The Pervert's Guide To Cinema Page #7

My relationship towards tulips

is inherently Lynchian.

I think they are disgusting.

Just imagine. Aren't these some kind of,

how do you call it, vagina dentata,

dental vaginas threatening to swallow you?

I think that flowers are something

inherently disgusting.

I mean, are people aware

what a horrible thing these flowers are?

I mean, basically it's an open invitation

to all the insects and bees,

"Come and screw me," you know?

I think that flowers

should be forbidden to children.

Suddenly I saw two figures jumping

about on the rocks above us.

They hid and peeped out occasionally.

"There are two boys looking at us,"

I said to her. Her name was Katarina.

"Well, let them look," she said,

and turned on her back.

It was such a strange feeling.

I wanted to run out and put on

my costume, but I just lay still...

On my belly with my bum in the air,

totally unembarrassed, totally calm.

We men, at least in our standard

phallogocentric mode of sexuality,

even when we are doing it with the real woman,

we are effectively doing it with our fantasy.

Woman is reduced to a masturbatory prop.

Woman arouses us in so far as

she enters our fantasy frame.

With women, it's different.

The true enjoyment is not in doing it

but in telling about it afterwards.

Of course, women do enjoy sex immediately,

but I hope I'm permitted as a man

to propose a daring hypothesis,

that maybe, while they are doing it,

they already enact or incorporate

this minimal narrative distance,

so that they are already observing themselves

and narrativising it.

There is in Ingmar Bergman's Persona

a wonderful scene where

Bibi Andersson tells to mute Liv Ullmann,

a story about small orgy on a beach

which took place years ago.

This scene is so erotic

precisely because Bergman successfully resisted

the temptation of a flashback.

No flashback. Just words.

Probably one of the most erotic scenes

in the entire history of cinema.

Katarina unbuttoned his trousers

and started playing with him.

When he came she took him in her mouth.

He bent down and started kissing her on the back

She turned around, took his head in

both hands and gave him her breast.

The other boy got so excited,

so he and I started again.

It was as nice as the first time.

Then we swam and parted. When I

came back, Karl-Henrik had returned.

We had dinner together and drank

the red wine he had with him.

Then we slept together.

It's never been as good, before or since.

Can you understand that?

Although sexuality seems to be about bodies,

it's not really about bodies.

It is how bodily activity is reported in words.

The ultimate sexual seduction resides in words.

I can be whatever you want me to be.

You want me to romance you,

take you to a classy restaurant, no problem.

You want me to be your best friend

and f*** you...

Treat you good...

Lick your p*ssy...

No problem.

Ain't much I haven't done.

The only thing I won't do is beat you up.

The strange tension, and at the same time

interconnection, between reality and fantasy

we can get it at its purest

in the strange case of pornography.

Pornography is, and it is, a deeply conservative genre.

It is not a genre where everything is permitted.

It's a genre based on the fundamental prohibition.

We cross one threshold,

you can see everything.

Close-ups and so on.

But the price you pay for it is that

the narrative which justifies the sexual activity

should not be taken seriously.

The screenwriters for pornography cannot be so stupid.

You know, these vulgar narratives

of a housewife alone at home...

A plumber comes... Fixes the hole...

Then the housewife turns to him,

"Sorry, but I have another hole to be fixed,

can you do it?" or whatever.

Obviously there is some kind of a censorship here.

You have either an emotionally

engaging film

But then you should stop,

just before showing it all: sexual act.

Or you can see it all but

you are not allowed to

then to be emotionally

seriously engaged.

So that's the tragedy of pornography.

It tries to be as realistic as possible,

but it has to maintain the minimum

of phantasmatic support.

Well...

I first saw him that morning in the lobby.

He was... He was checking into the hotel

and he was following the bellboy with his luggage

to the elevator.

He...

He glanced at me as he walked past.

Just a glance.

Nothing more.

But I could hardly

move.

Eyes Wide Shut is a film which has

an incredibly precise lesson about fantasy.

She tells him,

not about herself effectively cheating him,

but about fantasising about cheating him

with some naval officer

they met in a hotel and so on and so on.

The entire film is his desperate attempt

to catch up with her fantasy,

which ends in a failure.

Many people don't like, in that

mysterious rich people's castle

where they meet for their orgies, the big orgy.

They complain, this orgy is aseptic,

totally non-attractive, without erotic tension.

But I think that's the point.

This utter impotence of male fantasising.

The film is the story of how

the male fantasy cannot catch up

with the feminine fantasy,

of how there is too much of desire

in feminine fantasy

and how this is the threat to male identity.

Where do we find this aspect in Vertigo?

Isn't it that in Vertigo, on the contrary,

all of the activity is on the side of Scottie?

But I think that precisely because of this,

his activity is extremely brutal, mortifying.

He has totally to erase

the woman as a desiring entity.

That's for him the condition to desire.

"Let's annihilate the woman,

"let's mortify her so that my fantasy alone rules."

The other solution is, of course,

the masochist solution, which is,

"Let me maintain the appearance

of the woman, domina, as the boss.

"I accept my inferior role

"but secretly I am the master

"because I write the very scenario

of my inferiority."

But

I do love you.

And you know

there is something very important

that we need to do as soon as possible.

What's that?

F***.

It's as if our inner psychic space is too wild

and sometimes we have to make love,

not to get the real thing

but to escape from the real,

from the excessive real

that we encounter in our fantasising.

But you know what,

we also we have, don't forget

from Wild at Heart, Bobby Peru, the rape.

Say:
"F*** me."

- And I'll leave.

- No way, get out!

Say it!

I'll tear your f***ing heart out, girl!

Say:
"F*** me."

Say:
"F*** me."

Then I'll leave. Say: "F*** me."

Whisper it. Say it.

Say it. Say it.

Say:
"F*** me."

Whisper it:
"F*** me."

Bobby Peru enters the room where

the young girl, played by Laura Dern,

is resting and

slowly he terrorizes her.

"F*** me."

"F*** me. F*** me. F*** me."

- "F*** me. F*** me."

- F*** me.

Someday honey, I will!

But I gotta get goin'!

Sing!

Don't cry...

Bobby Peru, as it were,

changes the register.

All of a sudden he adopts

a nice, polite, smiling face and says:

"Oh, thanks for the offer, but I've got to go now,

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