LA TETA Y LA LLUNA, movie of incomparable charm, is a feast of brio and delight; I particularly liked the idea, and the various dreamy, exciting, amusing scenes. Luna's comedy is perhaps less about an awakening and more about the prolonging of a sexuality—a fetishist, primeval one.
Mathilda May is, one should one say, strictly delicious; strictly delicious. When I was 12, I have seen her in Letters to an Unknown Lover, where she's 21 and hotter than you would imagine.
Mrs. May is a Meridional, Mediterranean babe, so highly responsive to Spanish tastes. She's lean, dry, supple, she looks like a Spanish babe.
There is a word that, as fetish, the Europeans are rather ass—men (though, in Italy, the predilection for Mss Grandi's and Caprioglio's tits hints to some considerable tits—taste), while Americans are tits—men; well, the Spanish cinema generally offers a nice balance.
If the Italian cinema may be said to express a healthy and, at times, more or less kinky sensuality, the full expression of fetish-isms is the privilege of the Spanish cinema—breasts, thighs, etc.; the Spanish cinema is, in a way, the most sensual I know—a deep and natural appreciation for the feminine body. (A word might be said also in favor of two less known schools, the Polish and the Czech cinemas.) Buñuel was very fetishist, though he feigned the opposite by masquerading fetishism; it is a very implied masquerade . José Luis Cuerda's Tocando Fondo (1993), with the nowadays underused but wholly delicious Icíar Bollaín, is a textbook example of naughty fetishism; Marisa Paredes was also very subjected to much cinematographic fetishism. There's a scene in a Goya biopic where the painter stares at the tits of a young woman by a water; in a satire, an old man asks a young babe to show him her tits in exchange for some favor he can return, and if such scenes could seem unspecific and rather average and common, the Spanish invest them with a special sensuality and gusto. The option for Mrs. May is too obvious to need any explanation; she has awesome jugs, and she has proved it whenever it was useful.
How couldn't I be happy that my 500th entry here happened to be one about a movie that's exalting the tits, and the pleasure, tactile, gustatory, visual, they give? And, moreover, not just any tits—but Mathilda May's! Maybe one word would be appropriate for my 500th commentary—I have taken quite some pleasures in writing them so far, I have enjoyed the several exchanges with various readers these comments have already occasioned, and, as to the next ones, I will to some extent reorient the profile of these entries—more about silent movies, ancient flicks, genre movies, Gothic movies and author cinema.
Mathilda May is, one should one say, strictly delicious; strictly delicious. When I was 12, I have seen her in Letters to an Unknown Lover, where she's 21 and hotter than you would imagine.
Mrs. May is a Meridional, Mediterranean babe, so highly responsive to Spanish tastes. She's lean, dry, supple, she looks like a Spanish babe.
There is a word that, as fetish, the Europeans are rather ass—men (though, in Italy, the predilection for Mss Grandi's and Caprioglio's tits hints to some considerable tits—taste), while Americans are tits—men; well, the Spanish cinema generally offers a nice balance.
If the Italian cinema may be said to express a healthy and, at times, more or less kinky sensuality, the full expression of fetish-isms is the privilege of the Spanish cinema—breasts, thighs, etc.; the Spanish cinema is, in a way, the most sensual I know—a deep and natural appreciation for the feminine body. (A word might be said also in favor of two less known schools, the Polish and the Czech cinemas.) Buñuel was very fetishist, though he feigned the opposite by masquerading fetishism; it is a very implied masquerade . José Luis Cuerda's Tocando Fondo (1993), with the nowadays underused but wholly delicious Icíar Bollaín, is a textbook example of naughty fetishism; Marisa Paredes was also very subjected to much cinematographic fetishism. There's a scene in a Goya biopic where the painter stares at the tits of a young woman by a water; in a satire, an old man asks a young babe to show him her tits in exchange for some favor he can return, and if such scenes could seem unspecific and rather average and common, the Spanish invest them with a special sensuality and gusto. The option for Mrs. May is too obvious to need any explanation; she has awesome jugs, and she has proved it whenever it was useful.
How couldn't I be happy that my 500th entry here happened to be one about a movie that's exalting the tits, and the pleasure, tactile, gustatory, visual, they give? And, moreover, not just any tits—but Mathilda May's! Maybe one word would be appropriate for my 500th commentary—I have taken quite some pleasures in writing them so far, I have enjoyed the several exchanges with various readers these comments have already occasioned, and, as to the next ones, I will to some extent reorient the profile of these entries—more about silent movies, ancient flicks, genre movies, Gothic movies and author cinema.