France Paris Movie Review

I wonder whether Paris, France would seem better if I'd seen it as a silent movie. As it was, I kept wondering how in the world its small cast was able to talk so much during their complicated physical routines without hyperventilating or passing out or something. It's a long movie, too, 111 minutes worth of blathering and gymnastics, during which the characters rant and rave about John Lennon, sexual etiquette, and each other. Halfway through all this, I found myself reflecting on how the producers of Shannon Tweed movies are able do this sort of thing in a much more entertaining way. Whatever her profession (sexual therapist, anthropologist, chat show host) Shannon Tweed is always self-possessed, with an unerring knack for knowing what to do, whom to do it with, and when. She's strong and interesting and her crisply delivered dialogue is reserved for the moments she needs it most. Back to Paris, France: Leslie Hope, who bears a slight resemblance to Debra Winger, is never allowed to shut up for an instant. For those of you who are looking for a plot, this is it: Hope is married to a publisher who thinks he's going to die in three days. Meanwhile, she has an affair with the poet who's living with her husband's business partner. Harsh words are exchanged about everyone's techniques, obsessions, and manners until the credits roll. All you'll see of Paris is the Eiffel Tower, but you can't have everything in an NC-17 movie. Now, in Cannibal Women in the Avocado Jungle of Death (only 90 minutes and PG-13), you get Shannon Tweed as a feminist professor AND Karen Mistal as her worst student, Bunny, who never can decide whether being wrapped up in red licorice is anti-feminist or not, PLUS Adrienne Barbeau, and ALL in the jungles of San Bernardino! It's what we call a Guilty Pleasure, as opposed to a Film-As-Pain entry like Paris, France. woof!

1994 (NC-17) 111m/C CA Leslie Hope, Peter Outer-bridge, Victor Ertmanis, Raoul Trujillo, Dan Lett; D: Gerard Ciccoritti; W: Tom Walmsley; M: John McCarthy. VHS