This movie validates my theory that erotica is dishonest and we should all quit lying to each other and ourselves and just watch hardcore pornography. Lose the soft-focus, turn up the lights and can the bad college poetry writing class free verse and roll tape.
And why do all the characters in erotica have to be tortured? Or adulterous? Or tortured and adulterous? I’m all about fetishes. I’m down with kinks. But why does everyone with a standard perversion in erotic films have to be painted as such a creep? Aren’t these movies purporting to portray sexuality as healthy? Instead, I always feel dirty afterward.
In this creepy little movie, Cyril (Charles Dances) impersonates Michael Caine in a Central American Banana Republic as he pontificates ad nauseam about the joys of his open marriage with Fiona (Sheryl Lee), a saucy little trollop with a voracious sexual appetite. Then, Hugh (Colin Lane), a photographer, and his wife Catherine (Laila Robins) and brood show up. Immediately, Cyril and Fiona set their designs on the couple. Catherine giving in right away, but Hugh resisting, because apparently he has some kinky skeletons in his closet that are never discussed. And neither is the fact that he only has one arm.
Lots of wine, nudity and a homemade chastity belt later, Hugh’s secret is revealed in a rather lethal fashion. I won’t spoil it for you, but he gets off with a noose and pictures of nude peasant girls.
The quality of the dialogue is evidenced in lines like “the sun was like an orange disk above the ocean” and delivered in the most unnatural manner possible. Angelo Badalementi provides the score, with his signature lush, creepy New Age sound. It’s not that bad, but there’s a guitar arpeggiation lifted directly from Pink Floyd’s “Hey You,” which kind of makes you go, “I really like The Wall… hey, look, there’s another breast.”