Review of Last Tango in Paris (1972) by Wayne K — 17 Apr 2016

It's an unfortunate thing when a movies reputation far outshines its actual quality. Such was the case with Last Tango in Paris. It could have been half the length and I would still have been left twiddling my thumbs.

Brando has proven himself time and again to be a formidable actor and an all time legend of the industry, but here he spends most of his screen time shambling about with astonishing disinterest. It's the kind of thing I imagine you'd see if you followed Brando round between takes of Apocalypse Now.

In order to depict any kind of love affair we need at least the slightest inkling as to why the characters are drawn to each other. In this, we're given no reason to care about either of our leads, and thus we have to spend 2 ass-numbing hours watching them exchange largely meaningless chatter, copulate occasionally and, joy of joys, we get to see what excruciatingly boring things they do when they're apart.

It got a fair deal of hype in its day for its risqué nature, controversial subject matter and the fact that the experience took a toll on both Brando and Schneider, both of whom spoke negatively of both the director and the production.

I'm sure they still had a better time making the movie than I did watching it. If you want an idea of how little happens in this film, it's plot description on Wikipedia is only 3 paragraphs long.

Uninspired, underwhelming and tedious to the point of agony, Last Tango In Paris is a painfully overrated, uninvolving porno flick masquerading as high art.