The world of Eating Raoul is a depraved, prude's nightmare. Sex is on everyone's minds; you can't buy a carton of milk without contracting something, much less apply for a business loan (the manager's hand, after having his master's initial advances denied, seems to dive into muscle memory, groping the air and just about holding back from attacking the secretary). Director Paul Bartel, a Roger Corman alumni who made a string of low budget flicks in the 70s and 80s, utilises his set design well. It's kitsch overload, dirty white walls, mustard yellow carpet, pastel paintings that don't match - no wonder the inmates seem to be bouncing off the walls. Freak after freak is invited into Bland's household, with minimal decor and props hung up to cater to their sexual tastes. The mise-en-scene finds the right note inbetween seediness and tackiness. We grimace initially, and then can't help but chuckle at the cheapness of the whole charade, and the nonchalance of the Blands at these deviants invading their home: "He's not gonna show. We've thrown away 70 dollars on this light show." He does show a little later, muttering about Nam and hippy rebirths as if they were the natural progression of a middle aged man. Make love, not war.
The Blands sleep in twin beds (have they ever had sex? Do they even hug?) and air kiss right before tucking in, although in this society they're relatively normal. They fall into their murderous routine by pure accident, as if it was an extended screwball bit. Mr Bland is the loser flogging vintage wines over the local bottle shop counter, and Mrs Bland is a nurse, although not the sexy kind, not that it deters his horndog patients. When they stumble into one frying pan murder, it cascades into another, and then another. Watch them act if they are good at this, or even enjoy it - they don't know how. It's cute to see Paul whisper to Mary to insult their client over the phone, and to watch them giggle like schoolchildren. They're too bland for this. Mary can't even summon the gall to spank a naughty client, even when he's overturned the entire tea table. She just scurries to clean the mess up. And look at what Paul wears to visit the sex shop, picking up a few odds and ends to attract more clients. It's a comedy of manners and learned behaviour, struggling to unravel after a decade of monotonous monogamy.
That balance is upset when Raoul enters the business, a thief posing as a locksmith (it couldn't have been more obvious if he was a plummer - pick and choose your metaphors). A walking talking cliche, he embodies everything about those hot blooded Latinos that porn producers think ladies pine for. Here's where my suspension of disbelief fails a little; would Mary, the docile housewife, really go for this stud? It's all a bit suspect of a storytelling device designed to drive a wedge between the couple, who seem to be truly inseparable (shackled - no, handcuffed together). The script cheats a tad to get to that final gag, which is littered with delightful nods to everything the Blands have gone through. Eating Raoul indeed. It doesn't have the zany energy of a proper screwball, but Bartel finds something unique here, a sharp little black comedy about a sex-crazed world and the odd couple who wade through all the filth and persevere. They play it straight through and through - there's never even a hint of Cary Grant's manic stare from Arsenic and Old Lace to give it all away. It's a nicely seared veal, with just a touch of murder on the side.
The Blands sleep in twin beds (have they ever had sex? Do they even hug?) and air kiss right before tucking in, although in this society they're relatively normal. They fall into their murderous routine by pure accident, as if it was an extended screwball bit. Mr Bland is the loser flogging vintage wines over the local bottle shop counter, and Mrs Bland is a nurse, although not the sexy kind, not that it deters his horndog patients. When they stumble into one frying pan murder, it cascades into another, and then another. Watch them act if they are good at this, or even enjoy it - they don't know how. It's cute to see Paul whisper to Mary to insult their client over the phone, and to watch them giggle like schoolchildren. They're too bland for this. Mary can't even summon the gall to spank a naughty client, even when he's overturned the entire tea table. She just scurries to clean the mess up. And look at what Paul wears to visit the sex shop, picking up a few odds and ends to attract more clients. It's a comedy of manners and learned behaviour, struggling to unravel after a decade of monotonous monogamy.
That balance is upset when Raoul enters the business, a thief posing as a locksmith (it couldn't have been more obvious if he was a plummer - pick and choose your metaphors). A walking talking cliche, he embodies everything about those hot blooded Latinos that porn producers think ladies pine for. Here's where my suspension of disbelief fails a little; would Mary, the docile housewife, really go for this stud? It's all a bit suspect of a storytelling device designed to drive a wedge between the couple, who seem to be truly inseparable (shackled - no, handcuffed together). The script cheats a tad to get to that final gag, which is littered with delightful nods to everything the Blands have gone through. Eating Raoul indeed. It doesn't have the zany energy of a proper screwball, but Bartel finds something unique here, a sharp little black comedy about a sex-crazed world and the odd couple who wade through all the filth and persevere. They play it straight through and through - there's never even a hint of Cary Grant's manic stare from Arsenic and Old Lace to give it all away. It's a nicely seared veal, with just a touch of murder on the side.