LAST TANGO IN PARIS (1972)
“I want you to put your fingers up my
ass”.
No, it’s not
BRIEF ENCOUNTER. This infamous line comes from a very different type of romance:
Bernardo Bertolucci’s LAST TANGO IN PARIS, notorious in it’s time for a
physically and verbally graphic sexuality that caused a furore for American
censors and our own BBFC when it came to classifying it for UK release in 1973.
The opening
credits depict two of Francis Bacon’s famously troubling and facially distorted
paintings, foreshadowing that despite the title, we are heading for anything
but dreamy chocolate-box glamour. We are
shown separate male and female portraits of damaged, isolated lives which are
then placed side by side. Set in Paris, the story unfolds as a recently-widowed
American, Paul (Marlon Brando), distraught over the sudden suicide of his wife,
meets a young French woman, Jeanne (Romy Scheider) when they both view the same
apartment. They spontaneously couple in rough, urgent sex and begin an affair
with strictly controlled rules at Paul’s insistence. They are to remain
anonymous to each other: “We don’t need
names here”. They must reveal nothing of their real lives either, and no
reference to the world beyond the apartment.
“Everything outside this room is bullshit” Paul declares. Theirs will be a
convenient and controlled false reality - on his terms.
Whilst
seeing Paul, Jeanne has an ongoing relationship with a pretentious film-maker
boyfriend Thomas, (Jean-Pierre Leaud, famous for his work with Truffaut
beginning with LES QUATRE CENT COUPS), who relentlessly films everything she
does for some vaguely-mentioned movie. In that respect, she is simply trading
one fake and exploitative relationship for another.
Inevitably,
the retreating couple (if you can call such an emotionally isolated pairing this)
begin to share details of themselves; what passes for post-coital intimacy
causing them to recount their family backgrounds. This is the most interesting
aspect of the film as allegedly Brando willingly improvised at length in one
such scene, choosing to bare details of his difficult real-life upbringing. In
his autobiography, Brando said that Bertolucci “..wanted me to play myself, to
improvise completely and portray Paul as if he were an autobiographical mirror
of me.” He did this willingly, the product of many sessions unburdening himself
cathartically with the director in preparation for the role. Bertolucci
arranged for full magazines of film to be loaded, which in the pre-digital era
allowed a maximum of ten minutes’ recording, and simply let Brando loose. He
recounts his alcoholic parents in pitiless, uncomfortable detail, bitterly
describing a father who was “a
whore-fucker… tough…super-masculine” and a mother “Poetic…also a drunk” whom he remembers once being arrested in the
nude. He is more sympathetic to her, but these moments hint at why Paul may be
so constipated in the soul in the present day. They also helped to earn Brando
the actor an Oscar nomination (likewise Bertolucci).
Scheider did
not likewise go beyond the part into revealing her real self on camera, yet in
later life by association she was mistakenly viewed as giving an equally
autobiographical performance. This was the least of her concerns. In a Daily
Mail interview in July 2007, she recalled the physical sufferance she was
exposed to on set much more against her will. In the filming of the infamous
‘butter sodomy’ scene where Paul lubricates himself with a little dairy help
and then takes Jeanne forcibly via the road less travelled, she felt “…humiliated and to be honest, I felt a
little raped, both by Marlon and by Bertolucci.”. Despite this sequence, an
idea of Brando’s not in the original script, Scheider forged a close
relationship with her co-star. Contrary to rumours, all of their sex scenes were
faked, not done for real, though of course that kind of speculation never harms
the box-office for a cynical studio.
To be fair
to Brando, his request line quoted at the start of this review puts his
character on the receiving end of a compromising moment of his own, but it’s
hard to ignore a recurring theme of this period in cinema of female characters
being violated and the actress being expected to acquiesce in performing this
in what must have been a male-dominated atmosphere of questionable sensitivity
or support. 1971-1972 saw the releases
of two other films, CLOCKWORK ORANGE and STRAW DOGS, whose depictions of female
rape on-screen not only received a critical backlash but whose timing along
with LAST TANGO IN PARIS created a storm of controversy leading Stephen Murphy
to leave his job heading Britain’s BBFC board.
Whilst
Brando was keen to expose something of himself Method-style in this role, he
was reluctant to give consideration to line-learning. By now, he’d developed a
technique as an actor of having his dialogue written on cue-cards, believing it
enabled his performance to retain spontaneity. This is debatable; not only
could it also be interpreted as laziness, Brando was known for making eccentric
demands sometimes deliberately to test his employers. It certainly created
problems for Bertolucci in keeping the cards out of shot, not to mention the
difficulty I would foresee as a fellow actor for a scene partner to maintain
any connection whilst Brando’s attention would continually be distracted by
reading. Mostly this foible of his is
unnoticeable, although in the very moving private eulogy he pays his wife’s
corpse, at one point he looks up for no other reason than searching for the
next line. To give credit where it’s due though, he demonstrates an impressive linguistic
grasp of the copious amounts of French dialogue he’s required to say, much more
than the cursory amount an American would usually speak as a foreigner in a
European film.
Gradually,
Paul’s quest for meaning in his grief leads him nowhere except within, to
confront the inner pain he’s been avoiding through a forced construct of
artificial sexual conquest. His meetings with his wife’s lover and her mother
give no solace. His claustrophobic and perverse passion smothers Jeanne; via a
brief sequence of conventional romance in a ballroom dancing event where he
attempts to role-play chatting her up as a stranger, she realises the ultimate
toxicity of staying with him. Her
shooting of Paul as he confesses finally wanting to know her name at the end
can be interpreted in different ways: Is she putting a wounded,
self-destructive animal out of his misery? Does she fear that he is creating an
awakening co-dependency in her? She has already decided to return to Thomas,
who offers her a married life that has its own unreality but is arguably less
corrosive.
Like much of
the film - and relationships in real life - the characters’ motivations in LAST
TANGO IN PARIS are complex. Behaviour and its pay-offs are sometimes a strange
self-medication, like that of addicts or those in the grip of Post Traumatic
Stress Disorder. How we as humans deal with pain is not always easy to fathom
to outsiders or even ourselves. For this reason I feel LAST TANGO IN PARIS
justifies itself as flawed but valid. Whilst not having seen or read the more
recent FIFTY SHADES OF GREY, I have to plead a Mary Whitehouse-style deference
to what I gather is a tameness in comparison to this film’s brave rawness in
documenting a doomed ‘negotiated’ relationship. At times the physical
acting-out by Paul upon Jeanne is uncomfortably non-consensual (and for the
viewer), the graphic sexual language is sometimes difficult to empathise with,
but I feel that overall Bertolucci dares to explore a very private aspect of
humanity with sincerity.
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