I Saw A Film!

I keep saying things like, I’m a big boy, and I want to see more provocative adult sexual stuff, and give me a female Henry Miller! But then, when I get it, I find myself snickering like a school boy and being quite put off by all the crotch zooms and odd hairy butts.

Let’s face it, I only like what I like, and trying to force-feed myself on other folk’s sexual predilections is still just going to seem funny, and possibly at times icky. Let’s get this one right out in the open, I don’t need to see a lady pee. It’s never been a thrill, I don’t think it’s ever going to be a thrill, and I’m kind of dubious about it actually being a thrill for others. It’s fine if it is, but I can’t help the parochial sensation that other people’s arousal can’t possibly be . . . ah, it’s not really especially important, and maybe the openness and freedom of sexuality is something I appreciate more in a kind of symbolic tolerance of arts and literature, when it comes right down to watching porn, however, I start chuckling. I’m blaming the culture of Christian oppression for sitting on our sexuality for so long that mature responses to an exaggerated lady-form, stripped of nuance and served with aplomb, makes us just squirm in our seats instead of feeling like grown sexually active adults (speak yourself!). Miranda is a goddess and Brass wants us to see as much of her as possible, and we do, we do!

To boot, Miranda is a libertine rarity, a lady, who after losing her husband in the big war, enjoys herself while running her inn business with multiple, and weirdly competitive male counterparts. The lads just hurl themselves at Miranda, her big bum, her thick thighs, and massive boobs cause the boys to buy her jewels and propose endlessly. She’s not terribly interested in more than the attentions, and director Brass produces a soft-core pornographic Greek goddess vision at every opportunity. Is it pure male fantasy? It’s hard to tell, I’ve never experienced a Fellini goddess who rejected so much emotional support and stability for epicurean pleasures, but does that mean they don’t exist? It seems unlikely, just because so much of our experience reinforces an opposite gender behavior.

Midfilm, out in the country with one of her lovers, the fellow traipses down a hillside and points to a spot where he was shot by the Nazis. He shows the scar on his neck. He lay that night staring at two trees, but survived the incident. He then builds a small monument, a lump of dung, a bit of money, a handful of grass all under a stone. A shit and money monument to that night during the war. It’s probably the best part of the film, and the most moving for its humor and adventure. But, of course, this is Italy and the Nazis are still a fresh wound and such monuments likely to be erected daily.

Soon enough we’re back to the bedrooms and parties, and as Miranda flits between her gentleman, a little like Anais Nin, but without the twee commentary, we’re offered what can only be the director’s favorite cuts. Miranda’s big bum is basically the star of the show, but certainly not the only star, and our series of fellows are all offered as eye-candy as well.

This is running free on Prime, and while there seems a hedonist glory in it, it’s a little bit dull, and I have to admit, I turned it off before she gave in and wound up marrying. I liked it better when she insisted on her devotion to pleasure.

3 thoughts on “Tinto Brass’ Miranda (1985)

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