A memory film that is quite forgettable. Untalented American writer living the ultimate petty-bourgeois life in Paris, and who thinks he's Hemingway, falls in love at first sight with a young French woman while riding on a bus.He gives her his ticket and leaves the bus. He then looks all over for her--I thought writers write?-- and finally finds her waiting tables in a restaurant. He takes her to dinner. They fall in love. They make love. Then they begin to have kinky sex. Then she becomes a dominatrix and he becomes her willing slave. They dabble in fantasy/bestiality via a pig mask. The untalented writer begins to lose interest in her. Now he becomes a sadist and she becomes a martyred masochist. He tells her he's carrying his child. She aborts the pregnancy. He tells her lets go someplace far away. They get on a plane bound fro Martinique. He leaves the plane before it takes off and he abandons her. He then begins to live the life of a playboy--maybe if he had to work for a living he'd be a better writer--and "makes up for lost time." He is hit by a car. Then he is visited in the hospital by his former whipping post, she knocks him out of bed and he becomes paralyzed from the waist down. Now she becomes his sadist/nurse/wife and he becomes a martry. I'd go on but I think I'm making my point.<br /><br />Prententious garbage. Not a comedy, not a drama, not black comedy, certainly not tragedy, not parody. Just an insult to any intelligent movie goer. And by by the end of the film, Peter Coyote began to resemble Wyle E. Coyote.