This is over 20 years old now, and it kind of shows. Directors used to get away with this kind of salacious tripe on the pretext of art, but that rings pretty hollow nowadays. Having said that, his muse could have been a leggy lovely but is instead a rather dumpy and ordinary girl (what the French might call a 'grisette') whom he struggles to find more than physically interesting. So far, so pedestrian and that, for me, was the basic problem with the film. Despite being based on some Alberto Moravia tale that ought to lend it credibility, instead we struggle to understand why a man of such intelligence and taste should become obsessed with her to the point of self-destruction. You'll probably enjoy it if you are a fan of authentic bedroom scenes (don't tell me they weren't actually doing it) but the rest of us will pretty soon start yawning.
Review of Boredom
