For a tongue-in-cheek and slyly insightful look at the conflict between innocence and desire, curiosity and taboo, bad taste and kitsch genius, I’d recommend Anna Biller’s Viva.
Viva (2008)
Runtime: 2 hrs
Saturated to the hilt with vibrant color and exquisite period detail, and full of the kind of innocent nude romps you see before censorship codes lifted, VIVA looks like a lost film from the late '60's, and is a tribute to the best of exploitation cinema, from Herschell Gordon Lewis’ Suburban Roulette to Radley Metzger’s Camille 2000. --© Official Site [Less]
Genre: Comedies
Starring: Anna Biller, Jared Sanford, Bridget Brno, Chad England, Marcus DeAnda
Reviews
The movie pops with parodic joy--in the hoary double-entendres and presentational acting styles--and hotly lighted 35-millimeter cinematography that evokes lounge music album covers and Playboy ads.
Viva the film is as sly and knowing as Viva the character is endearingly oblivious.
This film is such an outrageously colourful homage to 1970s sexploitation cinema that it's impossible not to enjoy, even with the over-the-top performances and rambling narrative.
The campy early '70s is the goofy gift that keeps on giving in Viva, a mock soft-core sexploitation film that gets a lot right but forgets that less is often more, especially in plaid.
A startlingly pitch-perfect reproduction of the kind of gauzy sex movies from the 1960s and early 1970s that preceded the hard-core revolution.
Completely devoid of cinematic wit, sensuality or even simple technique.
The nastiest transgression committed by this anything-goes romp is its length.
Biller's film is to the films of Radley Metzger and Russ Meyer what Todd Haynes's Far From Heaven was to Douglas Sirk, only perhaps a little bit cannier and a lot less dryly academic about its postmodern tweaks.
Anna Biller's debut feature Viva consciously combines elements of all of the above, offering a painstaking recreation of the look and feel of campy retro sexploitation.
Anna Biller’s pseudofeminist send-up of the sexploitation movies of the late ’60s and early ’70s remains as limp as the flaccid dongs at her film’s nudist sing-along.
What's best about the production is how it faithfully conforms to the sensibilities of the Sixties' skin flick genre, except perhaps for adding an anachronistic dash of refreshing female empowerment to the mix.
For fans of the work of Charles Busch and other like-minded spoofs only.
Faithful to those cult-adored obscurities in nearly every detail, including their soporific pace. Here, however, sly in-jokes come often enough to make said pacing funny in itself.
Its triumph is that of style -- gloriously and revoltingly tacky style -- over substance.


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