Much of my film viewing is of films that are recommended. But sometimes I get to them years later and forget who or why. Sometimes, as with this, I watch it searching for the reason that I am in the same room with it why its in my mind.
In this case, that's complicated by another dynamic. Sometimes the very same trash is more, depending on the context. But I had no context for this: I didn't know if the maker was intelligent, whether he know what he was doing. It matters. If he was lucid, then I can allow myself to be as well, and join him in watching this from an elevated stage. Otherwise, I have to accept it for what it apparently is: the cheapest way to get breasts on a screen and pretend there is a story.
The thing is: I can almost create an artistic mind behind this, someone who is manipulating the notion of a sex film. We're in it for the voyeurism, and that's true nearly every time we see a woman's torso in a mainstream film. In this case, our narrator (all the sound is narrated) is the voyeur. Sometimes he peeks through keyholes. Sometimes the "sex" comes to him while he is sitting in a café. It comes as dreams and visions. It comes with his ability to be a disembodied spirit, a participant or a member of an audience. It comes as a stylized show. It comes as an "audition." This is a veritable "Citizen Kane" of observational modes, of direct narrative stances.
But that's a lot of work and I don't know if the filmmaker deserves it. There's a sense of fairness here. If someone really is making simple smut, should we credit him with something larger? Does it matter? Yes, it does carry a cost.
Ted's Evaluation -- 1 of 3: You can find something better to do with this part of your life.
