The Exterminating Angels

No less an authority than the New York Times described director Jean-Claude Brisseau's The Exterminating Angels as "a cerebral skin flick." Je suis desolee, mes amis, mais je croix que non (sorry, friends, but I think not): despite its arty pretensions, this is little more than soft-core pornography—good porn, but porn nonetheless—with subtitles. Frédéric van den Driessche stars as François, a married, middle-aged filmmaker exploring feminine sensuality, particularly of the actresses he recruits for his latest project. Numerous "screen tests" ensue (all involving gorgeous young ladies pleasuring themselves and/or a female partner or two), during which Francois stands by, filming and watching but never taking part. The filmmaker comes to represent many things to the girls—confessor, father figure, shrink, (unrequited) love interest—and regardless of repeated warnings delivered by his wife and dead grandmother (in visions) that he's kick-starting what granny calls an "infernal machine" (not to mention ruining his marriage), Francois carries on, insisting that he merely wants to understand why sex is so often accompanied by violence and hypocrisy, or something like that. And then there's the looming presence of the titular angels, a couple of severe metrosexual types clad in black leotards who are hastening the terminally clueless filmmaker down his path to doom. (There are also intermittent utterings by a disembodied voice offering profundities like "The blood of airports can no longer bear the show flooding the blue grass." Uh, OK.) Are the girls simply manipulating Francois, and vice versa? Is he an artist, or merely a voyeur? Is it possible to "study" sex without being—in some form—a participant? Valid questions, but let's face it: it's the sex, which is explicit but not graphic, that will likely keep most folks watching this nicely-shot, well-acted, but ultimately rather hollow film. Optional. (S. Graham)