Last Tango in Paris (1973)

Great direction, amazing performances (one of Brando’s best, without a doubt), wonderful script. I just didn’t like it. Kelly and I were talking in the car on the way home about how neither of us care for films from the 70s. I mentioned anti-art. He mentioned anti-everything, including anti-heroes. I don’t know if that’s it. Now that I’ve had a night to sleep on it, the term morally bankrupt comes to mind. Characters with nothing to love. I’m not one of those people who likes everyone she meets, but I can’t think of anyone I’ve met who has nothing to love. That, as I see it, is the problem with so many films from this era. They aimed for reality, but missed it by being too pessimistic. The characters that populate these films don’t even make the world more interesting by being sufficiently evil. They don’t make the world more or less of anything–they just take up space and irritate the audience.

Tango is a perfect example of the era and the genre. The colors, tones, and characters are the essence of 1973. Beautifully done, but I’m no better or worse–or even more interesting–for having watched it.

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