into a bizarre Freudian fever-dream of Tarzan fighting to subdue his own enraged phallus. As in the 1932 version, Jane
observes Tarzan in his natural habitat and her inhibitions gradu- ally break down. They swim to- gether with eyes locked while Bo girlishly bites her nails, nibbles a banana and squeaks inanely, “You’re like a statue in a mu- seum—but you’re real!” and “You’re more beautiful than any girl I know!” O’Keefe takes no insult because his eyes are just as vacuous as his leading lady’s; he’s a silent slab of beefcake that makes Johnny Weissmuller’s grunting ape-man seem intellec- tual in comparison. Perhaps the most offensive aspect of this film is that it’s all just a big tease, build- ing up to a soft-core sex scene that never happens. Just as Tarzan is reaching for the goods, a gunshot startles Jane out of her reverie. The second act closes in the
old MGM tradition as a hostile tribe abducts everyone but Tarzan, only these natives are painted to disguise the fact that
most of them are Caucasian, and all of them have a drugged-out look reminiscent of Colonel Kurtz’ children from APOCA- LYPSE NOW (1979). Blonde Jane is taken for a “goddess,” stripped naked and painted white (Mr. Derek must have seen MOUNTAIN OF THE CANNNIBAL GOD, in which his ex-wife Ursula Andress underwent the same treatment), before Parker is im- paled on an elephant’s tusk and Tarzan swings by to battle the natives’ resident bodybuilder (Leonard Bailey), a disappoint- ing replacement of the 1932 version’s giant gorilla. The action is treated with the same slow- motion effect as the snake fight, resembling homoerotic wrestling more than a life-and-death struggle. Harris’ death-swoon is one of the longest in cinema his- tory, and there’s a more resound- ing echo of that father-daughter sexual frisson from the 1932 original as a nude Jane bends over Parker and kisses him goodbye on the mouth. It all wraps up with a topless Bo lolling
around with O’Keefe and an or- angutan as the end credits roll—it’s the only end credits this writer recalls where the entire audience (exclusively male, of course) remained seated all the way to the end. To those who care, Warner’s
DVD presentation of this most dubious title is immaculate. The anamorphic image, letterboxed to a ratio of 1.78:1, exhibits strong colors (the greens of the jungle are beautifully saturating without smearing) and resolution holds up extraordinarily well on a large-screen monitor. Espe- cially worth noting is the remixed Dolby-Digital 5.1 track which surrounds the listener with envi- ronmental sounds and cleanly replicates the percussion in Perry Botkin’s sickeningly efflorescent score. A Bo Derek commentary might have been interesting, but the only extra Warner could drum up is the theatrical trailer, which plays up exactly what you might guess: “The most exotic woman of our time in the most erotic adventure of all time!”
Painted MOUNTAIN OF THE CANNIBAL GOD-style, Bo Derek visits dying father Richard Harris.
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