Anybody who thinks the British cinema's absolute nadir was the quota quickies of the thirties has never seen one of our seventies sex comedies; which today look far more dated and technically primitive after forty years than films of the thirties do after nearly ninety.
One of the last gasps of the genre just before Soho was in actuality required to clean up it's act; at least 'Emmanuelle in Soho' boasts a fairly sophisticated sounding title. But despite all the nudity and indiscriminate rutting that was by then permitted by the British Board of Film Censors, the culmination of fifty years of progress was as sexy as a week-old blancmange. The drab clothes and hideous hairstyles (and that's just hero Keith Fraser) are absolutely no match for the figure-hugging dresses and sleek bobs worn by the women in the thirties. And even the bored-looking chorus girls in the cabaret looked as if they were wearing dirty macs.
But at 67 minutes at least it was also as short as an old quota quickie.
One of the last gasps of the genre just before Soho was in actuality required to clean up it's act; at least 'Emmanuelle in Soho' boasts a fairly sophisticated sounding title. But despite all the nudity and indiscriminate rutting that was by then permitted by the British Board of Film Censors, the culmination of fifty years of progress was as sexy as a week-old blancmange. The drab clothes and hideous hairstyles (and that's just hero Keith Fraser) are absolutely no match for the figure-hugging dresses and sleek bobs worn by the women in the thirties. And even the bored-looking chorus girls in the cabaret looked as if they were wearing dirty macs.
But at 67 minutes at least it was also as short as an old quota quickie.