Salon Kitty

I first saw Salon Kitty in a provincial Scottish cinema with my school pals; nudity was the attraction, and "X" was the certificate. UK Channel 4 recently screened it during their "Censored Weekend" and, as a middle-aged man no longer completely mesmerised by the (considerable) display of rosebud nipples, I was able to enjoy the extraordinary sets and costumes, the operatic staging (production designer Ken Adams - a man of many credits) and the convincing performances of Helmut Berger as the self-intoxicated, onanistic, ruthless, cynical swine who makes the mistake of abusing the indomitable Madame Kitty (Ingrid Thulin - accomplished cabaret turns and remarkable legs for her age).

Many interesting things are hinted at but not explored, such as the contest between the Nazi/Nietzschean will to power and the subtle strengths of womankind. Many things are inserted for gratuitous sensation (the schoolboy was appreciative!). The film is what it is - European soft porn, an exploitative caricature of history, but well done the makers for giving their smut such a visually memorable vehicle. It was too much to ask for a truly engaging drama as well.

A visually impressive movie, very arty and with many subtle undertones. Packed full of pulchritudinous young females in various stages of undress and very risque in its day, the film is, however, very ponderous in places, particularly during the first hour.

Basic plot summary: In 1939 Berlin, the Nazi authorities take over the famous Salon Kitty brothel and pack it with new girls of good Aryan stock and impeccable National Socialist credentials. Their mission is to spy on their military officer clients and report back to their controllers about anyone who seems to be wavering from the Party line. All goes well until one of the girls, Marguerite, falls in love with a Luftwaffe pilot who has turned his back on Hitler and all he stands for.

Of all the sordid, exploitative Nazi-era cash-ins that came out of the 1970s, "Salon Kitty" is one of the most regularly-mentioned titles. Director Tinto Brass (who, like Joe D'Amato, is more renowned for his porno epics) spends a great deal of time--arguably 3/4 of the film--garnishing the screen with images of decadent excess, including bizarre sex acts, deformed dwarfs, and copious nudity. Unfortunately, that's really all this shallow, 2-hours-plus venture has to offer. The story line--consisting of a young Nazi commandant (the underused Helmut Berger)'s attempt to seize power by eavesdropping on the SS patrons of the titular character's high-class brothel--would take up all of 30 minutes' screen time (and even that is a stretch) had the exploitation elements been removed. What we're left with, then, is a slickly-made trash pic with high production values, a good cast, and an insufferably drawn-out story (I challenge anyone to still give a damn by the time the film reaches its 'revelatory' crescendo); Brass's attempts at prurient titillation, an underdeveloped (and ultimately pointless) romantic subplot, and the fearless courage of icily unlikable prostitute Margherita (Teresa Ann Savoy) fall completely flat, much to the film's detriment. While not as luridly exploitative as the "Ilsa" trilogy, nor as lethargically dull as Luchino Visconti's "The Damned," "Salon Kitty" never really manages the suspense, pathos, and passion that marked Liliana Cavani's superior 1974 post-Holocaust romance, "The Night Porter." It's a film that should have been much more than just a ponderously average pile of celluloid.

Outrageous, unsettling, exploitative and courageous, it is also slightly overlong. The current running time at well over two hours is due to the more contentious material being put back in but maybe some other scenes might have been cut to compensate. I love the film, the scenes of debauchery and nudity, male and female, the decadent singing and dancing and the glorious sets by Ken Adam but it is a slight story and as the end draws near it begins to stumble and repeat itself. Always preferable to the much lauded Cabaret there is a real sense of foreboding, of a major calamity and despite the roars and champagne popping at news of the invasion of Poland and later the fall of Paris, we can't help waiting for the biggest crash when the nasty, ugly men in the wonderful costumes get their comeuppance.

Sometimes when a film relaxes and you relax into it, you can really feel that you are touching the filmmaker. That he is slightly drunk and comfortable and you are experiencing him (or her).

That's one place you want to be in your life in films, and it is the basis for many of the film experiences I rate as "must have."

But it has all sorts of dangers. The filmmaker must be more than skilled enough to connect, he must be actually interesting, worthwhile, engaged in life in ways that impregnate. There are few films that are well enough sculpted to be entered. And of those, there are few that reward your investing wet parts of your soul to it. You know who the good ones are.

Even then, often you'll get what you have here, equal parts of fine wine and flat cola. I suppose it is impossible to be otherwise with Nazi-centered soft porn, but Jess Franco (when not drunk) can do pretty well.

The good here is that once in a while, you'll encounter some staging with some stark, clear composition and elements that are every bit in the class with Lang or Greenaway. These have ordinary camera positions: non-human in character but human in position. Its the creation of a staged imagination, of dramatic nuance not placed in the actor but in the cinematic frame. (The actors aren't bad, by the way; its just that the weight of the thing isn't on their shoulders — or other body parts.)

Some day, commentors like me will be able to provide bookmarks to these scenes so you can experience them without wading through the rotted soup in between. Oh, and that is a ghastly experience, a walk in the dark through greasy fog from one brilliant view through a window to the next.

Hey, there's a story, but never mind. Its as irrelevant, stupid and disposable as its sisters, like "Schindler's List," which this resembles in a few ways. And there's some nudity, though in most cases one wonders why. The chief actress is pretty and very German, different from Brasses usual big-bottomed Italian tigresses.

I'd really like you to see some of the good stuff here. But like much of Bertolucci, you would curse me for sending you there.

Ted's Evaluation -- 2 of 3: Has some interesting elements.