Touring Unmade L.A. With ‘Beds’ Director Barker

Nicholas Barker, the British anthropologist turned filmmaker, was in town to promote his new film, “Unmade Beds,” a quasi-documentary, almost forensic look at the dating lives of four New York singles.

The film (which is playing an exclusive run at the Nuart in West Los Angeles) is alternately sad and hilarious. The film has an almost cult following in New York where it has played since this summer.

In “Unmade Beds” Barker dissects the lives of four personal ad veterans who range from the hapless to the grotesque: Brenda, a lusty, thirtysomething single mother who is frank about looking for what used to be called a sugar daddy; Aimee, a vivacious and attractive 28-year-old who weighs 225 pounds and is hellbent on finding a husband; Michael, a handsome and self-deprecating bachelor who blames his lack of success with women on his stature (he’s 5 feet, 4 inches tall); and Mickey, a hard-boiled, chain-smoking, self-described “Jack Nicholson-type” who used to be a big hit with the ladies, but whose charm, looks and prospects have faded considerably.

We decided to take the director out on the town recently to show him the L.A. singles scene and compare it with New York. Barker, 42, who splits his time between New York and London, where he shares a home with his wife and 10-year-old daughter, was game although he cautions, “I’m not a dating guru, I’m just a really keen observer.”

Night 1

The premiere of Todd Solondz’s new movie, “Happiness,” followed by an after-party at the exclusive Sunset Strip club Barfly. What could be more L.A.?

We hook up with some friends--Laura, 27, a recently divorced willowy blond, and Bob, 29, a handsome publicist who admittedly has “commitment issues”--grab some drinks and scout the room.

The crowd at Barfly is sharp and confident. No wallflowers here. The women easily outnumber the men.

We’re still taking it all in when Barker is whisked away to meet bachelor icon Hugh Hefner, who is holding court at a nearby table. The night is off to a good start. Anthropologist Barker gets an up-close look at the playboys’ playboy and Hefner’s bodyguard asks Laura for her number.

We observe from a distance and Bob looks wistfully at Hef. “You know I met him a few times when I was a child,” he reminisces. Turns out Bob’s father ran another famous men’s magazine that features nude pinups of women. Hmmm, could this have anything to do with his being a commitment-phobe? If you grow up with the notion that with each calendar month comes yet another gorgeous centerfold, is it unappealing to stay with just one woman?

After a little socializing in different corners of the club, the four of us congregate again at the bar for another round of cosmopolitans. The crowd is lively, but there does not appear to be much potential for romance in the air. Perhaps because we’d all just sat through the same film, “Happiness,” which depicts a particularly grim world where everyone, regardless of marital status, is pretty miserable.

Barker’s film, while not quite as dark, also evokes apprehension about a world where everyone does not live happily ever after. Bob comments that after he watched “Unmade Beds,” his first thought was, “Oh God, I’m going to die alone,” a sentiment that seems to haunt several of the film’s characters, particularly the men.

Just then, a nicely dressed man approaches Laura and compliments her on something she’s wearing. A minute later he splits.

“What was wrong with him?” Barker asks.

“Inch impaired,” she says without a blink.

“My,” Barker says in unmasked horror, “American women are unusually cruel to short men.”

In fact, this is the very complaint of Michael, the attractive but diminutive bachelor of “Unmade Beds.” And that’s just one in a litany of insecurities that are revealed by the four terminally single characters in Barker’s film. Asked how he was able to get four people to reveal so much to a total stranger, on film no less, he replies, “I believe that if you are going to make a public spectacle of people’s private anxieties, you have to be brutally frank with them about what you’re doing. I always tell people exactly how they’re going to be characterized and I tell them that some people are going to love their views and tastes, and some people will hate them.

“The point is, I’m interested as a filmmaker in the way people present the best version of themselves to the outside world. Almost an idealized version.”

Not unlike dating.

“Precisely!”

Barker, who looks like a lanky London club kid, has created a bit of a buzz in the room and suddenly he’s surrounded by other singles, most of whom have seen his film. The women press him for details on the “Beds” characters. Mickey the old rogue, can he really be as insensitive as he comes across in the film? This, after all, is the character who refers to half the women he meets as “mutts.”

“Mickey’s kind of a tragic figure because he’s having to recognize the magnitude of his folly. I mean, this is a guy who’s spent his whole life chasing skirts and being hugely successful with women, and then one day he realizes he’s lost his magic. And you probably won’t approve of this, but young men in New York adore Mickey.”

There is a collective gasp. If there is anything worse than having men like Mickey in the dating pool, it’s having young men idolize the Mickeys of the world.

On that sour note, Bob the bachelor cuts out to go to a wrap party for a friend’s film. In fact, the crowd at Barfly has thinned out considerably. Hef and party are long gone. We decide to meet the following night on the east side of town for more people-watching.

As we’re leaving, Laura quibbles with the doorman. He makes a crude joke about how to determine whether a woman is a natural blond. Hmmph! Definitely a Mickey.

Night 2

Barker and I meet at Jerry’s Deli in Pasadena for a quick dinner. Jerry’s is full of casually dressed couples who look blissfully at ease with one another. They aren’t slick, there doesn’t appear to be much scheming going on, they look, what’s that word? Normal.

After ordering a glass of Cabernet sauvignon and a steak, Barker talks a little about his background. He went to Eton, the prestigious British school, and then studied anthropology at London University. He worked a stint at the BBC’s World Radio Service and then segued to BBC Television where he worked as a channel controller until he realized he was a “director in denial.”

Barker’s bread and butter now is making groovy commercials for British television. “Nike paid for ‘Unmade Beds,’ ” he says of the money he used to finance his first feature film.

We head across the street to Twin Palms, the restaurant-nightclub, to meet Laura. There’s a line outside and inside the place is packed. On weeknights, Twin Palms draws a fairly upscale crowd, but on weekends, or at least this particular Friday night, it’s a meat market and the men outnumber the women almost 2 to 1. “This is just too easy,” Laura comments.

Many of the men wear sport coats over turtlenecks and are smoking cigars. Brenda, the “Beds” character whose goal is to be a kept woman, might just like this place.

Unfortunately, a friend of ours who is gay has begged off at the last minute. As we survey the room we conclude that it’s probably just as well. The pickings for him would indeed be slim.

We spy an uncomfortable looking couple at one of the intimate tables that ring the dance floor. The woman is an attractive redhead, a tad on the plump side. The man, an average-looking type, is rudely paying more attention to any sweet young thing that walks by than to his date. It’s painful to watch.

“Perhaps it’s a blind date,” Barker offers. “A blind date is deeply stressful; it’s like a job interview and some people rise to the occasion and some don’t. Some people lose all critical judgment. But the more you do these things the better you should become at assessing whether you’re sitting in front of an ax murderer or a potentially sympathetic spouse.”

After rejecting several offers of drinks or dances from a variety of men (“too much gold jewelry,” “he’s got a mustache,” “too married looking”), Laura begins needling Barker about the possibility of his making a film on singles life in L.A. She even offers her services as one of the dating guinea pigs.

It’s the question he’s been asked most during his stay here. Each time he rebuffs the notion but as we’re leaving Twin Palms to head back to Jerry’s for a hot fudge sundae with three spoons, he takes one last wistful look around the room and says, “This place is like Little Italy in the ‘50s. Perhaps I should consider making a film in L.A.”