Ensofter Overrated and overhyped

MamaGravity good back-story, and good acting

Dorathen Better Late Then Never

Deanna There are moments in this movie where the great movie it could've been peek out... They're fleeting, here, but they're worth savoring, and they happen often enough to make it worth your while.

Dr Jacques COULARDEAU The Body. Desire. Dressed. Undressed. But always covered in its central heart with some belt, some veil, a butterfly, or just an angle of the camera. Power supposedly male, masculine, phallic with toreros, bullfights, motorcycles, some kind of master-slave relation that turns into pure sexual slavery. With the Romans, show me your goods and let me be brutal, probably with death at the end. Arabian with many veils, seven or more, dances, pearls and jewels. The Sultan watching, desiring, assessing. It is all pictorial titillation and substitutive contacts with the aforesaid pearls and other objects, veiled at the least even if only in a French letter. Then we can move to the modern bordello, the red light district, quite more explicit and so much explicit that it becomes sickeningly fascinating. The elements, storm, thunder, lightning, rain, day and night are used as representations of desire and satisfaction, pleasure and ecstasy. That Narcissus finds the sex he wants in Baroque choral music and leaves in the shape of penises. His sexual satisfaction is purely mental, inside his soul, substitutive of explicit physical contact. Narcissus finally makes it up into a frontal view revealing himself completely, walking through wind, leaves, litter and multifarious ever changing colors to what appears his goal: the coat hanger of the beginning. The eye can merge with the light. He is back in the bordello area, in his bed, in his pants that he can take off to sleep in front of his mirror and dream of a bowler-hatted, overcoated, umbrellaed, city banking sugar grand daddy who can enter since he has the key but his face is revealed then as that of our Narcissus, dreaming of meeting his only love affair and desired human being, himself. He blows and breaks the mirror. The image disappears and kind of turns into a spider web in nature with a caterpillar crawling along a branch. We are back where we started, minus the moon. "I've grown so lonesome thinking of you." And when that you is yourself, the lonesome feeling is even more self contained if not self-imprisoned.Dr Jacques COULARDEAU, University Paris 1 Pantheon Sorbonne, University Versailles Saint Quentin en Yvelines, CEGID

preppy-3 Totally plot less movie of the homo erotic images of some hot young guy. I caught this years ago at an art cinema as part of their gay and lesbian film festival. It's safe to say the entire audience consisted of gay men. When it started there was silence...which mostly continued throughout the movie. Some people walked out and there was scattered laughter during some of the sillier scenes. The color was bright (and blinding) and the print we had was in good shape but with no plot or point (that I could see of) this quickly became boring. The guy in it was handsome and hot (and nude some of the time) but that wasn't enough to keep me interested for 90 minutes. Maybe back in 1971 this was considered erotic and shocking but it sure isn't today (although it would still get an NC-17). Pretentious, pointless and overdone. It gets a 6 for some truly striking and beautiful images but I can't recommend it. When it was over at the art cinema most of the guys left complaining how stupid and boring it was. That should tell you something.

Jeunes PN is one of those films that even Roger Ebert runs across now and again that really defies categorization. It is a fantasy, a spectacle, a tour de force, an indulgences, a homoerotic cornucopia, idealized male sex. It's possible to see different emphases every time its viewed.Is it a precursor to Fellini's "Satricon"? To "Midnight Cowboy"? A youth, Bobby Kendall, in a romantic idyll who sees his grubby hustling trade on NYC's as a Roman bacchanal, a prancing matador. Does Bobby really see the world in which he lives or does he choose not to see it? The unanswered mysteries and questions this film raises, despite its last minute snatching from the hands of its creator, make it a Mona Lisa of filmdom. Even if you don't like it, you'll be intrigued by it and want to talk about it. That's why it's worth viewing.

db7178 This production fits into the category of art more than it does video, film or cinema. It's not something you'd see at the theater at the mall; there's no dialogue, and there's no "story," or at least not one that fits neatly into our cinematic paradigm. Rather, this is an hour-or-so-long kaleidoscopic arrangement of sounds and colors and forms in the background and teasingly partial revelations of the male body in the foreground. The "art," in imitating life, leads us to Bobby Kendall narcissistically looking in a mirror, being a matador, flying and fantasizing. Actually, you could link Pink Narcissus to one category in our cinematic paradigm: Suspense. Viewers who like the male body will be in suspense for an hour, dying to see just another inch of Bobby Kendall's body.