LAST TANGO IN PARIS (1972) *1/2 One of the great titles of all time, but only the title scene lives up to its name. A footnote at most in the brilliant career of Marlon Brando, though I have suspicions that it's the closest he ever got to being typecast. For twenty minutes or so Bernardo Bertolucci plays at having a European film bearing a significant message on isolation, individuality, exploitation or at least modernism but instead he dives into a random exploration of minor league dominance and submission themes, and dullness. Where others saw existentialism I see affected randomness, and no they aren't the same thing. It's very strange to think that this film was ever banned: the most offensive thing about it is the extraordinary boredom threshold that it maintains while flouncing about in a nearly hysterical effort to be interesting. It bears mention that while Maria Schneider is shot in the most openly manner possible short of wanton pornographical template poses, Brando bears not even his belly. Brando is unquestionably brilliant in scenes, the direction is intelligent and not without original ideas, and Schneider is credible as a well meaning but borderline bimbo but the composite effect is something akin to a dull guy at a bar going on and on about his personal problems, and those relatively unworthy of reflection. But don't you see?! The room is so empty and his life is so empty and the villagey streets so isolating and....yeah, yeah, yeah, and he wears a more colorful suit at the end. The worst possible movie in the history of mankind would be a remake of this with Jim Carrey and Sharon Stone. Ugh!