Le Dernier Tango à Paris

Bernardo Bertolucci's Last Tango in Paris is like any other piece of art; You get out of it only as much as you put into it. Many people saw this movie in the 1970's (and still see it today) as being pornography and nothing else. Others viewed it and took note of Brando's performance (how could you not?!?), and noticed much, much more than a mere "skin flick." Personally, I find it to be a very important piece of art. Why? Because it broke barriers! In art, barriers only exist so that they may be broken, and I know that sounds like some "liberal artsy BS," but I think it's true. Artists are always trying to get down to the basics of human existence, and, unfortunately, it's not always pretty. This film, I believe, portrays a few elements of the human experience. Passion is the first. Then, facades, our need to defend ourselves from vulnerability. Also, the film tries to show the circular nature of our lives (things end only to begin again). The passion is expertly exposed through the savage brutality that Brando brings to the performance, as only he knew how to. Many argue that this was Brando's finest performance, and I can see why. I don't know if I could ever pick one performance of his and say it was his best, but this would easily, easily be a prime candidate. In Last Tango in Paris, Marlon Brando pulls out all of the stops, almost abusing his freedom in the role. Yet, this is where the film gets truly intriguing. Is this an act? It is, at least in name, a performance, but, how much of it is a performance, and how much is a stream of consciousness therapy session? I have never seen an actor pour so much of himself out before a camera. Watching it, I couldn't help but wonder, "What must be going on behind his eyes?" How can a man reveal so much of who he is, knowing that it is being filmed to be viewed by millions? Brando's "performance" forces the audience to question is Marlon Brando the performer or the performance. We'll never know. Perhaps he didn't know. Perhaps that is how he could pull off the monumental performance that he did. It is quite possibly the greatest performance I have ever seen. The fact that I have to wonder whether his character, Paul, is the truth or an image is only testament to Brando's power. As far as the circular nature of things, we see a role-reversal between Maria Schneider and Marlon Brando. At the beginning, it is Brando who is confused, lost, driven mad by the toll that a past love has taken on him. Yet, at the end of the film, it is Schneider's Jeanne who cares not about names, identity, and personal histories. Her life is committed to distance and emotional isolation. Her mind has confined itself to that little apartment where intimacy knew no bounds, except the publicity of a painful outside world. A million questions could be asked about these two central characters. What was going on in their minds? Who was more fragile, the tormented Paul, or the seemingly carefree Jeanne? Who controlled the relationship? Was there control? Was there a relationship? This film, like all other great films, leaves us asking questions, not only about the characters we've seen, but about the characters we portray on a daily basis.

A tired middle aged American businessman encounters a young woman while flat hunting in Paris; and starts a torrid affair with her.

One of the those movies that more people have heard about than seen and probably works better that way. While certainly sexually frank, even today, it is far too European art house for most tastes.

The plot idles, stops and jerks like a country milk train, leaving so many questions unanswered that you have to write half the script in your own head to get through it.

Brando's portrait of a man that seems torn between falling in love and falling under a bus is certainly unique. Especially as most viewers and critics had concluded that he had already shown his full hand of cards. In contrast co-star Schnieder is amazing in being able to put together a performance from so little. Indeed she is just an inflated muse, who the film seems little interested in.

My problem with the film is that it is about emptiness, depression and alienation; but there is so much of it about anyway (and always has been, just turn on the news!) that going looking for in cinema seems pointless. The sex is not really sexy, merely people trying to enliven their dull lives not unlike people who take drugs to achieve the same. If there is romance here, it can only be seen as a sadomasochistic romance played out among damaged people.

LTIP is certainly a milestone picture, if only for Brando's totally open and no holds barred performance, but it leaves far too many question unanswered to be anything like a classic. Indeed this is merely an exercise in mood, tempo and design and was a box office hit because people had not seen frank sexuality on the screen like this before.

The world of sex-on-film has moved on so much since this was released that today's audience will not have a clue what caused the press headlines. Indeed many will be yawning through the famous scenes that once shocked a generation...

The film stunned me when I saw it in the cinema some 45 years ago and I'm not sure I have braved it since unless I watched some murky video. So much has happened in cinema since that first viewing that it is no longer quite so shocking but still packs a punch. Beautifully shot, there are lovely shots of Paris and the light upon the walls of the apartment but there is ugliness too and there is never a moment one can relax confident that all will be well. Brando is brilliant, if slightly awkward and Maria Schneider does well to keep up in English, French and broken English. As the two mismatched individuals merge together into some sort of passionate but loveless relationship we learn something of the background. Essentially, Brando is bereft following the suicide of his wife, right at the start and Schneider has a much more conventional, if barely believable one with an aspiring film maker. He is played by Jean-Pierre Leaud, he star of many New Wave films, particularly for Godard and Truffault and it would seem that Bertolucci is having a little fun here pitting the pretty boy of trendy 60s cinema against the old brawler Brando (I understand though that Leaud was so intimidated by the American giant that he could not work alongside him). I noticed this time that the soundtrack I have always loved seems to begin and finish rather abruptly at certain points of the film and it seems I may have found the reason. Apparently there is, or was, a four hour rough cut of the film and that it was this that Gato Barbieri studied in order to decide where the film required music. Seems reasonable, therefore, to suppose that when the film was cut by almost a half, the music may no longer slip so unobtrusively in and out.

Widely denounced as obscene upon its release and unjustifiably notorious for two of its scenes, Bernardo Bertolucci's 'Last Tango in Paris' is a savage story of lust and sexual debasement.

Marlon Brando delivers a ferocious performance as Paul, a middle-aged American expatriate tormented by his wife, Rosa's recent suicide, her infidelities and his failure to understand their relationship. In meeting a 20 year old girl, Jeanne, played by Maria Schneider, in an empty apartment, Paul hopes to form a relationship purely on his own terms and at his own pace, i.e. one he can understand fully. He insists on a new form of relationship, so basic that even their names were kept secret from each other, where she submitted to his every desire, where he could punish himself and relieve his despair and anger towards his wife by punishing Jeanne. Paul's only other interest is in Marcel (Massimo Girotti), Rosa's lover, for whom he has a curious respect and maybe a desire to obtain through him a better understanding of his own wife.

Despite his overpowering talent, Marlon Brando has often shown poor judgement in his choice of projects and has frequently trudged through films with no apparent effort or interest. In 'Last Tango in Paris' he gives everything and produces a performance of unrivalled force. Unfortunately the obvious improvisation in the film prevents the character of Paul from staying within check as he gradually becomes too much like Marlon Brando in the second half of the film. Nonetheless, when Brando is off-screen the film becomes hollow in comparison and is replaced by Jeanne's relationship with her fiance, an annoyingly pretentious TV director (Jean-Pierre Leaud).

This is a truly unique film and Bertolucci successfully highlights the romance in an affair that is fundamentally destructive. Brando's performance is remarkably powerful and intense, eclipsing every other player and dominating the entire film.

Okay, so I am not supposed to say anything about other user's comments, but I should mention that reading those comments is what lead me to write this...I don't know if this is an enjoyable movie experience, but it is nonetheless a triumph of cinema.

This film has very little to do with sex. It also has very little to do with the tango, and we might want to add it has little to do with Paris. Someone once told me this movie is about an American businessman. Out of curiosity, are all American's traveling in Europe businessmen? I think not. First of all, he was a boxer, a bongo player, he married a wealthy woman, but nowhere did I see this man as working for some corporation. This man had little money, and he didn't need a 'serious' career.

This film is about abuse; a parable about the overly masculine father who sexually abuses his own son; a child abused by his alcoholic parents; a widower who is abused by his animalistic but deadly honest wife. This movie is about a religious zealot for a mother-in-law in constant denial who shows more interest in her daughter's corpse than in her life. This movie is about an idealistic no-longer teenager who perhaps finds true love the only time in her life, but pays a terrible price. It is as though she has bitten from the forbidden fruit and found that love is an illusion.

To say Brando is superb misses the point. I simply know no other actor that could have pulled this off. His facial expressions are uncanny. It is a most fitting bookend to Street Car Named Desire. One simply cannot deny the final elevator scene. But unlike Streetcar, Brando portrays a vivid understanding of the sensitivity towards women and towards human existence that few men are capable of grasping, and few women could probably appreciate. Brando is himself. But Brando is himself because he understands his character, not because he plays himself.

This movie is an existential parody of the nature of society. It is a bitter reflection of human frailty and vanity. It is a tragedy of a man who has actually found a way to transcend his own suffering, who has somehow managed to cut through the illusions that all of us carry day-to-day. But with that knowledge, he finds himself utterly alone (as so many users here seem testament.)