"Every Sexual Relationship Is Condemned": An Interview with Bernardo Bertolucci Apropos "Last Tango in Paris" Author(s): Gideon Bachmann and Bernardo. F‹7. C‹7. B¨‹7. B‹7. A‹7. D7. G‹7. C‹7. G‹7. C‹7. F‹7. B¨‹7. F‹7. C‹7. F‹7. C‹7. A. LAST TANGO IN PARIS. GATO BARBIERI.. B. ULTIMO TANGO A PARIGI. [LAST TANGO IN PARIS]. Written by. Bernardo Bertolucci & Franco Arcalli. FINAL SHOOTING. TRANSCRIPT. FADE IN: EXT. PARIS.

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    Last Tango In Paris Pdf

    LAST chausifetonis.cf - Download as PDF File .pdf), Text File .txt) or read online. Last Tango in Paris. Last Tango in Paris - Free download as PDF File .pdf) or read online for free. PDF | On Jan 1, , Carmen M. Méndez-García and others published The Complications of the Erotic: Eroticism in Last Tango in Paris and.

    Paul[ edit ] [as Jeanne puts her hands on his crotch] That is your happiness, and my hap-penis. Even if a husband lives fucking years, he'll never discover his wife's true nature. I may be able to understand the secrets of the universe, but I'll never understand the truth about you. Well, first you have to take a hot bath and if you don't you're gonna get pneumonia. You get pneumonia You die!

    You die! And then, you know what happens then when you die? I get to fuck the dead rat! And all it took for you to get out was a 10 cent razor and a tub full of water. You cheap, goddamn, fucking, godforsaken whore, I hope you rot in hell.

    You're worse than the dirtiest street pig anybody could ever find anywhere, and you know why? You know why?

    The Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb)

    Because you lied. You lied to me and I trusted you. You lied and you knew you were lying. Go on, tell me you didn't lie. Haven't you got anything to say about that? You can think up something, can't you? Go on, tell me something! Go on, smile, you cunt! Smile at me and say I just misunderstood. Go on, tell me. You pig-fucker I'm sorry, I I just - I can't stand it to see these goddamn things on your face!

    I'm gonna take this off your mouth, this - this lipstick Rosa - oh GOD! I'm sorry!

    I - I don't know why you did it! I'd do it too, if I knew how I just don't know how I have to Olympia is the personification of domestic virtue: faithful, economic and racist.

    It's better not knowing anything.

    Jeanne: I fell in love with him when I first heard him play piano. She wants to know who he is, but he insists that sex is all that matters.

    Last Tango in Paris | The Current | The Criterion Collection

    Mostly, we see Paul and Jeanne together in the flat as they act out his fantasy of ignorant armies clashing by night, and it is warfare—sexual aggression and retreat and battles joined.

    The necessity for isolation from the world is, of course, his, not hers. But his life floods in. He brings into this isolation chamber his sexual anger, his glorying in his prowess, and his need to debase her and himself. He demands total subservience to his sexual wishes; this enslavement is for him the sexual truth, the real thing, sex without phoniness.

    And she is so erotically sensitized by the rounds of lovemaking that she believes him. What they go through together in their pressure cooker is an intensified, speeded-up history of the sex relationships of the dominating men and the adoring women who have provided the key sex model of the past few decades—the model that is collapsing. Inside the flat, his male physical strength and the mythology he has built on it are the primary facts.

    After three days, his wife is laid out for burial and he is ready to resume his identity. He gives up the flat: He wants to live normally again, and he wants to love Jeanne as a person. But Paul is forty-five, Jeanne is twenty. When they meet in the outside world, Jeanne sees Paul as a washed-up middle-aged man—a man who runs a flophouse. Much of the movie is American in spirit. Bertolucci has a remarkably unbiased intelligence. After Paul and Jeanne have left the flat, he chases her and persuades her to have a drink at a ballroom holding a tango contest.

    When we see him drunkenly sprawling on the floor among the bitch-chic mannequin-dancers and then baring his bottom to the woman official who asks him to leave, our mixed emotions may be like those some of us experienced when we watched Norman Mailer put himself in an indefensible position against Gore Vidal on the Dick Cavett show, justifying all the people who were fed up with him.

    He was right about what was needed but hopelessly wrong in how he went about getting it.

    Gato Barbieri - Last Tango in Paris (3)

    He tried to pull a new realism out of himself onto film, without a script, depending wholly on improvisation, and he sought to bypass the self-consciousness and fakery of a man acting himself by improvising within a fictional construct—as a gangster in Wild 90, as an Irish cop in Beyond the Law best of them , and as a famous director who is also a possible Presidential candidate in Maidstone.

    Bertolucci builds a structure that supports improvisation.

    Everything is prepared, but everything is subject to change, and the whole film is alive with a sense of discovery. I never ask them to interpret something preexistent, except for dialogue—and even that changes a lot. This is certainly similar to what Mailer was trying to do as the gangster and the cop and the movie director, but when Mailer improvises, he expresses only a bit of himself. On the screen Brando is our genius as Mailer is our genius in literature.

    I was in New York when he played his famous small role in Truckline Cafe in ; arriving late at a performance, and seated in the center of the second row, I looked up and saw what I thought was an actor having a seizure onstage. The torture of seeing Brando—at his worst—in A Countess from Hong Kong was that it was a raductio ad absurdum of the wastefulness and emasculation for both sexes of Hollywood acting; Chaplin, the director, obviously allowed no participation, and Brando was like a miserably obedient soldier going through drill.

    A director has to be supportive for an actor to feel both secure enough and free enough to reach into himself. Brando here, always listening to an inner voice, must have a direct pipeline to the mystery of character. Bertolucci has an extravagant gift for sequences that are like arias, and he has given Brando some scenes that really sing. The scene is miraculously basic—a primal scene that has just been discovered.

    In another, Brando rages at his dead wife, laid out in a bed of flowers, and then, in an excess of tenderness, tries to wipe away the cosmetic mask that defaces her. He has become the least fussy actor. There is nothing extra, no flourishes in these scenes. He purifies the characterization beyond all that: he brings the character a unity of soul. I think that if the actor were anyone but Brando many of us would lower our eyes in confusion.

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