The shot comes from Mogliamantei, and as you can see she squints & spits (like a cat) at the doctor who just called her a vicious couch potato for pretending like she's paralysed because her husband doesn't either submit to her will or else cane her lily ass until she either dies or submits herself. This is what you get for fucking up marriage, but let's not digress.
Il etait ne sur la frontiere, la-haut dans le Nord ou c'qu'y a du vent.
Contrebandier tout comme son pere, il avait la fraud' dans le sang.
Il attendait les nuits sans lune - quand il fait sombre, on passe bien mieux. -
Pour s'faufiler par les grandes dunes ou l'vent de la mer vous pique les yeux.
Ohe, la douane ! Ohe, les gabelous ! Lachez tous les chiens et puis planquez-vous
Au fond de vos cabanes. Regardez sur la dune l'homme qui passe la-bas!
Il est pourtant seul mais vous n'l'aurez pas.
Il s'fout d'la douane...
Au fond de vos cabane, allez, planquez-vous et lachez les chiens.
Ohe, les gabelous !
Ohe, la douane !
~ /Interlude ~
The husband becomes incapacitated (in that ancient manner), and finds himself pinned down, holed away from the world. This leaves the wife to take the traditional role of the wife in those places up North where it's windyii. And so there she is, riding alone (a woman! alone!) on the trail of her husband. She meets his other wife (one of ~), a publican, and her offspring, six girls, unlike her well behaved, unlike her obedient, unlike her strong, competent and experienced. All of them. As it goes, up North.
And then later, at a hunting lodge, she finds... her identical twin. A not quite as young and not quite as pretty woman, in the exact same hairdo, in the exact same gown. A doctor, the first woman to obtain a license in the province. And no, she doesn't find it difficult to be surrounded by all these men : they count her more or less a whore and she doesn't much care (and this'd be the main reason men of quality trapped in traditional societies limit their interactions with the other gender to whores only). In the end, they share a warm, friendly and affectionate fuck&talk of which obviously the fuck part gets cut. For shame.
Then she pays the bills of her best friend's dinners en tete a tete, with her husband. And she finds out that said friend, who'd sometimes go into her bed with her, who was engaged to some sort of local militant geek, did her husband and another woman, and sniffed ether with him, and even was admitted in his office in their house, a place she never set foot in. And even took him in, on the very sofa. And there was much rejoicing.
The crafty use of Chekhov's rule is a good idea poorly implemented, and in general the film will have to be redone before it's worth seeing. It needs a better lead (maybe a changeling like Julie Andrews, maybe a voluptuous whore trapped in a luscious body busting at the seams like Angelina Jolieiii and it needs to be correctly cut, because this titless bullshit makes a mockery of the entire thing. Cunts and cocks, semen and sweat are unavoidably required by the subject matter.
Who's going to properly make this ?———
- Aka Wifemistress, 1977, by Marco Vicario, with Laura Antonelli, Marcello Mastroianni, Leonard Mann. [↩]
- "I thought you jerks could give me the werks and make me sizzle and drool
But I guess I must go to the land of snow to find a man with a tool.
I'm going forth to the frozen North where the peckers are hard and strong,
Back to the land of the frozen stand where the nights are six months long.
Where 'tis hard as tin when they put it in, oh! that land where spunk is spunk.
Not a trickling stream of lukewarm cream, but a solid, frozen chunk." [↩]
- At any rate the woodfaced Antonelli is useless. I get that she has nice tits, but it's moot since she's not using them. [↩]