Don Juan ou Si Don Juan était une femme...

A veritable orgy of campy decor and even campier dialogue ("If there's one thing I can't stand, it's being treated the way I treat other people!") this would-be erotic extravaganza stars an ageing and puffy Brigitte Bardot as a jet-set nymphomaniac - who fancies herself a reincarnation of the 16th century Spanish seducer. Both the film and its heroine labour under the delusion of being a whole lot sexier than they really are.

The "plot" (I use the term loosely) involves Bardot confessing to a dishy priest (Mathieu Carriere) how she drove one of her lovers to suicide. Half an hour into this mess, and you'll know how the poor b**tard felt. Undaunted by the tedium around her, Bardot seduces a married lawyer (Maurice Ronet) and they jet off to Sweden, supposed Paradise of Free Love. (Never mind if the Bacchanalian revels we SEE are no more steamy than your average Sunday school picnic.)

On a boat train to London, Bardot enjoys a lesbian frolic with the young and nubile wife (Jane Birkin) of a sleazy gangster (Robert Hossein). How the sight of Bardot and Birkin, nude in bed together, could be turned into such a non-event is still beyond me. No matter. Bardot sets her insatiable sights on a hippie musician played by Robert Walker, Jr. Yes, he's the son of Bruno from Strangers on a Train and 40s icon Jennifer Jones...although talent HAS been known to skip a generation.

Granted, Don Juan '73 is an abysmal movie, but there is fun to be had. Birkin looks heart-meltingly gorgeous and Ronet even tries to do some acting - though why he should bother when nobody else does is one of life's mysteries. Anyone who shares my weakness for bouffant hairdos, zebra-skin rugs and purple velvet flares will probably enjoy it. Still, the final impression is of Vadim, after 15 years as a high-style provocateur, struggling to keep up with a Flower Power audience. Is there any sight sadder than hipster who's been out-hipped?

David Melville

Or if Don Juan Were A Woman In Modern Paris, if you would, and played by Brigitte Bardot, for her ex-husband Roger Vadim. I am uncertain what, if anything, Vadim was attempting to say; the mythical womanizer does not seem to gain anything by making him a woman, except for making the point that women have sexual appetites too. By the time this came out, Vadim's saucy and risque attitudes, which had been revolutionary in the 1950s, had become commonplace, even a bit dated. The only remaining point is that women could be sexual predators, just as much as men. To which I say: okay.

Vadim uses a slightly bleached color pallette for this movie, indicating to me that there is a limit to the pleasures of the body. Everything palls, after a while, and satiety does not satisfy. Or perhaps I am just an old man whose understanding of the legend is a little too secure.

I am a big fan of Gainsbourg and his two muses Bardot and Birkin, so I thought no matter how bad the film is, it cannot be that terrible and I will for sure enjoy it.

What can go wrong with Bardot playing a femme fatale?

Well, this is a unpleasant movie with a silly plot, all characters unlikable (each in their own way), and a disappointing ending.

I recommend watching it once only because of the actresses, but had not it been for then, most likely I would not had been able to endure these 95 minutes and my rating would not go beyond one star.

One of the best film of Vadim and Bardot. Brigitte Bardot is amazing as always, and the plot is very interesting and touching . If you love French melodramas you should watch this one

Some reviewers seem not to notice the golden irony that BB, who was ready to quit acting without needing a swansong, chose a vehicle, the value of which she could not fail to comprehend, in which men commit suicide after making love to BB. She is natural and resigned to the penultimate finale of her career. Maurice Ronet acquits himself perfectly as the torn antihero. He is the perfect foil to her underplayed and subtle excesses. This film didn't need any association with Don Juan to work more than adequately on several levels. Not only does it excel in irony but also in theatrical sarcasm with the 'God created woman' embroiled in a hellish inferno in a finale of post-modern design, her nemesis entombed in what might be an analogy for shifting sands. I feel that, in life, she was always lost, this belief reinforced when we exchanged pleasantries in Cannes in 1969.