Paris, France

In Paris the writer Lucy met the dangerous lover Minter, an epicurean who brought her along on a wild pleasure-trip. His charismatic presence inspired her writing, but when Minter died, her novel Paris, France died, too. Lucy fled into a conventional marriage and is now working in her husband's publishing house. When the bold, sexy poet Sloan enters Lucy's placid existence the journey back to Paris begins.

COMMENTARY
Bored in bed? Or do you feel a slight resistance when you sit down at your desk with your pen? Here is the film which may be able to show you the way about, with its ''leading actress'' Leslie Hope (Lucy) as the good example.
Lucy is really a writer. But these days she is mainly the wife of William the publisher. Lucy's writer's cramp is brutal and her booked readings pushes her towards hysterical breakdowns. But things haven't always been this way: there was a time in Paris, France (you know, where culture and history flourish). In Paris there was a man, a fallen angel, a devil called Minter who fucked masterpieces out of Lucy. His dominating vicinity made Lucy's pen run hot over the paper and her avant-garde novels piled up. But that was then, in the 70's. And Lucy only remembers this in fragmentary black and white images. Until William the husband is called upon by two colleagues; one of
them, the poet called Sloan, clearly reminds Lucy of Minter.
Gerard Ciccoritti is a popular director of TV-serials back home in Canada. It shows:
Paris, France is not particularly well-developed cinematically. On the other hand, this is a story which Ciccoritti would never be allowed to show on prime time TV.
The story of Paris, France makes its attractive pirouettes, but in the middle of all the bumping, grinding and sucking, Paris, France turns into a mildly surreal comedy. At the same time as Lucy is trying to become reunited with her creativity by provoking Sloan into sexual tricks that he never even dared to imagine, her husband William is going seriously nuts. He claims that John Lennon left a message on their answering machine and William claims that he will die within three days. In the end everybody is fucking everybody, to find that sparkle necessary to their survival - on their journey into the unknown, a sparkle which has sunk into the sludge of everyday existens. ':'
Susanna Edwards