Climaxi is the sort of film the English speaking world viscerally hates for the very simple but muchly obfuscated reason that it deals naturally with human sexuality. For the contorted, tortured psyche of the puritan such affront is intolerable.
Nudity in and of itself may be allowed to exist, but only peripherally, only if marginal, only if poorly made out of shoddy materials by inept not-quite-people. Inasmuch as it happens on the puke-green, badly framed, ill lighted, natural sciences style sets of Twisty's or BangBros sexuality is tolerable, if not acceptable. To the degree it plays along the ridiculous presumption of its inferiority, as long as it doesn't threaten the false theory that there exist "more important things" in the world the English speaker may acquiesce to its continued existence and who knows, maybe even rub one off discretely. Or thirty.
Well... Climax doesn't play along. The pubescent boy hoses his adolescent sister (with a hose), there's running around topless and nude as teenage girls are wont to do - and quite the selection of perky, fresh naiads with slender calves and ready giggles, at that - there's pillowfights and quite natural threeways (with a boy!), there's the lesbian teacher doing her captive students, there's all-girl foursome tea parties cum bottle breaking over head, there's nude moodelling for peculiar old painters, there's anything you might think of and it all happens smoothly, with the comfortable ease of peoples that haven't spent their centuries on this Earth desperately trying to fuck over the balance between their head and their genitals.
"Convincing" ? What exactly pray tell is the meaning, the point and the use of "convincing" ? The girls are all convinced and ready to go, there's a big cake shaped like a blue globe and they're about to take a bite of it, or thirty. Which, incidentally, is exactly as things should be ; as bothersome as that may sound, one of the best ways to spend your time when you're sixteen is finding out what's the largest cock that comfortably fits, in your throat or otherwise. It's what it is.
Unfortunately, other things come just as naturally. They go through tokes at a rate gangsta rappers love to intimate but almost universally fail to upkeep in practice. And then there's heroin.
Fact of the matter is the overcrowded postmodern world isn't quite at all comparable to the marmorean
bore beauty bore beauty of classical antiquity. It's true that the Romans knew no choux a la creme and what passed for sweets at the time was maybe a bit of honey. However, it's also true that they knew no syphilis, no AIDS, no opium, no cocaine and in fact the worst that some brash youth may find in his bite of the grand wordly cake could be a little hangover.
As it works out, people work over the centuries to make life "mean more", which practically means ever increasing the stakes of the game. Higher stakes mean one thing only, and that is more losers. As a bonus, children are the prime substance of loss. Consequently... who knows anymore. The English attempt to limit overall loss by limiting overall wagers, with the resulting stunted generations of people that lived for naught while trying to parlay their naught into some semblance of a whole. Sometimes it works. The Latins want to live up to their traditional boundless bites. Sometimes it works and it did work for me, but to be fair mostly it kind of bites.
All things considered the world is safe : you won't see this film as you don't understand spoken Spanish and besides it has a solid 3.something score on imdb. So, back to something completely different.———
- 1977, by Francisco Lara Polop, with Annie Brilland and a bunch of other nymphlets [↩]