Candy (1968) is the worst film I’ve ever seen. I’m shocked that Roger Ebert gave it three stars and that most critics in the '60s liked it.

Now, you might be wondering what possessed me to watch a film this old. Well, here’s the cast:

• John Huston
• James Coburn
• Richard Burton
• Marlon Brando
• Walter Matthau
• Charles Aznavour,
• in the role of Candy herself, Ewa Aulin

Oh, and one more cast member shocked me: Ringo Starr. Yes, Ringo fucking Starr is in this film, playing a Mexican—badly. Specifically, a Mexican gardener with aspirations of becoming a Catholic priest. Yes, I can’t believe it either.

So, what’s this film about? Supposedly, it’s a sex farce—a satire of pornographic plots that I guess were in vogue at the time. I don’t know, I don’t research old porn. But I assume the director thought the subject deserved satirization. The movie itself is based on the 1958 novel Candy by Terry Southern and Mason Hoffenberg, which in turn is based on the 1759 novel Candide.

I watched this film from beginning to end. It was a chore. I could barely get through it. It’s supposed to be funny. Maybe people in the '60s thought it was a laugh riot, but I didn’t understand a single thing. There were a few moments that could have been funny—the poet with his hair blowing in the wind, Marlon Brando playing a guru (he tries his goddamn best with what he’s given, but ultimately, he can’t save it).

But let me stop tap-dancing around it: this whole film is just a series of vignettes—episodic “adventures” with our titular heroine, Candy. And Candy is played as stupid. A naive—a high school student, no less. And she spends the bulk of this movie being sexually assaulted and raped. Over and over again. The constant theme of this movie is that every man who comes into contact with Candy can’t resist her. They become overwhelmed with lust, and she is assaulted, blackmailed, and abused at every single turn. And it’s all played for laughs.

Ha ha, Candy. Stupid Candy. How dare you exist? For the crime of existing, we’re going to make your life a living hell.

The film presents all this as though it’s just a frolic. Candy just, you know, oopsie-daisies her way into sexual violence. Now, I should clarify: this is not a pornographic movie per se, though it attempts to skewer pornography. There is some nudity, but no actual sex happens on screen. And in many ways, that makes the movie even more horrifying. Because every single event, as ludicrous and ridiculous as it is, could plausibly happen in real life. Candy goes to school. Candy tries to take care of her father. Candy visits an Italian restaurant. And just for being herself, she can’t catch a break.

And it’s not just the sexual assault—it’s the racism. So much racism. I’ve already mentioned Ringo Starr’s terrible portrayal of a Mexican, but it doesn’t stop there. Italians, Polish people, Irish people, Black people—they all get it. And then there’s Sugar Ray Robinson in a cameo. What role does he play in this movie? A chauffeur. The greatest athlete of the 20th century, reduced to that. What the actual hell?

There’s a scene involving gay and transgender characters, and if you want a stark reminder of how horribly they were treated in the '60s, this film provides it. Not that anyone needs a reminder.

And then, there’s the ending. It’s so horrifying, so terrible, so absolutely disgusting that I can’t even bring myself to describe it. There is no way this film could be made today. Hell, even 10 or 20 years ago, no studio would touch it. I’m not trying to be coy about spoilers here—the ending is just that bad. It left me feeling awful.

Even so, what fascinates me about Candy is that this film could have only been made in 1968. That singular year. Not two years earlier, not in the '70s. Even then, theatres would have looked at this film and said, “This is so offensive, there’s no way we’re showing it.” And yet, somehow, they got the crème de la crème of Hollywood to be in it. How? How did they get John Huston, Marlon Brando, and Richard Burton to sign on to this?

The whole movie is very hippie-dippy, filled with psychedelic effects. The film basically turns into an acid trip. At the very end—right after the most traumatizing thing possible happens to her—Candy walks into a field full of literal hippies playing music. She sees all the characters she encountered throughout the film doing ridiculous things, and then—she transforms into an ethereal being and ascends into space. Yes. That is the actual ending of Candy. Sorry if I spoiled it for you, but you literally can’t get any more 1968 than that.

After watching this film, experiencing it from beginning to end, I can’t help but wonder: what was life really like in the 1960s? I was born in 1981, so I missed out on that era. But for someone who lived through it—how would they even interpret this film? Because I feel like you need the lens of someone who lived through that time to properly understand it.

Hell, I’d love to talk to women who lived in the '60s and ask them: what was life like for you? How different was it? I’ve read some Andrea Dworkin. I come to her work as a heterosexual man, and at times, I disagree with much of what she says. But after watching Candy, I get where she was coming from. I’m a hell of a lot more sympathetic to her stance on pornography. If you had lived through this time—especially this time—I can see how you’d reach the conclusion that pornography socialized men to become rapists.

Now, I don’t think that’s the function of erotica in general. I don’t think erotica is morally wrong. I’m not trying to stigmatize desire. But we are all products of our environment, of our culture. And judging 1968 by Candy—a film that got great reviews, attracted Hollywood’s elite, and was even a box office success—the fact that this film succeeded at one time, in one era, is telling.

Wow. Candy is horrible. I don’t recommend it. I feel terrible for having watched it. The only positive thing that came from this experience is that I now have a little more understanding of where feminists like Andrea Dworkin were coming from.

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