Recalling the work of bottom-of-the-barrel US pornographers like Carlos Tobalina or Ray Dennis Steckler, Jean-Francois Davy and Michel Beaudricourt's JAMES BANDE 00SEX is just about the laziest porn "parody" I've ever seen. Shot in a single house probably over a weekend, it looks more like a class project run amok, inexpiably shot on wasted 35mm celluloid.
Evinced by its title, the film's sole capacity for wit lies in an endless barrage of wordplay - "bande" meaning "to become erect" in slang French and "sex" sounding fairly close to the French "seven," or "sept." Set-up finds the title character at a rowing machine in someone's basement, where he's serviced by poor Cathy Stewart, utterly debasing herself in this vs. Her profoundly touching performance in Jean Rollin's NIGHT OF THE HUNTED. As though that opening oral number weren't enough of a waste, the couple then improbably spies via binoculars on another pair getting it on - apparently in the other corner of the room!
It's 20 minutes before what passes for a plot kicks in, with Bande meeting up with his Q, who assigns him to investigate something or other. Seriously, story is not this film's strong suit - all of it is doled out solely via dialogue, and it's absolutely incoherent. No matter anyhow, since the sexual super-spy never leaves the house. He wanders out by the pool in snorkeling mask, dives in, and appears in some lady's bathtub, then apparently gleans some information after tag-teaming a woman he meets at the dining room bar (with the bartender joining in) before matching wits with his arch-nemesis, a vaguely-handsome guy who mainly seems to enjoy boffing women on the basement pool table.
Perhaps I went in with too high of expectations, but this is an absolutely pathetic excuse for a film, insulting to the audience and a complete waste of time. Obviously, given this is a porn spoof, I didn't go in expecting Shakespeare (or even Zucker-Abrams-Zucker), but why bother to invoke a subject like a spy thriller when even attempting to replicate it is so woefully beyond your means (and, apparently, ambition)? Most French porn in this period was - just like this - being cranked out over a day or two in a country chateau, so why not stick with the program and try to turn out something satisfying? One can even imagine another version of the film that turned its financial limitations into an aesthetic - avant garde filmmakers like the Kuchars made whole careers out of recreating and parodying Hollywood aesthetics out of junk they found lying around the house - but such scope of vision is hopelessly out of evidence here. A bit of the wordplay merits a chuckle, but beyond that, there's nothing. Even the sex is largely off-putting. If a porn parody is going to fail as a parody, you'd think it could at least succeed as porn...
Evinced by its title, the film's sole capacity for wit lies in an endless barrage of wordplay - "bande" meaning "to become erect" in slang French and "sex" sounding fairly close to the French "seven," or "sept." Set-up finds the title character at a rowing machine in someone's basement, where he's serviced by poor Cathy Stewart, utterly debasing herself in this vs. Her profoundly touching performance in Jean Rollin's NIGHT OF THE HUNTED. As though that opening oral number weren't enough of a waste, the couple then improbably spies via binoculars on another pair getting it on - apparently in the other corner of the room!
It's 20 minutes before what passes for a plot kicks in, with Bande meeting up with his Q, who assigns him to investigate something or other. Seriously, story is not this film's strong suit - all of it is doled out solely via dialogue, and it's absolutely incoherent. No matter anyhow, since the sexual super-spy never leaves the house. He wanders out by the pool in snorkeling mask, dives in, and appears in some lady's bathtub, then apparently gleans some information after tag-teaming a woman he meets at the dining room bar (with the bartender joining in) before matching wits with his arch-nemesis, a vaguely-handsome guy who mainly seems to enjoy boffing women on the basement pool table.
Perhaps I went in with too high of expectations, but this is an absolutely pathetic excuse for a film, insulting to the audience and a complete waste of time. Obviously, given this is a porn spoof, I didn't go in expecting Shakespeare (or even Zucker-Abrams-Zucker), but why bother to invoke a subject like a spy thriller when even attempting to replicate it is so woefully beyond your means (and, apparently, ambition)? Most French porn in this period was - just like this - being cranked out over a day or two in a country chateau, so why not stick with the program and try to turn out something satisfying? One can even imagine another version of the film that turned its financial limitations into an aesthetic - avant garde filmmakers like the Kuchars made whole careers out of recreating and parodying Hollywood aesthetics out of junk they found lying around the house - but such scope of vision is hopelessly out of evidence here. A bit of the wordplay merits a chuckle, but beyond that, there's nothing. Even the sex is largely off-putting. If a porn parody is going to fail as a parody, you'd think it could at least succeed as porn...