Perhaps the most remarkable thing about this film is the review it elicited from Pauline Kael in the New Yorker. A review which leads one to ask that old question, Did we see the same film? The sex is certainly not erotic. The first encounter, a record-breaking quickie between Paul and Jeanne, is performed fully clothed and can be best described as Wham! Bam! Thank you, M'am. Why Jeanne would find this grieving, middle aged expatriate so compelling and/or attractive must be taken on faith rather than on anything we see or hear. And though Brando's improvised monologues are profane and occasionally funny, at least to the audience, is this how a young Parisian chick preparing to be wed would choose to spend her afternoons, listening to talk about pig farts and vomit? And if so, why? It's like listening to a depressed drunk in a bar. Last Tango is ultimately dreary, tedious and pretentious with artful photography and a bleating jazz score and 2 main characters who are insufficiently explored and who are not interesting apart from one another. The film remains a curiosity, a chance to see a world famous actor and talent exposed though I much prefer Brando in John Huston's Reflections in a Golden Eye. And the ending where Jeanne shoots Paul rather than simply walking away is just as pointless and unconvincing as everything that has come before. And though I put a spoiler alert on this review, I'd say it's Kael's review that spoils the film. What could possibly live up to her description?
Review of Last Tango in Paris
