I Loathe Paris

Paris Secret, a cheap "documentary" peep show of sadism, sex and morbidity is billed as "the Paris no tourist has ever seen." It lingers unashamedly on banal hokum, such as the backroom rituals of what purport to be secret cults of egg worshipers and navel contemplators, a tedious chase through a midnight forest in which men in evening clothes run after girls dressed as birds, and a street photographer who offers to take pictures of Negroes kissing his blonde wife. Among the sequences: > A widow visits a factory that makes show-window mannequins, arranges to have her deceased husband meticulously copied in plastic down to the last blemish. The finished product, dressed in one of his suits, is cozily installed on the living-room sofa at home.

> A tattoo artist is tattooing a picture of the Eiffel Tower on a blonde's behind. The girl, says the narrator, is a student who is helping to pay her tuition with the money that she will get for the picture. How can she sell it? The next scene shows a doctor carving the Eiffel Tower off the girl--and with it her skin, which he proceeds to stretch and preserve. Collectors pay steep prices for such specimens, remarks the commentator coolly, while the camera eyes a collection of framed dragons, mermaids, girls' names, and similar skin art.

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