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Team Kulture

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Vlas Teterin
Vlas Teterin

Les Fruits De La Passion Torrent ##TOP##

Joining in on a poll on ICM for the best movies of 1981,I started looking round for titles to view from the year. During this search,I found that ICM were starting a French viewing challenge,where you have to watch as many French flicks as possible. Feeling that this was the perfect time to cross the two,I took a look at French cinema from 1981,and happily stumbled on a chance for some strange kinky Kinski.The plot:Going to Japan with her older lover Sir Stephen, "O" starts trying to figure out how to fulfil all of Stephen's sexual needs. Wanting to "educate" "O",Stephen decides to be a true gentlemen,and get O a job working in an elite Japanese brothel (!) While she receives an education,Stephen starts peeping,at the fruits of passion.View on the film:Crossing East meets West,co-writer/(with Rio Kishida and Dominique Aury) director Shûji Terayama dollops French smut..err, erotica with Japanese fetishism. Unloading non-simulated sex scenes, Terayama & cinematographer Tatsuo Suzuki brew the title with a peculiar atmosphere of sensual red dust and striking symbolism of childhood flashbacks and a dead bird,which is balanced by weird S&M sequences involving torture,and Stephen turning into a peeping tom who checks on O's time with clients. Undressing a book from The Story of O creator Dominique Aury, (who co-wrote the script) the screenplay by Aury/Terayama and Kishida send Stephen and O on a quirky erotic adventure,that ropes in unique punishments for women who fail to meet the needs of clients, (no food for 100 days) with a cool erotica vibe of O opening her sexuality. Joined by a fragile Isabelle Illiers as O, Klaus Kinski (who take part in a full-on sex scene) gives a great,drooling performance as Sir Stephen,who begins peeling the fruits of passion.

Les Fruits De La Passion Torrent


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And yet he had persisted, insensible to the irony and the scorn of thisterrible amigo in skirts, and indifferent as well to the conflictsthat his blind passion might provoke at home if his mother knew.

No, he wanted to see his son free and influential, continuing theconquest of the city, completing the family greatness of which he hadlaid the foundations, getting power over people much as he himself hadgotten power over money. Ramón must become a lawyer, the only career fora man destined to rule others. It was a passionate ambition the oldpettifogger had, to see his scion enter through the front door and withhead proudly erect, the precincts of the law, into which he had crawledso cautiously and at the risk, more than once, of being dragged out witha chain fastened to his ankle.

Nights, when his mother did not oblige him to visit the home of someinfluential voter who must be kept content, he would spend reading, nolonger, however, as in Valencia, books lent him by the canon, but worksthat he bought himself, following the recommendations of the press, andthat his mother respected with the veneration always inspired in her byprinted paper sewed and bound, an awe comparable only to the scorn shefelt for newspapers, dedicated, every one of them, as she averred, tothe purpose of insulting holy things and stirring up the brutal passionsof "the rabble."

These years of random reading, unrestrained by the scruples and thefears of a student, gradually and quietly shattered many of Rafael'sfirm beliefs. They broke the mould in which the friends of his motherhad cast his mind and made him dream of a broader life than the oneknown to those about him. French novels transported him to a Paris thatfar outshone the Madrid he had known for a moment in his graduate days.Love stories awoke in his youthful imagination an ardor for adventureand involved passions in which there was something of the intense loveof indulgence that had been his father's besetting sin. He came to dwellmore and more in the fictitious world of his readings, where there wereelegant, perfumed, clever women, practicing a certain art in therefinement of their vices.

Such preoccupations made life as a party leader, tied down to the pettyinterests of a constituency, quite unthinkable! At the risk of angeringhis mother, he fled the Club, to court the solitude of the hills andfields. There his imagination could range in greater freedom, peoplingthe roads, the meadows, the orange groves with creatures of his fancy,often conversing aloud with the heroines of some "grand passion,"carried on along the lines laid down by the latest novel he had read.

It rained day and night; and yet the city, from its animation, seemed tobe having a holiday. The young ones, sent home from school because ofthe bad weather, were all on the bridges throwing branches into thewater to see how swift the current was, or playing along the lanes closeto the river, planting sticks in the banks and waiting for theever-broadening torrent to reach them.

In the narrow gorge between the Old City and the New, the swollentorrent swept them along like lightning. The barber used his oars justto keep the boat away from the shore. Submerged rocks sent greatwhirlpools to the surface and pulled the boat this way and that. Thelight of the torch cast a dull reddish glow out over the muddy eddies.Tree trunks, refuse, dead animals, went floating by, shapeless masseswith only a few dark points visible above the surface, as though somedead man covered with mud were swimming under water. Out on thatswirling current, with the slimy vapors of the river rising to hisnostrils and the eddies sucking and boiling all around, Rafael thoughthimself the victim of a weird nightmare and began even to repent of hisrashness. Cries kept coming from houses close to the river; windows weresuddenly lighted up; and from them great shadowy arms like the wings ofa windmill waved in greeting to that red flame which people saw glidingpast along the river, bringing the outlines of the boat and the two meninto distinct view. The news of their expedition had spread throughoutthe city and people were on the watch for them as they sped by: "Vivadon Rafael! Viva Brull!"

Some Italian verses, written in a tremulous hand and in crooked lines,attracted Rafael's attention. He could half make their meaning out, butLeonora would never let him finish reading them. It was an amorous,desperate lament; a cry of racking passion condemned to disappointment,writhing in isolation like a wild beast in its cage: Luigi Macchia.

Leonora began to know what applause was, what it meant to give encoreafter encore before crowds of rustic landowners, dressed in theirSunday clothes, and ladies with false rings and plated chains; and shehad her first thrills of feminine vanity on receiving bouquets andsonnets from subalterns and cadets in small garrison towns. Boldinifollowed her everywhere, neglecting his lessons, in pursuit of this, hislast depraved infatuation. "All for art, art for all!" He must enjoy thefruits of his creation, be present at the triumphs of his star pupil! Sohe said to Doctor Moreno; and that unsuspecting gentleman, thankful forthis added courtesy of the master, would leave her more and more to theold satyr's care.

Leonora, playing opposite that famous man, "starring," singing duetswith him, clasping hands that had been kissed by the queens of art, wasdeeply stirred. This, at last, was the world she had dreamed of in herdingy garret in Milan. Salvatti's presence gave her just the illusion ofaristocratic grandeur she had longed for. Nor was he slow in perceivingthe impression he had made upon that promising young woman. With a coldcalculating selfishness, he determined to profit by her naïveadmiration. Was it love that thrust her toward him? As, so longafterwards, she analyzed her passion to Rafael, she was vehementlycertain it had not been love: Salvatti could never have inspired agenuine feeling in anyone. His egotism, his moral corruptness, were tooclose to the surface. No, he was a philanderer simply, an exploiter ofwomen. But for her it had been a blinding hallucination nevertheless,fraught, during the first days, at least, with the deliciousexhiliration, the voluptuous abandonment of true love. She became theslave of the decrepit tenor, voluntarily, just as she had become hermaestro's slave through fear. And so complete had her infatuationbeen, so overpowering its intoxication, that, in obedience to Salvatti,she fled with him at the end of the season, and deserted her father, whohad objected to the intimacy.

She was then just twenty-three, but already felt herself an old woman.How she had changed!... More affairs? As she went over that period ofher life in her talk with Rafael, Leonora closed her eyes with a shudderof modesty and remorse. Drunk with fame and power she had rushed aboutthe world lavishing her beauty on anyone who interested her for themoment. The property of everybody and of nobody! She could not rememberthe names, even, of all the men who had loved her during that era ofmadness, so many had been caught in the wake of her stormy flight acrossthe world! She had returned to Russia once, and been expelled by theCzar for compromising the prestige of the Imperial Family, through anaffair with a grand duke who had wanted to marry her. In Rome she hadposed in the nude for a young and unknown sculptor out of purecompassion for his silent admiration; and she herself made his "Venus"public, hoping that the world-wide scandal would bring fame to the workand to its author. In Genoa she found Salvatti again, now "retired," andliving on usury from his savings. She received him with an amiablesmile, lunched with him, treated him as an old comrade; and at dessert,when he had become hopelessly drunk, she seized a whip and avenged theblows she had received in her time of slavery to him, beating him with aferocity that stained the apartment with gore and brought the police tothe hotel. Another scandal! And this time her name bandied about in acriminal court! But she, a fugitive from justice, and proud of herexploit, sang in the United States, wildly acclaimed by the Americanpublic, which admired the combative Amazon even more than the artist.


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