For a period there, in the late 70s, we came very close to having real life in films. More real than ever. Oh, we had blood and tears, and an occasional breast, but the state of affairs was little different than that Disney TeeVee world where no bathrooms had toilets and sex was something oddly remote from the eye, always around the corner.
Partly, its that odd, odd American prudishness, that tut tut notion that invisible things are managed things. But partly there's the simple fact that no good case could be made for "watching." So a simple balance is maintained. Since sex sells, we'll have wet lips and vamping and wild joining of invisible parts. But we won't have life the way it really is, with all sorts of skin, intimacies and gentle touches. And smells.
Into this space you'll find various intrusions. I really thought "9 Songs" was immensely clever, justifiably cinematic. I also find from time to time clever ideas in ordinary porn. "Private Teacher" by an Orson Welles associate had some neat ideas sneaked in, as did "La Foire aux sexes" which was every bit a good new wave film.
And then you'll have something like this, which perhaps by itself set back the whole notion of intimacy in film three decades.
Its big, its loud, its stupid. Fortunately, this was before that insane silicone and shaved craze hit the girlie watcher's world. But its of the same ilk in a way.
Just think: Peter O'Toole, Hellen Mirren, John Geilgud for chrissakes! Not bad set design, in that Italian monstrosity tradition of Zefferelli. A script by Gore Vidal who knows nothing about how to flesh out a film (ouch, sorry), but whose larger arcs are solid. And Tinto Brass is not a bad filmmaker in the small, meaning he knows how to make a good image if not craft things as a project.
It could have worked, because by the late seventies, audiences had plenty of examples of performances that referenced and encapsulated other performances, so we could have what this could have been: a (film) performance of a (porn) performance of a (historical, voyeuristic-in-its-time) performance. And the projection of genital reality across those layers could have been intelligent as well as whatever else you may want.
For decades after Kinsey botched things with flawed science, Playboy was the vanguard of the sexual revolution. I'm not making this up; there really was a "Playboy philosophy" which boiled down to: "sex is natural and pleasant and if it doesn't hurt anyone, why not?" With hippies as a sort of mascot, this seemed intelligent, especially since the girlie pictures were surrounded with some of the best writing in print. Those centerfolds mattered.
Then along came a sort of second generation magazine which exploited the fact that Palyboy's girls had no body hair or genitals and were too linked to a set of obsolete fantasies. Penthouse girls had hair and fluids and were aggressive. Fewer coy blonds; more adventure. It was an equally vapid set of fantasies which as these things go went obsolete as quickly. But in the period of 76-80, that magazine was in the forefront of vaginal honesty in life. A forefront, such as society would allow.
And there was the Playboy tradition of wrapping things in intellectual goo. Which meant that this film could have been something that mattered, that changed things. It could have cast itself in the same useless space as the Romans it portrayed. But it made a strange bargain: the story has these acts as perverted, distorted life. Where ordinary films went way out of their way to not show certain things in sex, this went as far the other way to show them. Its a strange world where sexual positions and acts are arranged precisely so that you CAN see.
So I think like all great turning points in film, this film is important. Its not good, its ghastly. But its important because its mistakes hurt us in places that matter and missed an opportunity to make film better, richer.
Ted's Evaluation -- 1 of 3: You can find something better to do with this part of your life.
