Dulce piel de mujer

In the frame story a female author (Catherine Spaak) holds a publisher (Fernando Rey) at gunpoint and forces him to read her novel, which is the basis for the rest of the movie. Unlike the publisher, I have no excuse--I watched this totally voluntarily. Seriously though, it's not that bad. The story-within-the-story is kind of an erotic "Alice in Wonderland". A naive virginal girl (Clio Goldsmith) checks into a pensione inhabited by all kinds of weird employees and guests. The voluptuous female concierge insists on her taking a bath immediately and then ends up GIVING her a bath. The concierge's sister works as a maid "because she likes serving people" (like one of the older male guests who she sexually services in a room while the naked heroine hides under the bed). Another guest (Nieves Navarro)is kind of a cross between a school marm and a dominatrix. There is also a surprisingly heterosexual male ballet teacher and his gaggle of young female students. Finally, there is an oiled-up muscle-man who all the women can't help spying on as he constantly works out in his room.

This movie is more weird than erotic. The scene where the concierge bathes and, uh, swaddles the protagonist is the second female "adult baby" scene I've encountered in a European movie in the last few months. I don't know if this particular fetish is more silly or disturbing, but it sure isn't very erotic. Other scenes are just too tame. In one promising scene the schoolmarm/dominatrix orders the heroine to strip and kneel down, but then does absolutely nothing else. One of the male characters ties up the heroine in another scene, but then the movie shyly cuts away before turning into the "Story of O". Goldsmith is naked a lot and the maid has one sex scene, but the rest of the female cast stays dressed. Spaak and Navarro were probably a little over the hill (although they both still look good), but you would think they would have done SOMETHING with the nubile female ballet students at least.

Still, this movie was kind of interesting. It kind of reminded me of Roman Polanski's film "What?", another off-kilter erotic "Alice in Wonderland" type film. The ending of the story-within-the-story is very lame, but the ending of the frame story is actually really good. I didn't entirely waste my time watching this at least.

Honey is a nice softcore film from 1981. Not your everyday b-movie that uses nudity as its main attraction. Here, the nudity is a side dish. The main attraction is Clio Goldsmith and her "dream like" story of checking into a hotel / apartment and getting more sex than you can handle. The only problem is, this is not your typical sex-ploitation movie where the majority of the movie is sex and more sex. Honey is different than most b-movie / softcore flicks of today and yesterday. The movie tries to be more of a drama than what it's audience wants it to be. Clio Goldsmith keeps your attention as the innocent, yet sexy beauty. Her red lips and blue eyes melts the silver screen. For no other reason, you can still find a copy of this movie on the shelves at some local video stores.

This film often drifting between artful provocation and unintentional parody, is a curious blend of erotic fantasy and surreal atmosphere. The cinematography leans heavily into soft, sepia-tinged palettes, with browns, creams, and the occasional flash of orange bathing the labyrinthine hotel in a haze that is more somnolent than sensual. There is a deliberate, almost hypnotic pacing to the visuals, evoking the languor of a dream just on the edge of slipping away, yet the intended eroticism feels oddly muted and sometimes even awkward. The film's atmosphere is thick with a sense of voyeurism, but it never quite achieves the sophistication or allure of its European softcore contemporaries, instead settling for a series of vignettes that are as likely to elicit confusion as they are arousal.

Clio Goldsmith, cast as the wide-eyed ingénue Anny, is the film's undeniable centerpiece. Her performance is earnest, if somewhat limited by the script's fixation on her physical presence rather than emotional nuance. Goldsmith's naivete and vulnerability are palpable, and she manages to anchor the film even as it drifts into increasingly bizarre territory. Donatella Damiani, as the enigmatic landlady, brings a touch of Romanesque mystique, though her role rarely rises above decorative. Catherine Spaak and Fernando Rey, both seasoned performers, are given a framing story that promises more intrigue than it delivers; Rey, in particular, brings a weary gravitas to his scenes as the beleaguered publisher, but the film rarely capitalizes on his talent. The supporting cast is competent, though the characters themselves are so thinly drawn that their eccentricities feel more like quirks for the sake of quirkiness than meaningful contributions to the narrative.

Despite the film's ambitions, the overall effect is more bewildering than erotic. The production design is sparse, sometimes bordering on cheap, and the score by Riz Ortolani, while occasionally evocative, too often lapses into syrupy melodrama. There are moments that hint at a more sophisticated exploration of desire and fantasy, but these are undercut by clumsy humor and abrupt scene transitions. The film's attempts at provocation, ranging from voyeuristic set pieces to surreal bath scenes, rarely land with the intended impact, leaving an aftertaste of missed opportunity rather than genuine intrigue.

'Honey' or her pen name "Anny" arrives at the country estate of an editor/publisher on a Bank Holiday. He reluctantly answers the door, to find a young woman, desperate for him to read her erotic adventure manuscript. He's not interested until she pulls a gun on him. The landlady is more than accommodating, & there are some bizarre residents, which add to this surreal household of oddities.

This is a superior example of a European softporno, one of the few that dares to use the form of a (kind of) drama, without pretending to have become an arthouse picture. In other words: we are not subjected to the violence, humiliation, or silly humour that is so common in 1970s sleaze or the B-movies of the video era; neither do we have to endure any attempts to bring a message across as in the naughtier arthouse pics. This is an erotic film, full stop.

Miele di donna belongs to the rare breed of films which are genuinely erotic rather than just titillating. Its strength is the semi-real and overcharged atmosphere created by the cinematography, the sets, and Ortolani's excellent music. It is somewhat debatable whether it was a good move to cast Clio Goldsmith in the lead, as she does not manage to radiate any innocence as her character seems to demand and she generally appears a wee bit bland. However, one could argue that her character's innocence is faked anyway, after all she is the focus of a female sexual fantasy; actually, of two female fantasies, as the bulk of the film is a dream in a story in another story. In this sense, Ms Goldsmith plays a nice faked innocence.