This film occupies a kind of no man's land between erotic comedies and straight pornography, only instead of shell craters, barbed wire, and corpses this particular no man's land is a demented milieu of luxurious beds, Rabalasian frescoes, and prosthetic penises. At least I think they're prosthetic. I certainly hope so. One of them resembles something that should be found on a horse, or maybe an elephant.
The plot, what there is of it, is unremarkable. A young woman has been married for only six months to her publisher husband and already she's bored with his love making, so she seeks stimulation elsewhere -- in literature, in fantasies, in memories, and finally in the person of Leon, a tattooed French guy who turns out to be rough but satisfying trade.
The young blond is Anna Jimskaia. (Nobody else's name matters.) She's the kind of caricature of desirable pulchritude that Anita Ekberg parodied in "La Dolce Vita." She's attractive, but in an entirely conventional way, no quirks, no individuality. And she's hefty all over. She doesn't merely walk. She minces and jiggles and bounces and sways her hips from side to side in a way that no man could possibly imitate.
It would only be a slight exaggeration to say that she has her clothes off as often as she has them on, so that we get to know pretty much every pore on her flamboyant body on a first-name basis.
The movie isn't worth going on about but, let me see, there are scenes of not only nudity, but urination, douching over a bidet, frottage, cunnilingus, fellatio, anal intercourse, regular intercourse, threesomes, lesbianism, and -- I'm trying to remember. No, there were no animals.
I guess this satisfies Tinto Brass's fantasies or, more likely, he believes he's found a winning formula for making movies and money at the same time. I can't really recommend it with any enthusiasm because it's not my fantasies, which run more along the lines of giant tubs of Allegro marinade and upright alligators doing grotesque gavottes.
Not that there's anything wrong with the fundamental template that the plot fills in. There can't be TOO much wrong with it since it's formed the basis of about ten million pornographic novels and movies. Bored wife lets stranger boff her in a toilet during a literary ball. Right. It happens to me all the time. But it can be done sloppily, as here, or done with a bit of pith and a touch of poetry, as in "Belle de Jour."
The plot, what there is of it, is unremarkable. A young woman has been married for only six months to her publisher husband and already she's bored with his love making, so she seeks stimulation elsewhere -- in literature, in fantasies, in memories, and finally in the person of Leon, a tattooed French guy who turns out to be rough but satisfying trade.
The young blond is Anna Jimskaia. (Nobody else's name matters.) She's the kind of caricature of desirable pulchritude that Anita Ekberg parodied in "La Dolce Vita." She's attractive, but in an entirely conventional way, no quirks, no individuality. And she's hefty all over. She doesn't merely walk. She minces and jiggles and bounces and sways her hips from side to side in a way that no man could possibly imitate.
It would only be a slight exaggeration to say that she has her clothes off as often as she has them on, so that we get to know pretty much every pore on her flamboyant body on a first-name basis.
The movie isn't worth going on about but, let me see, there are scenes of not only nudity, but urination, douching over a bidet, frottage, cunnilingus, fellatio, anal intercourse, regular intercourse, threesomes, lesbianism, and -- I'm trying to remember. No, there were no animals.
I guess this satisfies Tinto Brass's fantasies or, more likely, he believes he's found a winning formula for making movies and money at the same time. I can't really recommend it with any enthusiasm because it's not my fantasies, which run more along the lines of giant tubs of Allegro marinade and upright alligators doing grotesque gavottes.
Not that there's anything wrong with the fundamental template that the plot fills in. There can't be TOO much wrong with it since it's formed the basis of about ten million pornographic novels and movies. Bored wife lets stranger boff her in a toilet during a literary ball. Right. It happens to me all the time. But it can be done sloppily, as here, or done with a bit of pith and a touch of poetry, as in "Belle de Jour."