France drama
1972
color 129 min.
Director: Bernardo Bertolucci
CLV: out-of-print collectible
           2 discs, catalog # CC1232L
The following review, one of the most renowned in the history
of film criticism, appeared in The New Yorker magazine on October 28,
1972. It is reprinted with the permission of the author, Pauline
Kael.Bernardo Bertolucci's Last Tango in Paris was presented for
the first time on the closing night of the New York Film Festival, October 14,
1972: that date should become a landmark in movie history comparable to May 29,
1913 -- the night Le Sacre du Printemps was first performed -- in music
history. There was no riot, and no one threw anything at the screen, but I think
it's fair to say that the audience was in a state of shock, because Last Tango
in Paris has the same kind of hypnotic excitement as the Sacre, the
same primitive force, and the same thrusting, jabbing eroticism.
The movie
breakthrough has finally come. Exploitation films have been supplying mechanized
sex -- sex as physical stimulant but without any passion or emotional violence.
The sex in Last Tango in Paris expresses the characters' drives. Marlon
Brando, as Paul, is working out his aggression on Jeanne (Maria Schneider), and
the physical menace of sexuality that is emotionally charged is such a departure
from everything we've come to expect at the movies that there was something
almost like fear in the atmosphere of the party in the lobby that followed the
screening. Carried along by the sustained excitement of the movie, the audience
had given Bertolucci an ovation, but afterward, as individuals, they were quiet.
This must be the most powerfully erotic movie ever made, and it may turn out to
be the most liberating movie ever made, and so it's probably only natural that an
audience, anticipating a voluptuous feast from the man who made The
Conformist, and confronted with this unexpected sexuality and the new realism
it requires of the actors, should go into shock. Bertolucci and Brando have
altered the face of an art form. Who was prepared for that?
Many of us expected
eroticism to come to the movies, and some of us had even guessed that it might
come from Bertolucci, because he seemed to have the elegance and the richness and
the sensuality to make lushly erotic movies. But I think those of us who had
speculated about erotic movies had tended to think of them in terms of Terry
Southern's deliriously comic novel on the subject, Blue Movies; we had
expected artistic blue movies, talented directors taking over from the
Schlockmeisters and making sophisticated voyeuristic fantasies that would be
gorgeous fun -- a real turn-on. What nobody had talked about was a sex film that
would churn-up everybody's emotions. Bertolucci shows his masterly elegance in
Last Tango in Paris, but he also reveals a master's substance.
The
script (which Bertolucci wrote with Franco Arcalli) is in French and English; it
centers on a man's attempt to separate sex from everything else. When his wife
commits suicide, Paul, an American living in Paris, tries to get away from his
life. He goes to look at an empty flat and meets Jeanne, who is also looking at
it. They have sex in an empty room, without knowing anything about each other --
not even first names. He rents the flat, and for three days they meet there. She
wants to know who he is, but he insists that sex is all that matters. We see both
of them (as they don't see each other) in their normal lives -- Paul back at the
flophouse-hotel his wife owned, Jeanne with her mother, the widow of a colonel,
and with her adoring fiance (Jean-Pierre Leaud), a TV director, who is
relentlessly shooting a sixteen-millimeter film about her, a film that is to end
in a week with their wedding. Mostly, we see Paul and Jeanne together in the flat
as they act out his fantasy of ignorant armies clashing by night, and it is
warfare -- sexual aggression and retreat and battles joined.
The necessity for
isolation from the world is, of course, his, not hers. But his life floods in. He
brings into this isolation chamber his sexual anger, his glorying in his prowess,
and his need to debase her and himself. He demands total subservience to his
sexual wishes; this enslavement is for him the sexual truth, the real thing, sex
without phoniness. And she is so erotically sensitized by the rounds of
lovemaking that she believes him. He goads her and tests her until when he asks
if she's ready to eat vomit as a proof of love, she is, and gratefully. He plays
out the American male tough-guy sex role -- insisting on his power in bed,
because that is all the "truth" he knows.
What they go through together in
their pressure cooker is an intensified, speeded-up history of the sex
relationships of the dominating men and the adoring women who have provided the
key sex model of the past few decades -- the model that is collapsing. They don't
know each other, but their sex isn't "primitive" or "pure"; Paul is the same old
Paul, and Jeanne, we gradually see, is also Jeanne, the colonel's daughter. They
bring their cultural hang-ups into sex, so it's the same poisoned sex Strindberg
wrote about: a battle of unequally matched partners, asserting whatever dominance
they can, seizing any advantage. Inside the flat, his male physical strength and
the mythology he has built on it are the primary facts. He pushes his morose,
romantic insanity to its limits; he burns through the sickness that his wife's
suicide has brought on -- the self-doubts, the need to prove himself and torment
himself. After three days, his wife is laid out for burial and he is ready to
resume his identity. He gives up the flat: He wants to live normally again, and
he wants to love Jeanne as a person. But Paul is forty-five, Jeanne is twenty.
She lends herself to an orgiastic madness, shares it, and then tries to shake it
off -- as many another woman has, after a night or a twenty-years' night. When
they meet in the outside world, Jeanne sees Paul as a washed-up middle-aged man
-- a man who runs a flophouse.
Much of the movie is American in spirit.
Brando's Paul (a former actor and journalist who has been living off his French
wife) is like a drunk with a literary turn of mind. He bellows his contempt for
hypocrisies and orthodoxies; he keeps trying to shove them all back down other
people's throats. His profane humor and self-loathing self-centeredness and
street "wisdom" are in the style of the American hard-boiled fiction aimed at the
masculine fantasy market, sometimes by writers (often good ones, too) who believe
in more than a little of it. Bertolucci has a remarkably unbiased intelligence.
Part of the convulsive effect of Last Tango in Paris is that we are drawn
to Paul's view of society and yet we can't help seeing him as a self-dramatizing,
self-pitying clown. Paul believes that his animal noises are more honest than
words, and that his obscene vision of things is the way things really are; he's
often convincing. After Paul and Jeanne have left the flat, he chases her and
persuades her to have a drink at a ballroom holding a tango contest. When we see
him drunkenly sprawling on the floor among the bitch-chic mannequin-dancers and
then baring his bottom to the woman official who asks him to leave, our mixed
emotions may be like those some of us experienced when we watched Norman Mailer
put himself in an indefensible position against Gore Vidal on the Dick Cavett
show, justifying all the people who were fed up with him. Brando's Paul carries a
yoke of masculine pride and aggression across his broad back; he's weighed down
by it and hung on it. When Paul is on all fours barking like crazy man-dog to
scare off a Bible salesman who has come to the flat*, he may -- to the few who
saw Mailer's Wild 90 -- be highly reminiscent of Mailer on his hands and knees
barking at a German shepherd to provoke it. But Brando's barking extends the
terms of his character and the movie, while we are disgusted with Mailer for
needing to prove himself by teasing an unwilling accomplice, and his barking
throws us outside the terms of his movie.
Realism with the terror of actual
experience still alive on the screen -- that's what Bertolucci and Brando
achieve. It's what Mailer has been trying to get at in his disastrous, ruinously
expensive films. He was right about what was needed but hopelessly wrong in how
he went about getting it. He tried to pull a new realism out of himself onto
film, without a script, depending wholly on improvisation, and he sought to
bypass the self-consciousness and fakery of a man acting himself by improvising
within a fictional construct -- as a gangster in Wild 90, as an Irish cop
in Beyond the Law (best of them), and as a famous director who is also a
possible Presidential candidate in Maidstone. In movies, Mailer tried to
will a work of art into existence without going through the steps of making it,
and his theory of film, a rationale for this willing, sounds plausible until you
see the movies, which are like Mailer's shambling bouts of public misbehavior,
such as that Cavett show. His movies trusted to inspiration and were stranded
when it didn't come.
Bertolucci builds a structure that supports improvisation.
Everything is prepared, but everything is subject to change, and the whole film
is alive with a sense of discovery. Bertolucci builds the characters "on what the
actors are in themselves. I never ask them to interpret something preexistent,
except for dialogue -- and even that changes a lot." For Bertolucci, the actors
"make the characters." And Brando knows how to improvise: it isn't just Brando
improvising, it's Brando improvising as Paul. This is certainly similar to what
Mailer was trying to do as the gangster and the cop and the movie director, but
when Mailer improvises, he expresses only a bit of himself. When Brando
improvises within Bertolucci's structure, his full art is realized. His
performance is not like Mailer's acting but like Mailer's best writing:
intuitive, rapt, princely. On the screen Brando is our genius as Mailer is our
genius in literature. Paul is Rojack's expatriate-failure brother, and Brando
goes all the way with him.
We all know that movie actors often merge with their
roles in a way that stage actors don't, quite, but Brando did it even on the
stage. I was in New York when he played his famous small role in Truckline
Cafe in 1946; arriving late at a performance, and seated in the center of the
second row, I looked up and saw what I thought was an actor having a seizure
onstage. Embarrassed for him, I lowered my eyes, and it wasn't until the young
man who'd brought me grabbed my arm and said, "Watch this guy!" that I realized
he was acting. I think a lot of people will make my old mistake when they see
Brando's performance as Paul; I think some may prefer to make this mistake, so
they won't have to recognize how deep down he goes and what he dredges up.
Expressing a character's sexuality makes new demands on an actor, and Brando has
no trick accent to play with this time, and no putty on his face. It's perfectly
apparent that the role was conceived for Brando, using elements of his past as
integral parts of the character. Bertolucci wasn't surprised by what Brando did;
he was ready to use what Brando brought to the role. And when Brando is a full
creative presence on the screen, the realism transcends the simulated actuality
of any known style of cinema verite, because his surface accuracy expresses
what's going on underneath. He's an actor: when he shows you something, he lets
you know what it means. The torture of seeing Brando -- at his worst -- in A
Countess from Hong Kong was that it was a raductio ad absurdum of the
wastefulness and emasculation (for both sexes) of Hollywood acting; Chaplin, the
director, obviously allowed no participation, and Brando was like a miserably
obedient soldier going through drill. When you're nothing but an inductee, you
have no choice. The excitement of Brando's performance here is in the revelation
of how creative screen acting can be. At the simplest level, Brando, by his
inflections and rhythms, the right American obscenities, and perhaps an
improvised monologue, makes the dialogue his own and makes Paul an authentic
American abroad, in a way that an Italian writer-director simply couldn't do
without the actor's help. At a more complex level, he helps Bertolucci discover
the movie in the process of shooting it, and that's what makes moviemaking an
art. What Mailer never understood was that his macho thing prevented flexibility
and that in terms of his own personality he couldn't improvise -- he was
consciously acting. And he couldn't allow others to improvise, because he was
always challenging them to come up with something. Using the tactics he himself
compared to "a commando raid on the nature of reality," he was putting a gun to
their heads. Lacking the background of a director, he reduced the art of film to
the one element of acting, and in his confusion of "existential" acting with
improvisation he expected "danger" to be a spur. But acting involves the joy of
self-discovery, and to improvise, as actors mean it, is the most instinctive,
creative part of acting -- to bring out and give form to what you didn't know you
had in you; it's the surprise, the "magic" in acting. A director has to be
supportive for an actor to feel both secure enough and free enough to reach into
himself. Brando here, always listening to an inner voice, must have a direct
pipeline to the mystery of character.
Bertolucci has an extravagant gift for
sequences that are like arias, and he has given Brando some scenes that really
sing. In one, Paul visits his dead wife's lover (Massimo Girotti) who also lives
in the run-down hotel, and the two men, in identical bathrobes (gifts from the
dead woman), sit side by side and talk. The scene is miraculously basic -- a
primal scene that has just been discovered. In another, Brando rages at his dead
wife, laid out in a bed of flowers, and then, in an excess of tenderness, tries
to wipe away the cosmetic mask that defaces her. He has become the least fussy
actor. There is nothing extra, no flourishes in these scenes. He purifies the
characterization beyond all that: he brings the character a unity of soul. Paul
feels so "real" and the character is brought so close that a new dimension in
screen acting has been reached. I think that if the actor were anyone but Brando
many of us would lower our eyes in confusion.
His first sex act has a boldness
that had the audience gasping, and the gasp was caused -- in part -- by our
awareness that this was Marlon Brando doing it, not an unknown actor. In the
flat, he wears the white T-shirt of Stanley Kowalski, and he still has the big
shoulders and thick-muscled arms. Photographed looking down, he is still tender
and poetic; photographed looking up, he is ravaged, like the man in the Francis
Bacon painting under the film's opening titles. We are watching Brando throughout
this movie, with all the feedback that that implies, and his willingness to run
the full course with a study of the aggression in masculine sexuality and how the
physical strength of men lends credence to the insanity that grows out of it
gives the film a larger, tragic dignity. If Brando knows this hell, why should we
pretend we don't?
The colors in this movie are late-afternoon
orange-beige-browns and pink -- the pink of flesh drained of blood, corpse pink.
They are so delicately modulated (Vittorio Storaro was the cinematographer, as he
was on The Conformist) that romance and rot are one; the lyric
extravagance of the music (by Gato Barbieri) heightens this effect. Outside the
flat, the gray buildings and the noise are certainly modern Paris, and yet the
city seems muted. Bertolucci uses a feedback of his own -- the feedback of old
movies to enrich the imagery and associations. In substance, this is his most
American film, yet the shadow of Michel Simon seems to hover over Brando, and the
ambience is a tribute to the early crime-of-passion films of Jean Renoir,
especially La Chienne and La Bete Humaine. Leaud, as Tom, the young
director, is used as an affectionate take-off on Godard, and the movie that Tom
is shooting about Jeanne, his runaway bride, echoes Jean Vigo's
L'Atalante. Bertolucci's soft focus recalls the thirties films, with their
lyrically kind eye for every variety of passion; Marcel Carne comes to mind, as
well as the masters who influenced Bertolucci's technique -- von Sternberg (the
controlled lighting) and Max Ophuls (the tracking camera). The film is utterly
beautiful to look at. The virtuosity of Bertolucci's gliding camera style is such
that he can show you the hype of the tango contest scene (with its own echo of
The Conformist) by stylizing it (automaton-dancers do wildly fake head
turns) and still make it work. He uses the other actors for their associations,
too -- Girotti, of course, the star of so many Italian films, including
Senso and Ossessione, Visconti's version of The Postman Always
Rings Twice, and, as Paul's mother-in-law, Maria Michi, the young girl who
betrays her lover in Open City. As a maid in the hotel (part of a weak,
diversionary subplot that is soon dispensed with), Catherine Allegret, with her
heart-shaped mouth in a full, childishly beautiful face, is an aching, sweet
reminder of her mother, Simone Signoret, in her Casque d'Or days.
Bertolucci draws upon the movie background of this movie because movies are as
active in him as direct experience -- perhaps more active, since they may color
everything else. Movies are a past we share, and, whether we recognize them or
not, the copious associations are at work in the film and we feel them. As
Jeanne, Maria Schneider, who has never had a major role before, is like a bouquet
of Renoir's screen heroines and his father's models. She carries the whole
history of movie passion in her long legs and baby face.
Maria Schneider's
freshness -- Jeanne's ingenuous corrupt innocence -- gives the film a special
radiance. When she lifts her wedding dress to her waist, smiling coquettishly as
she exposes her pubic hair, she's in a great film tradition of irresistibly
naughty girls. She has a movie face -- open to the camera, and yet no more
concerned about it than a plant or a kitten. When she speaks English, she sounds
like Leslie Caron in An American in Paris, and she often looks like a
plump-cheeked Jane Fonda in her Barbarella days. The role is said to have
been conceived for Dominique Sanda, who couldn't play it, because she was
pregnant, but surely it has been reconceived. With Sanda, a tigress, this sexual
battle might have ended in a draw. But the pliable, softly unprincipled Jeanne of
Maria Schneider must be the winner: it is the soft ones who defeat men and walk
away, consciencelessly. A Strindberg heroine would still be in that flat,
battling, or in another flat, battling. But Jeanne is like the adorably sensual
bitch-heroines of French films of the twenties and thirties -- both shallow and
wise. These girls know how to take care of themselves; they know who No. 1 is.
Brando's Paul, the essentially naive outsider, the romantic, is no match for a
French bourgeois girl.
Because of legal technicalities, the film must open in
Italy before it opens in this country, and so Last Tango in Paris is not
scheduled to play here until January. There are certain to be detractors, for
this movie represents too much of a change for people to accept it easily or
gracefully. They'll grab at aesthetic flaws -- a florid speech or an oddball
scene -- in order to dismiss it. Though Americans seem to have lost the capacity
for being scandalized, and the Festival audience has probably lost the cultural
confidence to admit to being scandalized, it might have been easier on some if
they could have thrown things. I've tried to describe the impact of a film that
has made the strongest impression on me in almost twenty years of reviewing. This
is a movie people will be arguing about, I think, for as long as there are
movies. They'll argue about how it is intended, as they argue again now about The
Dance of Death. It is a movie you can't get out of your system, and I think it
will make some people very angry and disgust others. I don't believe that there's
anyone whose feelings can be totally resolved about the sex scenes and the social
attitudes in this film. For the very young, it could be as antipathetic as
L'avventura was at first -- more so, because it's closer, more realistic, and
more emotionally violent. It could embarrass them, and even frighten them. For
adults, it's like seeing pieces of your life, and so, of course, you can't
resolve your feelings about it -- our feelings about life are never resolved.
Besides, the biology that is the basis of the "tango" remains.
-- PAULINE
KAEL
*This scene was deleted by the director after the New York Film
Festival showing.
CREDITS
Produced by: Alberto
Grimaldi
Director by: Bernardo Bertolucci
Screenplay: Bernardo Bertolucci,
Franco Arcalli
Photography: Vittorio Storaro
Editor: Franco
Arcalli
Sound: Antoine Bonfanti
Costumes: Gitt Magrini
Production
Design: Fernando Scarfiotti
Music Composed by: Gato
Barbieri
TRANSFER
This edition of Last Tango in Paris was
transferred digitally from a 35mm interpositive in its correct aspect ratio of
1.85:1.