle here, like an act in a carnival geek show. And, on some queasy level, that undercuts the so-called feminist intent of the whole picture.

The film's technical lapses also hurt it - it has one sequence where Reems's dialogue is completely asynchronous, and another set up for a sex scene that is initially out-of-focus. Additional demerits for the grating score, and for Reems's acting - he mugs constantly and hams it up, like De Niro in his most embarrassing comedic turns.

All philosophical objections notwithstanding, Lovelace was the right choice for this material. She holds her own before the camera. She's like the quintessential girl next door, publicly average and unremarkable, but loose and uninhibited in one-on-one encounters. She participates in some unusual setups, including one very strange act involving a can of soda pop, memorable for its eccentricity though not for its eroticism.

Today Deep Throat is a curio. It's clumsy and inept - historically seminal but unworthy of acclaim. The movie's primary legacy lies in its unwitting reflection of the hypocrisies at the heart of the sexual revolution.

Strange but diverting side note: Carol Connors, who plays Dr. Young's attractive nurse, later became the mother of future American Beauty star Thora Birch.

This spinoff of the iconic 1950s detective television series Peter Gunn emerged from the imprimatur of show creator Blake Edwards and the writing team of Edwards and Bill Blatty (The Exorcist). For the project, Edwards brought series star Craig Stevens back as Gunn, but replaced Herschel Bernardi (as Gunn's superior) with Ed Asner. Paramount greenlit the film, but apparently had such little faith in Gunn as a big screen transposition that execs convinced co-star Sherry Jackson to do a Playboy centerfold spread to boost the movie's prospects. Her topless photos probably sold well but didn't increase ticket sales, and Gunn died at the box office.

Decades later, the movie feels like a missed opportunity on some levels but is still reasonably enjoyable. Stevens delivers a satisfactory performance as the lead but lacks the charisma of a major star, while Asner projects the same gruff intensity that served him well as Lou Grant a few years later. Gunn operates in B-movie country, but its unabashed desire to entertain can be infectious in the right mood. Pauline Kael's old slogan "bang bang, kiss kiss" isn't out of place here - among other pleasures, we get sexy Jackson tempting Gunn into bed ("Make a wish"), gun-wielding thugs crashing in through windows, death threats and mild violence on a racquetball court, and a surreal climactic confrontation in a mirrored room; none of this may exactly be novel, but it keeps the material arresting. There are also a few unexpected throwaway gags that anticipate the farcical Edwards of the '70s and '80s; watch the low-key lunacy that happens, for instance, when Gunn trudges into his kitchen to make himself a coffee. The witty, pseudo-hardboiled dialogue throughout the picture plays like a wry send up of more earnest noir.

Upon release, critics attacked the story of Gunn as confusing, but they were incorrect: the narrative isn't convoluted or challenging to follow, and ends with a refreshingly unpredictable twist. Equally surprising is the degree of onscreen violence, including a bloody finale. Edwards and Blatty were clearly trying to reshape Peter Gunn for movie houses with more "adult" content, but they missed their target in two other respects: the picture's drab telemovie cinematography and its unmemorable lead actor fated it to obscurity.

If Edwards and company had given Gunn higher production values and cast an A-lister like the late Cary Grant or Paul Newman in the lead, the movie would have fared better, because the core elements are here for a superior picture, including an intelligent and serviceable script.