way. Childishly inane and mimickednlasciviousness looks different through thentreacherous intermediary of the camera,nand finds its way to immature impulsesnand aspirations. Couched in the stunningnartistry of photographer Sven Nykvist—anvisual fiesta of lushness and depth, thenNew Orleans background flora renderednin the images of a latter-day DouaniernRousseau—it will have no difficulty innfinding aping followers who later in lifenwill have Mr. Malle to thank for conditioningntheir early reveries.nThe literary texture of the movie isnsurprisingly flat, plastic and glossy in ancheap way. No truth about time, place,nhuman condition is conveyed, no dramanor comedy can be sensed, no thrill ornsorrow, chagrin, or exhilarating giddiness,nis extracted from the tepid fingeringnof the sexual chores. The narrativensounds dismally hollow, perhaps becausenthe dramatics of whoredom are inseparablenfrom the sense of sin: if such ansense is lacking there’s’no drama in thenlot of a whore—hers is j ust a one-dimensionalnexperience, untouched by anynexistential alternative. For two millenianwe have known that whoredom can benredeemed, can even bring spiritual deliverance—andnthis is an old story by now.nWe also know that whoredom glamorized,nor presented as fun, even if it isnwrapped in smart-alecky, cool hipness,nsignals obtuse artificiality. Besides, ErnestnBellocq, a factual character, who at thenturn of the century photographed prostitutesnin New Orleans (as if enamored byntheir ill-shaped bodies and enigmaticnfacial expressions) was a midget, impotent,nand might be seen as Storyville’sn”Hunchback of Notre Dame.” In PrettynBaby, Keith Carradine transmogrifiesnhim into a character suitable for anHarper’s Bazaar promotion of Yves St.nLaurent campy apparel. Accordingly, hisnmotif in the tale has the literary value ofna Playboy magazine feature.nSo, what’s left is the story of Violet,non and off screen. In the first rendition,nher overwhelming beauty brings unnamednmalaises. Brooke Shields, a preteennactress who knows all and does allnfor money’s sake—and speaks about itn24inChronicles of Culturenquite cynically in interviews—breeds innus a feeling of tangible disgust in thenface of such awful waste. We might havenbeen aware, while watching little ShirleynTemple or the teenage Elizabeth Taylor,nthat their early exposed prettiness wasnpartly a distortion or abuse of characternand ego, but watching them neverninduced a feeling of corruptness or loss.nBrooke Shield’s triumphant loveliness,nthrown into a world where nothing teallynmatters, neither childhood’s integrity, nornhuman dignity, too easily mixes with ournrevulsion: dragging our acceptance ofnher beauty through the lower depths ofnhuman experience somehow soils us. Sondoes the recognition that the artist ornwriter feels no obligation to anythingnbut glamor, so striking in Mr. Malle’snendeavor. It’s common knowledge thatnanything, whether imbecility or filth, cannbe prettified with Vogue’s techniques,nfashioned into spurious refinement, and,nfinally, sold to cosmeticians and popularnmagazines, as objects of envy for namelessnmasses. New York Magazine wrotenthat Brooke Shields’ “redeeming” valuenlies in her power of “attracting attention.”nEven if such a judgment is meant asnirony, it is an invitation to mass approval,neven mass imitation. Countervailing thenlures of jaded exposure seems as unthinkablenthese days as a good word for Hitler.nBut skepticism about innocence is onenthing, and its exploitation another. Refinementnculled from cold speculationsnon what knowing too much too soonndebases a society even more than orgiesnin suburban split-levels. Sodom is morena readiness to pay for tickets than collectivencopulation.nAs in a glittering lens. Pretty Babynembodies what’s most repulsive and basenin today’s Liberal Culture —the cold,nheartless and, ultimately fatuous fascinationnwith the alleged supra-humannessnof the abominable. This movie servesnthe sophistication of the visual; bringingnout the superficial, the paltry, the banalnfrom the human soul and from life whilenpretending to subtlety and intellectualngratification. It reveals nothing aboutnhuman perspectives. It lacks any abilitynto give shape and color to human painsnnnand failures, to locate the unchangeablenhuman center, which is unidentifiablenother than through art and which hasnalways been the same.nIn this movie, a man blubbers and anwoman vomits. That is not to say that anman’s sobbing, or a woman’s throwingnup, are inadmissible components of andrama. As reactions to the complexitiesnof married life, however, they do notnconstitute much of a symbol. In thisnmovie, however, they are lifted to symbolnstatus.nAndrew Sarris, considered by many anwell-balanced New York film critic,ncalled An Unmarried Woman “the bestnAmerican movie I have seen in severalnyears.” It’s an opinion which says somethingnabout both Mr. Sarris and thenAmerican movies of the last several years.nI won’t pass judgment on Mr. Sarris’ taste,nbut if he meant that the American moviesnof the said period were rather rubbishy, Inwholeheartedly concur. Yet, why thisnmovie, which is about people who donnot use their mental equipment to processnthe empirical data of their own existence,ncan be considered as the best of them is anpuzzle.nThe idea of cause-and-effect and, consequently,nthe method of rational anticipation,nseem absent from the psychologicalnapparatus of Mazursky’s characters.nThe heroine, rather mature at 36,ndoes not presuppose, but discovers, thatna separation after 16 years of a rathernsuccessful marriage means loneliness.nNaturally, as the movie is strongly profeministnbut not necessarily pro-woman,nshe turns for help to a female psychoanalyst.nThe outpouring of platitudesndispensed by the latter immediately informsnus, in the audience, that the shrinknis a consummate idiot, and that hernassistance may prove lethal rather thannsalubrious. We nurse the hope that,nperhaps, this is a deft satire on the psychotherapeuticalnprofession, but this is notnthe case; neither the director/writer, nornthe protagonist (named Erica) seem tonnotice the analyst’s insipidity. Thus, then