If this drama isn't something of an art film, then it is just way too blasted European in how it's tells its story, not getting flashily overstylized, but relying much too much on naturalism and aimless meditation for a sense of cinematic substance to thrive.

The missteps in characterization make it a little harder to get passed the unlikable traits within the flawed leads, just as they keep the film from being fleshed out enough to feel completely distinguished, without falling into near-aggravating conventions that range from plot tropes to a problematic abuse of an artistic license. uh, by which I mean that I understand the significance of the ambiguity in the characterization to the leads that has us getting to know the characters as they come to know each other, but by thinning the secondary characters as borderline inconsequential, the range of the character-driven narrative is limited more than it ought to be, while spots in the leads' exposition prove to be too ambiguous for the good of your investment. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm all for the casual sex.

Jeez, and at a little over two hours, this film, while decent, is too long and dull, although that might provide time for a little more exposition. I'm surprised he didn't end up evolving to that point by the end of principal photography, because the rough cut, alone, was absurdly sprawling, although Burtolucci was wise enough to recognize that this story doesn't have the scope of something like '1900', so instead of making this drama about a middle-aged widower bumping uglies with a hot Frenchwoman over five hours long, he only made it. I just love the irony in the fact that Maria Schneider, discussing this film, emphasized that it was 'Burtolucci' who 'was fat and sweaty and very manipulative' (Jeez, and I thought that Brando was a jerk to his directors), although, in her defense, Brando was still a little ways away from being old and fat in this film. Speaking of which, looking at this film and 'The Godfather', it appears that 1971 was the year Marlon Brando really got into pseudo-Italian cinema, which sounds a whole lot more exciting than calling 1972 the year Brando finally decided to get freaky for the ladies, when he was middle-aged and flabby. Jokes on you, obnoxious dude, because this film already is ris-kay, perhaps even taboo, not so much because it's about anonymous, periodic sex, but because it sees an Italian celebrating Paris.

'He said, 'I ate the last mango in Paris, took the last plane out of Saigon, took the first fast boat to China, and, Jimmy, there's still so much to be done.'' Forget you, Jimmy Buffett, for ruining this film's title, and thank you, Bernardo Bertolucci, for having that title completely ruin the humorous direction that one lowbrow guy might take by pointing out how ris-kay something sounds.

Last tango in paris butter scene xxx