Last Tango in Paris

"Jeanne" (Maria Schneider) is flat-hunting when she encounters the predatory "Paul" (Marlon Brando) in an empty apartment where he proceeds to rape her. It turns out that he has recently lost his wife to suicide and is completely bereft - bewildered and almost feral in his attitude towards this girl. He rents the apartment and she comes back for more - always using the no names no pack drill routine as the sex becomes perfunctorily obsessional for both of them. The question is - can they both remain so dispassionate emotionally as their rendezvous become more intense, more humiliating for her and ultimately completely addictive? She is obedient in every way, and like most things reliably delivered on a plate the sex soon ceases to satiate his desires. He must completely control this young woman. She, meantime, is engaged to the aspiring film director "Tom" (Jean-Pierre Léaud) who remains blissfully oblivious of his fiancée's peccadilloes. In the end, it's going to be "Jeanne" who has to take control of her own life - but which way will she turn? For a film that's essentially about passion, this is an entirely sterile affair with little actual chemistry between the couple as Bertolucci exposes us to endless pointless female nudity, some clumsily choreographed sex and a surfeit of dialogue that doesn't generate steam so much as spray amidst a series of gratuitous nookie that did neither Brando nor the marginally more natural Schneider any favours. If it's supposed to be a penetrative look at the human psyche, or at our animal instincts, or maybe even at our dependencies, then I'm afraid it was all just too plodding, repetitive and undercooked. This just wasn't for me, sorry.