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François is a film-maker, usually impassive and without affect. He's making a film about women's pleasure as they transgress taboos. He doesn't know that two fallen angels who've been sent to upend him are manipulating his interest. He interviews young women, video tapes screen tests, and selects several for the film. The erotic scenes with them generate off-screen dynamics that may overwhelm the project. His wife is at first ignorant of his venture, then she's put off, and then becomes his assistant. The fallen angels are always close at hand: is François's ruin inevitable? Written by
French film makers are prone to mixing banal philosophy and soft core porn. Their tiresome philosophies of pleasure are ALWAYS mere justification for voyeurism and mental masturbation for the predominantly male viewers, some of whom evidently hope that their wives and girlfriends will be stimulated too. They can thus escape the horrors of monogamy, if only in their minds. This transparently false justification is the essence of kitsch. On an intellectual level this film is no better than Exit To Eden, which also justified voyeurism and diluted forms of perversion with the same pretentious twaddle. But at least we are spared from seeing men in G strings and Rosie O'Donnell in a black corset and fishnet stockings. The borrowings from Orphee are obvious. Death is a sinister beauty, corrupt police do her work, and coded radio messages appear at random. Even the title borrows from Bunuel. However, little is done with these elements. They are tiny bits of brain candy for the critics, like finding Waldo. We do see some pretty girls, but they are mostly insane. BOTTOM LINE: For men who need a jump start.
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