Last Tango sat on top of our TV for three months because, while we knew it was something we ought to watch for the sake of expanding our frames of reference or whatever, it didn't sound like a particularly appealing story.
Hollywood heavyweight Marlon Brando delivers a tour-de-force performance as an American expatriate in Paris who's spinning from his estranged wife's suicide. While searching for an apartment, the grief-stricken widower encounters an equally despondent young Frenchwoman (Maria Schneider), and the couple embarks on an anonymous, no-strings-attached sexual liaison that gradually exposes their mutual agony.
Somehow we were never in the mood to watch it (shocking, I know). But today we decided that enough was enough. Netflix had been making a pretty penny off our monthly dues while we watched maybe one movie every few weeks or so. We were going to watch Tango this weekend or send it back unviewed, and we couldn't very well let the damned movie defeat us. So we watched.
Lordy, that was an exceedingly bizarre movie. I mean, really. The characters were all insane, albeit in different ways. The dialogue was so random at times that it wasn't at all clear what the hell the point was. I guess the acting was pretty good, but I wouldn't call it anyone's tour-de-force.
But whatever. It's done with, now. I believe we've got Multiplicity coming in the mail next. That ought to cleanse the mental palate some. 'Cause I like pizza, Steve. I like it!