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STUDIO: Le Chat qui Fume
RUNNING TIME: 90 minutes
• Biography of dir. Jean-Marie Pallardy
• Stills gallery
“It’s O Brother, Where Art Thou? meets The Bachelorette!”
A multitude of lovers,
whose faces now are wreck’d by time,
and whose pubes have turn’d the color of ash.
Where better to pluck inspiration for pornography than from classical literature?* Jean-Marie Pallardy takes on The Odyssey. Your humble critic wishes that Alexander Pope had written a poem called “The Rape of Mine Eyes,” so that he would have something appropriate here to quote.
*(Answer: Pop culture! Politics! A van!)
Hear, O muse who rules the dark region ‘tween
the hips — or, call it straight, my precious peen:
A mewling plea! The Gallic hands which wrought
this play, no bedroom charming have they brought.
No sexiness. The opposite, in fact.
So, help me write this up with love of boobs intact?
Here goes: Meet young Eugene, who drives a truck
on long hauls, with a partner, for a buck.
One afternoon, amid a roadside piss,
They fell, enchanted, to a Siren’s lisp.
Thus stolen from the safety of their truck,
Poor ‘Gene (and pal) were figur’tiv’ly fucked.
In other news, the hideous got laid.
The suitors came (and left their whores unpaid.)
As it turns out, Eugene had quite the wife—
Sweet Pamela! Moving on with her life
since, apparently, Eugene’s been missing
for well more than the— Look! Chicks kissing!
Back to it, now: ‘Gene’s girl was coveted
by all. And so, with egos buffeted,
submitted were they to her cruel games.
Like “Pleasure All My Waitresses,” the same
men failing time and again, or “Hey, Hunk,
Don’t Ring The Bells We’ve Screwed Onto Your Junk.”
While Pam humiliated all those men,
‘Gene ran into Calypso, ‘gain and ‘gain.
That jerk just don’t deserve a wife so hot.
Alas, all things must die, and sex was not
sufficient to distract ‘Gene for too long.
His buddy, though, was just a walking dong.
Return we to the homestead, where thuggish quick
a fight breaks out between the sluggish dicks,
made fractious by (no question) masturbation;
’cause they weren’t getting any. The relation
‘tween suitors wild and girlies fair and clean
was only this: Show boobs and end the scene.
But soft! what crazy voice resounded ‘mid
the sounds of stifled rutting? It was big,
and booming, like a god who got all pissed.
And there was Pam, like one who had been kissed.
Eugene himself came o’er the hills
And lo! my boner had been roundly kill’d.
Some trailers for Pallardy’s other works.
A hundred photographs of chicks and jerks.
A featurette all on erotica.
That’s it. There’s no rhyme for “erotica”!