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How this Jewish refugee became Times Square’s queen of porn
(New York Jewish Week) — “She was the most un-grandma person that anyone could have,” says David Bourla at the beginning of a film about his one-of-a-kind grandmother, Chelly Wilson. “Except for the fact that she was Jewish, we celebrated Christmas in a porn theater. It doesn’t get any weirder than that.”
So begins Valerie Kontakos’ documentary, “Queen of the Deuce,” which tells the unlikely story of how a tough-as-nails Jewish lesbian narrowly escaped the Holocaust in Greece and became the successful owner of several pornographic movie theaters in New York City in the the 1970s. The documentary, which premieres in New York on Friday, Nov. 11, is one of several Jewish films playing the documentary film festival DOC NYC, which runs this year from Nov. 9 through Nov. 27.
Born in 1908, Wilson grew up in a religious Sephardic family in Thessaloniki — also known as Salonika in Judeo-Spanish — and was ambitious from a young age. “She had this fierce desire to achieve something,” said Kontakos. “When she was younger, she wanted to be a doctor. But of course that wasn’t an option for her at that point, and given her circumstances, given the fact that she was a Jewish Sephardic woman in Salonika. She came from a very conservative community.”
Relying on a mix of archival footage, interviews and animated sequences, “Queen of the Deuce” is a wide-ranging look at Wilson’s improbable life: her various business ventures, her marriages to men and romances with women, the pain of the loss of her family and more. Central to the film are Wilson’s now-grown grandchildren, who describe their unconventional Jewish grandmother as tough and eccentric, with the confident body language of a mob boss. (Wilson, who died in 1994, appears in the film through home videos.)
As a young woman, Wilson left Athens just before the outbreak of World War II, narrowly escaping the devastating destruction of Thessaloniki’s Jewish community. According to Yad Vashem, out of the approximate 56,000 Jews who lived in Thessaloniki before the war, some 54,000 were killed in the Holocaust.
Wilson got her start in New York selling hot dogs and soda. She sent some of her earnings to Greece to buy newsreel footage and turned the footage into a film called “Greece on the March” — an effort to raise money in the U.S. for the Greek war effort against the Germans. When she played the film at a New York movie theater she met a Jewish film projectionist named Rex Wilson. Although they lacked a common language, he became her second husband.
“He was nice,” Wilson says of Rex in her husky, accented voice. “He provided me with cigarettes.”
(Her first husband, whom she divorced after having two children, Paulette and Dino, was the product of an arranged marriage in Greece. Wilson compares his kisses to “torture” in the film. Later in her life, after Wilson and her second husband split up, her preference for women became an open secret.)
From there, Wilson fell into the movie theater business — first “regular” movies, and then, by the late 1960s, sensing opportunity, she became the owner of several adult movie theaters. Many of them were located on 42nd Street, nicknamed “the Deuce,” which was New York’s infamously gritty red light district at the time.
“It’s unusual not to be surprised by something that she did,” said Kontakos, who first met Wilson in the early 1970s when, as a teenager, she worked at the Wilsons’ Tivoli Theatre on 8th Avenue. “It showed Greek films on Sundays, which were PG, completely family material. The rest of the week they would show porn.”
“Times Square [in the ‘70s] was like the underworld,” added Kontakos, whose family is Greek though not Jewish. “You had drugs there, prostitution, and then you had porn. It was really quite extreme.”
The Adonis Theater marquee, as seen in “Queen of the Deuce.” (Courtesy of the Wilson family)
Wilson was, by all accounts, an exceptionally tough character — she rarely smiled, and usually had a cigarette or a cigar in hand. She frequently held court reclining on the sofa of her living room — her Times Square apartment was above the Eros, a gay porn theater that opened in 1962 — with bags of cash in the corner. Wilson also owned the Adonis, an all-male adult theater so legendary for cruising that it became the locale for a meta, well-known 1978 gay porno film “A Night at the Adonis.”
In family footage shown in the film, she puffs a cigarette and tells stories in imperfect, Greek-accented English of how she smuggled her children to New York from Palestine and Greece. “I had Dino stolen from Israel, you know?” she says, reclining on her couch in a red silk robe. The story that unfolds is an improbable one, involving secret boat rides, misbehaving children and a chance encounter with a sympathetic official in Athens.
Similar to the fate of Thessaloniki’s Jews, most of Wilson’s family died in the Holocaust. But her shrewdness had saved Paulette: Before she departed for the United States in 1939, Wilson left her daughter in the care of a non-Jewish Greek family — with the specific instructions not to turn her over to her Jewish relatives, even if they came looking for her (which, of course, they did).
Still, Wilson kept her difficult past mostly hidden from her children and grandchildren. And in the film’s interviews, her offspring express the pain of their lost family and histories. They remember that Wilson refused to seek out reparations for her murdered family, saying it was blood money.
For Kontakos, it was important to tell this Holocaust story well, noting that the history the persecution of Greek Jews isn’t as well known as other European Jews. “I do feel it’s still not really discussed as openly as it should be,” she said.
Though Wilson may not have been the warm, nurturing type, she had a fierce dedication to her family, and her children and grandchildren reminisce in the film about her creative spirit and zest for life. Kontakos hopes audiences walk away from the film with a sense of “the joy of life, regardless of the hardships,” she said.
“Queen of the Deuce” is screening in New York on Friday, Nov. 11 and Saturday, Nov. 12 as part of the DOC NYC film festival, and will be available for online streaming Nov. 12 through Nov. 27. For details, click here.
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The post How this Jewish refugee became Times Square’s queen of porn appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.
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At Eurovision, Israel’s near triumph shows the limits of tolerance
VIENNA — A keffiyeh was blocking my view, and it bothered me less than I would have expected.
It was around 9:45 pm, and I was standing outside Vienna’s city hall, where the city had erected a “Eurovision village.” The pan-European singing competition was taking place in the former Habsburg capital, grand architecture framing massive public viewing screens.
Security was tight. Visitors weren’t allowed to bring bags inside the area, and we were patted down by two separate guards before we were allowed to enter. In August 2024, a foiled terror attack led to the cancellation of three Taylor Swift concerts, an international embarrassment authorities were keen not to repeat.
And then there were the protests over Israel’s participation.
The day before, an anti-Israel solidarity concert had featured a video call with Unorthodox author Deborah Feldman, who said she was protesting the “whitewashing” of a genocide. A separate “song protest” reportedly escalated from chants of “One love” to “Death, death IDF.” Earlier that day, demonstrators had marched along Vienna’s main shopping boulevard. By the time evening rolled around, a group of clowns had gathered outside the parliament, practicing creepy, Joker-like laughs and holding signs that said “United by Genocide,” a play on the Eurovision Song Contest’s slogan. “United by Music.”
For a contest that insists on being apolitical, Eurovision had become unmistakably political.
I didn’t care much for the music, but world events were unfolding here in Vienna, and I wanted to see them up close.
Israeli singer Noam Bettan was the third to perform. As he got on stage and started singing “Michelle,” a couple of people in the crowd I was standing in started shouting “Free Palestine” at the screen. The chants weren’t loud enough to drown out the performance
Then, someone in front of me raised a keffiyeh, stretching it between both hands and waving it in the air. It blocked my view. I considered asking him to lower it. But did I really want to risk a confrontation? Instead, I stepped sideways – slightly annoyed, but telling myself this was the price of tolerance.
Only later that night did I begin to wonder whether tolerance was, in fact, a shared value.
Back home, I watched the voting. Just before 1 a.m. the audience vote catapulted the Israeli act into the lead. In the previous two years, Israeli entries had also performed strongly with viewers, placing first and second in the public vote without winning overall. The reasons have been debated: diaspora support, savvy promotion, or simply songs that fit the Eurovision formula — catchy, theatrical, sung with a powerful voice. (Israel has won the competition four times, most recently in 2018.)
Israel’s promotional efforts have drawn criticism, but no evidence of manipulation has emerged, and the public broadcaster KAN has responded quickly to European Broadcasting Union reprimands.
It didn’t matter. Social media filled with accusations that Israel had cheated. In the arena, just before Bulgaria’s points were announced, the booing aimed at Israel’s entry grew so loud it was clearly audible on the broadcast.
Bulgaria won, Israel came in second, and I felt something close to relief. At a time when several countries had already stayed away and others were wavering, it seemed less like a celebration than a breaking point. I wouldn’t want to witness what would happen if Eurovision were to be held in Israel next year.
It had been easy to move when the keffiyeh blocked my view. One step to the side, and the problem was gone. However, there was no stepping aside from what came later. Freedom of speech is about making space, but it can also be used to close it.
The post At Eurovision, Israel’s near triumph shows the limits of tolerance appeared first on The Forward.
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Israel’s Noam Bettan takes 2nd at Eurovision, buoyed by scrutinized public vote
(JTA) — The Israeli contestant in the Eurovision Song Contest won second place for the second year in a row, drawing a strong public vote despite protests over Israel’s inclusion in the contest.
Noam Bettan and his song “Michelle” ranked third in the public vote and eighth in the jury vote, which combined to give him second place behind the entry from Bulgaria, which won the contest for the first time.
Bettan thanked his fans in a post on Instagram after leaving the stage.
“I’m still processing everything and trying to find the words for this incredible journey. You guys are amazing and this is all because of you. I love every single one of you!” he wrote. “This is just the beginning, there are so many amazing things in the way! 🤍Am Israel Chai!!!”
Five countries boycotted the contest this year over Israel’s inclusion, citing Israel’s military operations in Gaza. After the competition, a spokesperson for VRT, Belgium’s national broadcaster, said the country was unlikely to participate next year unless the European Broadcasting Union, which runs the contest, makes “a clear statement against war and violence and for respect for human rights.” Belgium came in 21st of 25 competitors in the final.
Bettan faced a smattering of boos both during the semifinal on Tuesday and during the final on Saturday in Vienna, as well as when Israel briefly led the leaderboard during the announcement of the audience votes. He told the Jewish Telegraphic Agency ahead of the final that he believed he had more fans than detractors and that he would focus on them.
Israel scored 220 points in the public vote after drawing a formal warning from the EBU for its campaign urging supporters to send all 10 of their votes to Bettan. Israel’s broadcaster called off the campaign after being told it was “not in line with our rules nor the spirit of the competition.”
Israel also drew 123 points from national juries, more than twice what it earned last year when 22 countries awarded Israel no points at all in a result seen as driven in part by political tensions.
This article originally appeared on JTA.org.
The post Israel’s Noam Bettan takes 2nd at Eurovision, buoyed by scrutinized public vote appeared first on The Forward.
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It looks like a kaffiyeh, but this pro-Israel influencer wants you to wear a sudra
In a recent viral Jubilee video viewed more than 1.5 million times, pro-Israel activist Rudy Rochman sits across from a group of 20 pro-Palestinian activists, debating the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Draped around his neck is a black-and-gray checkered scarf that looks almost identical to a kaffiyeh.
Look closer, and the pattern resolves into something else: tiny Stars of David clustered together, alongside Hebrew lettering spelling out Am Yisrael Chai — “the people of Israel live,” which has became a mantra after Oct. 7 and the hostage crisis. It’s not a kaffiyeh, Rochman says, but a modern twist on the sudra, a cloth head covering once worn by Jews across the Middle East — and he wants to bring it back.
Since the Gaza War, the kaffiyeh has become an increasingly visible symbol of pro-Palestinian activism. Now, Rochman is part of a small but growing effort to revive the sudra as a marker of Jewish identity rooted in the Middle East. He runs the company My Sudra, promoting and selling the garment online. It has been embraced by a niche but visible group of young pro-Israel influencers.
Rochman, a 32-year-old Jew of Moroccan and Algerian descent, said he and his family wore sudras during celebrations like bar mitzvahs and weddings. In old family albums, Rochman says most photos of his grandfather and great-grandfather show them donning the garment in Morocco.
As a child, Rochman understood the head covering as Middle Eastern rather than distinctly Jewish. Once he learned about its connection to Judaism, he set out to revive it, beginning to create sudras in 2016 while a student at Columbia University.
The term sudra appears in rabbinic literature, including the Mishnah and Talmud, as a general term for a cloth typically worn as the religiously prescribed head covering, though some sources describe Jews wearing it around their necks. Experts say Jews across the Middle East wore sudras, likely before the Middle Ages, with styles varying by region and period.
From the Middle Ages into the modern era, Jews in the Middle East, classified as dhimmis, sometimes faced legal restrictions on dress. One notable prohibition during certain periods was the wearing of a headscarf or turban by Jews, including the sudra.
“This form of headgear by Jewish men was not tolerated in many communities,” said Gillian Vogelsang-Eastwood, a textile historian specializing in Middle Eastern dress. “Men could wear the kippah, but nothing significant in public on the head.”
Over time, she said, those constraints contributed to the fading of the custom.
“For me, it’s about reviving an aspect of our culture that was beaten out of us by force,” said Rochman. “It’s not like we consciously made a decision. ‘Hey, we want to stop wearing sudras.’ We were forced to stop wearing it.”
Historically, sudras did not usually feature identifiably Jewish symbols. The Kurdish sudra is an exception, incorporating circles and dots with religious meaning. Even in Rochman’s own family photos, his ancestors typically wore plain white sudras.
Rochman, however, has deliberately added Jewish symbols to make the garment legibly Jewish to contemporary eyes.
Rochman sells sudras in various colors, including a black and white version that looks exceptionally similar to the Palestinian version of the kaffiyeh. Instead of the pattern of zig-zag stripes and criss-crossed squares that can be found on that kaffiyeh, Rochman’s sudra has stars of David juxtaposed to create a similar checkered pattern, as well as Jewish symbols like the menorah, along with the phrase Am Yisrael Chai.
The resemblance to the kaffiyeh is not accidental.
The kaffiyeh is widely seen today as a symbol of Palestinian identity and resistance, but it did not always carry that meaning.
According to Vogelsang, “The kaffiyeh is basically regarded as a 19th-century development worn by farmers in Syria,” she said. “The Jordanian army later adopted it as part of their uniforms.”
Vogelsang says its political symbolism developed in the 20th century, particularly through its association with Palestinian nationalism and figures such as PLO leader Yasser Arafat, who popularized the black-and-white kaffiyeh widely worn today.
Some say the patterns on the Palestinian black-and-white kaffiyeh represent different aspects of Palestinian culture. The criss-cross lines represent the Palestinian ties to the Mediterranean Sea because of their resemblance to fishnets; the black stripes symbolize trade routes through Palestine; and the curved lines are said to symbolize olive trees.
But Vogelsang and other experts say that this symbolism is a modern interpretation of older patterns. “They didn’t have these meanings. The Palestinian community has given them these meanings,” she said.
Patterns like checks and stripes were often used for garments in the Middle East, not because of any particular symbolism, but because “they are just an easy, convenient design to make,” said Vogelsang. Both Jews and Muslims used whichever fabrics were locally available, often checkered and striped patterns commonly associated with the modern-day kaffiyeh.
In a similar way, Rochman’s sudra takes on explicit political meaning through the inclusion of the phrase Am Yisrael Chai, popularized in the 1960s as a rallying cry for Soviet Jewry and now widely used at pro-Israel demonstrations. In that sense, his garment does not just revive a historical practice, but imbues it with ideological significance.
“Being a Zionist outwardly was kind of seen as excessive before Oct. 7, but after Oct. 7 it became something that was cool again,” Rochman said, adding that interest in — and sales of — his sudras increased following the attacks and the war in Gaza that followed.
I asked Rochman if he’s ever worried about being mistaken for wearing a kaffiyeh or accused of cultural appropriation. Dozens of Reddit threads are dedicated to the topic online. In the Jubilee video, one Palestinian activist tells him, “Are you going to pretend that the kaffiyeh you’re wearing is not a culturally appropriated kaffiyeh? And you just added the Hebrew and all of that to it.”
But he is not particularly bothered by either accusation.
“I look at it as just an opportunity to tell that person, whether a Jew or not a Jew, that doesn’t know anything about a part of Jewish culture, who we are and what we are.”
And while Rochman’s main goal is to help younger generations of Jews understand a part of their history that has faded, he hopes that more Jews wearing the sudra will also foster a greater understanding of Jewish history in the Middle East.
“We need to know where we’re from,” Rochman said. “And if it helps us connect with other Middle Eastern peoples, that’s amazing too.”
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