Monday, April 28, 2003

I can't wash you off my skin. I was hoping that I'd be able to offer a lovely retrospective of the French films I've viewed this semester, replete with voluptuous scenes of courtly life in the 18th century and gorgeously erotic sex scenes. Instead, I offer an examination of decent into crappiness.

We begin with the most spine-tingling scene that has ever been filmed, complete with red velvet, candlelight and orgasms. The movie itself leaves much to be desired, but see it just for Madame de Montespan's obvious joy.

Le roi danse. Parfait.

Next, we descend into mediocrity with an oafish Gerard Depardieu and Uma Thurman attempting to portray a marquise. Riiiiight. Nevertheless, this movie is positively sumptuous and made me very hungry. It also made me wish I was king.

Vatel. Belle.

Last, we encounter a movie with absolutely no redeeming value. A cryptic plot, an ugly actress (who I did not want to see washing her genitals after sex or bathing in blood), self-flagellation, and nuns. Don't forget the pretty blond chick who dies and her crazy friend with piercing blue eyes who can't ride a horse to save her life (literally). I wished I could have married the 73-year-old like the busty chick to escape this horror of a film.
Saint-Cyr. Terrible.

All in all, see them for the scenery, not for the substance.

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