Last Tango In Paris-Bernardo Bertolucci

Less and less I find that I am drawn to certain films that are infamous due only to their shock value or premise.

Last year I tackled three particularly jarring atrocities in celluloid (two of which were complete shit): Salo, Nekromantik, & A Serbian Film. A Serbian Film, despite its well-earned reputation as the most deplorable film ever made, I had to admit, was actually not too bad. The other two lacked any artistic value whatsoever. But, nevertheless, retain their cult status as icons of filth.

Last Tango In Paris is nowhere near the level of the aforementioned films but resides somewhere more within the realm of Clockwork Orange's and Tropic of Cancer's. Which, by todays standard, is rather mild, but at the time of release was deemed pioneeringly shocking.

The ink that threads together the story of Last Tango drips with a relationship based in masochism. Depending on the viewer, some would lean more towards misogyny. But I found that it was more of a two way street as Marie Schneider submissively acquiesces to Marlon Brando's demands of taking a bath and then giving him an impromptu prostate exam.

Some may find stories such as these, which center around tumultuous sex and threadbare intimacy, steamy, enticing, and erotic. And in some cases they act as a throwback conduit to those naughty relationships I think everyone at some point in their lives has found themself in. Those extended dalliances that we know are no good for us, but, regardless, we stay in, because the party in the bedroom is just too much fun to walk away from.

One such relationship I remember being in for over the course of 4-5 years. Together is a very ambiguous word for our status, as we were never really exclusive, but when we were the sex was fast, hot, and loads of fun. Oftentimes taking place in hidden public or in response to heated absences of presence.

But relationships like these, no matter how much fun they can be at the apotheosis of climax, are never able to be retained for longer than a few weeks. At least not in my experience have they ever. And it grew to the point that I would deliberately say harsh things to extract this girl from my life as a means of trying to forget about her. Which would only have the opposite effect and grow her attachment to me.

Humiliation such as this felt extremely alien to me. Even during a time when I was living a Godless life. It felt extremely mean and contrary to what living life as an honorable man should be.

Despite what the masses may claim to crave, the sustainability of intimacy where souls are intertwined, I believe (and can be backed up by Robin Cook) is far superior to even the greatest of hollow orgasms.

And opinions may vary on this proclamation, and in some cases people may be correct in those areas. I know in Robert Green's extensive studies on The Art of Seduction he continually espouses the necessary element of cruelty as a means of enrapturing the intended target. But I look back on the times of juvenile tutelage in picking up women and remember how mean and nasty some people would get when turned down by women and cannot comprehend that this is truly, deep down, what women want.

And this is what is the consistent tether is between Brando's Paul and Schneiders Jeanne. One oafish pig—depraved, narcissistic, demanding, and abusive crossing paths with an innocent woman who has lost a zest for romance with her current beau and has found some form of satisfaction within the wrapping of mystery that shrouds this accidental lover.

They push the envelope of this romance until Paul crosses one too many lines and dispel's the mystery by spilling the beans on his past and thus it breaks Paul's spell over Jeanne and she runs away from him until he invades her apartment and she shoots him.

In certain cases, films like this can work out and come to itch that carnal scratch we all have but wish we didn't. Films like Buffalo '66, Leaving Las Vegas, The Rules Of Attraction lay proof to this notion. But then there are works like this and Bitter Moon, where the actresses are marionetted to whet a filmmakers perverted appetite. And that is exactly what I feel was the case here with Last Tango In Paris. Bernardo Bertolucci even admits to this fact, in that he always dreamed of meeting some girl in the street, having a series of sexual episodes with her, then leaving without ever knowing her name, and here it plays out on film.

Brando's character though is a complete pig whom I cannot believe any woman would ever be attracted to, let alone packs the handsome attributes which would believably allow him to get away with even a quarter of the crap that he pulls with a beautiful swan like Jeanne. But nevertheless he does, despite his overly vulgar tongue and boorish mannerisms.

This film has acclaim in some areas and condemnation in others. For me, where the scales are strictly weighed with the artistic value, I thought it was rather bland and dull. As I mentioned before, even back when I used to indulge with little compunction in the humiliation of others, I knew it was wrong and seriously doubt that I would enjoy something such as this back then, and I sure didn't this time around either.

Stars: *1/2

Verdict: Pass

Cousins: 9/12 Weeks, Poor Things, Bitter Moon, Buffalo '66, A Streetcare Named Desire.