I belong to what I believe is a jaded movie watching society. My experience with film benefits from the age that I live and the progress in story telling techniques, acting, cameras, ideology...I take it for granted. Didn't even consider it until yesterday, quite frankly. We watched "Last Tango in Paris". No, I hadn't seen it before, which I admit freely. One of THOSE movies, you know, the ones that everyone who truly loves film and art and acting, blah blah blah, has seen and studied and can expound on the necessity of its creation and brilliance of its art. I haven't seen all of THOSE movies. There are a lot of them and I can't spend every free moment only watching that type of film. Sometimes, i just want to watch "Some Kind of Wonderful" for the umpteenth time because I really like it. I digress.

"Last Tango..." carried with it, for me, great weight and I had extrememly high expectations going in. You who read this are preparing yourselves for me to say that I was disappointed, or something. That's what this lead in implies, right? Well, I was on the fence. I couldn't say I didn't like it and I couldn't say that "omigosh that was the greatest film ever!!!!!" Brando, yes, was incredible. And I liked the young French woman's--Maria something--ease and unpretentiousness in front of the camera. I'd heard that this was a sexy movie. Highly erotic. Errrrr, erotic? Cruel is more like it. Sexy? Painful in my mind. Cruelty and it dominance in sex do not strike me as erotic, they strike me as the typical male fantasy: domination of sexy young nymph. The film ends and Shawn and I are looking at each other with wide eyes and moderately stunned mouths agape. Neither of us says much. Am I too naive, have too much of the puritan anscestry circulating through my veins, to appreciate the film? Perhaps. Then I got this brilliant idea to check out the original film review in The New Yorker, using my handy dandy Christmas gift extraordinaire, "The Complete New Yorker" (thank you Santa Shawn). Well, bells and whistles disco balls and enormous follow spots! Pauline Kael reviewed "Last Tango" after she saw it at the NY film festival, prior to its release in the United States in 1973. If you have the opportunity to read this review, and have any questions about why this movie is placed on the film making pedestal, I promise she has a pretty convincing argument. EVEN if you don't agree with it. (The mac, though ultra cool, isn't blogger friendlly and I can't figure out how to create links. If anyone can...do tell.) Here is where I realize that I'm jaded. As Kael describes it, this is the first movie she has seen to portray sex in such a realistic context. It's a huge departure from the norm. And how many years ago was this film made? How many years have gone by where other filmmakers can use it as a leaping off point to remind them of the harsh reality that they, too, want to express? It wasn't new to me. I've had the good fortune to live in a time where many films capture the depth, anguish, sorrow, joy, cruelty, kindness, etc., etc., etc. of love and sex and relationships and life. So. Do I like this bit of pioneering cinema? More so after reading P.K.'s review. I get it, now. It matters little whether or not I liked the characters, as characters. I cared about them, even if it meant caring that they got away from one another because they weren't a good match. I believed the cruelty and the desperation. That's the point, I think, to get involved and desire some kind of outcome. Sure, there were some scenes that were confusing and probably even unnecessary--big deal. As a whole I determine that, for me, it IS great cinema. I would much rather watch that story unfold on the screen--that kind of story telling, be it sad or happily ever after-- than a thousand Peter Jackson digitalized dinosaurs and King Kongs. (Look, I like fluff as much as the next person, but if I had to choose, give me "Brokeback Mountain" over "King Kong", without hesitation.)