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An Englishman (played by former Stranglers frontman, Hugh Cornwell) arrives in a remote French town near the coast to collect his broken down car. What he sees there will change his life forever...

They say that the best things come in small packages and this beautifully realised short film (running at just 21-minutes) could easily be presented as supporting evidence. But that's not to say it is a lightweight piece. On the contrary, it is a film with great depth (especially considering its short length). I don't wish to give any of the plot away - so no need for Spoiler Alerts here - but, like its allegorical subject-matter, it is a film that gets under the skin (in a good way) and the viewer is definitely rewarded with repeated viewings. Highly recommended viewing.

Cornwell also provides (most of) the brilliantly atmospheric soundtrack.

This film is very nearly a masterpiece of cinema - the central flaw being the disparity between the intensity & truth depicted in the Brando/Schneider relationship and the nonsense that is parallelled in the Schneider/Leaud scenes. Now I realise that that is Bertolucci's intention (the serious as compared to the frivolous), but the latter relationship really is poorly evoked; thereby making half the film utterly unbelievable - which is a great shame because this really is a fascinating and brave piece of film-making. To lose most of the scenes involving Leaud's amateur film-maker would, I think, benefit the film hugely.

I'd also like to make couple of points relating to some of the other comments here. Firstly, the sex scenes weren't real. This is covered in Brando's autobiography, Songs My Mother Taught Me - apparently Bertolucci suggested the actors having 'real' sex, but all the scenes were "ersatz (simulated) sex", according to Brando. As for the comment that we don't actually see much - okay, it's not exactly pornographic but we certainly see enough of Schneider, with her magnificent bosom and splendid pubic-bush. Secondly, one of the reviewers makes the valid point about why viewers often consider Brando is playing an American 'businessman', but then misses the point where the character's back-story is referred to: the boxing career that didn't amount to much (think of Terry Malloy in 'On the Waterfront'); the references to him being a former revolutionary (ie: Zapata) and to working as a Japanese diplomat (see Brando's character Sakini in 'The Teahouse of the August Moon'); and moving to live in Tahiti (which Brando famously did whilst making 'Mutiny on the Bounty'). These references (along other autobiographical elements referred to within the film) blur the lines between what's true about us and what's isn't which, I suppose,is what the film is ultimately about.

One other aspect of the film which I think deserves mentioning is the opening title sequence. The film opens with images from a couple of Francis Bacon portraits - and appropriately so. If ever a film was able to capture the caged nature of the human condition (a key theme in Bacon's oeuvre), then 'Last Tango in Paris' is it.

And Brando in the leading role? Absolutely sensational. No other Hollywood actor could have produced such a brutally honest portrayal (one or two European actors might have managed it), but when watching this particular performance, we realise we are watching a very talent special indeed.

I enjoyed this film very much. I don't know how the film works as a literary adaptation but, judging it purely as a film on its own terms, it works well as a study in sexual obsession and jealousy. Irons is perfectly cast as the fixated aristocrat but the post-dubbing, whilst seamlessly executed, is a little off-putting as it clearly isn't Irons' own voice (despite what some IMDb posters seem to believe). Irons expertly portrays Swann's social aloofness and the way in which his obsession takes over his sense of reasoning. The film is exquisite to look at (as you would expect from a film with Nykvist as the cinematographer) and Delon gives a scene-stealing performance as Swann's camp best friend. Worth watching.