Jane complains that it’s a man’s world (“We’re here for your plea- sure, not ours”), while her father declares, “I wallow in me... I en- joy every syllable that I say and every gesture I make”—an in- credible line because suddenly we’re unsure whether it’s the character’s rant or Harris three- sheets-to-the-wind. Hearing a distant cry (Weissmuller’s canned yodel), Parker and safari leader Harry Holt (Sinbad and Diabolik himself, John Philip Law) recount the legend of a great white ape supposedly 10 feet tall. “A great white man,” corrects Parker, “supposedly 100 feet tall” which gives his virginal daughter plenty to dream about. Anticipatory of Klaus Kinski’s


No, it’s not CHIPPENDALE’S THE MOVIE— it’s Miles O’Keefe adding his larynx to the lore of the jungle.


Weissmuller yodel, the first twenty-or-so minutes are unex- pectedly good, lulling one into a false sense of hope. After almost being raped by the crew of a chartered vessel, Jane Parker (Bo Derek) hitches rides on friend- lier native boats on her way up the Congo. Her destination: the camp of estranged explorer-fa- ther John Parker (Richard Har- ris) who shouts a lot and seems to have more than a few screws loose. In one of the film’s very few sublime moments, father sees grown daughter for the first time as a ghost-like image be- hind a hazed pane of glass, mo- mentarily mistaking Jane, whose form is obscured by reflections of sun-dazzled ripples of water, for her mother (it is Harris’ only quiet acting moment in what could be the most out-of-control performance ever delivered by a major star). Bo Derek may be physically closer to the blonde Jane that Burroughs described than the Titian-haired O’Sullivan,


64


but she lacks the intelligence and spunk of her predecessor. Bo is beguiling to look at, but once the dramaturgy kicks in over dinner, and the young woman reveals her grudge against Parker for abandoning her, the actress’ limi- tations are also laid bare. As for this John Parker, he


doesn’t grouse about how much he hates Africa like his 1932 equivalent did—as a matter of fact, he makes love to the Dark Continent on a regular basis, having taken a local for a wife and symbolically named her “Af- rica” (Akushula Selayah). Once we’re convinced Parker is indeed in love with “Africa” and not merely “screwing” her, it would appear the racist thread of the old Tarzan films has been finally eradicated... but appearances can be deceiving, for once the expedition gets underway, Mr. Derek switches the traditional male porters with topless black women for no reason other than to add more titillation. By night,


mad Fitzgerald of FITZCAR- RALDO (1982), Parker brings an unwieldy symbol of white man’s superiority—a cannon—into the jungle, which becomes an un- necessary burden to the party as they rope-climb the Mutia escarp- ment. It is here that the film falls apart, as it becomes painfully obvious that Mr. Derek—a still photographer—has no clue how to stage an action sequence. In- eptness turns to plain stupidity as the safari comes upon the ocean in the middle of Africa (!), for no good reason other than Bo Derek looks smashing when she’s running semi-nude down a beach (hey, it worked in 10— why not here?). In an anemic entrance, Tarzan (Miles O’Keefe) comes running out of the jungle to ogle her, looking more like a stray Chippendale’s dancer than the King of the Apes. Later, he saves Jane from a huge snake but the struggle is made slug- gish rather than exciting by post-production slow-mo, and Derek’s camera lingers on tight shots of O’Keefe’s limbs and the coiling trunk of the ser- pent until what started inno- cently enough transmogrifies


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