Is This Thing On?

In the history of cinema there are only two sequels that can be argued to have surpassed their originals in artistry, brilliance and mise en scene, the second Godfather and Shut Up and Blow Me 2. Each visit re-crystalizes its author’s vision; in Coppola’s case the émigré’s upward climb to cultural assimilation and in “Gusher” Mike’s, the addiction to semen as a metaphor for America’s addiction to foreign oil. Both of these films will reside in their respective pantheons garnering the highest accolades which can not be said of a little smoker I was recently introduced to with the punny moniker of “One Night In Paris” produced, directed, shot and cut by impresario and scumbag Rick Solomon. Coming late to the wild frontier of celebrity sex tapes, I had known of this film only in passing, but really was only aware of Miss Hilton’s work through the random and sudden out of context appearances of her hairless abyss.

When I screened “One Night In Paris” for the first time, very late at night along with a cup of cocoa and some wet naps I cadged from a local rib joint, I was initially taken back by the film’s lack of production value so murky was the lighting that for the first ten minutes I thought I was on assignment for National Geographic. However, once you get around the meager budget the real problem of the film surfaces, that is, the lack of anything resembling an erotic impulse. The action starts out harmlessly enough as Paris Hilton, an heiress to The Hilton fortune, cavorts in a hotel room with the aforementioned Rick Solomon while dressing for what looks like a night on the town. Mr. Solomon films Miss Hilton as she puts on make up and gooses the action with his unique brand of erotic smack, that to this observer sounded more like a ranch hand trying to wheedle a cow into branding stocks than a hot piece of ass into a game of Hide The Salami.

Nevertheless, Miss Hilton falls for his cheesy pleas and both end up on the bed, she worshipping at the corona of his nut sack while simultaneously preparing for a throat swab to be administered by Mr. Solomon himself. Both are naked at this juncture and this is where the film skids off the road in artistry, brilliance and mise en scene from both Godfather 2 and Shut and Blow Me 2. Miss Hilton can’t suck a cock to save her life. First, she addresses Mr. Solomon’s manhood with the expression of a golfer who after assessing his lie is racked with indecision that this is the right club. Miss Hilton gazes quizzically at Mr. Solomon’s monolith for a moment, which seems like eons to any guy in blowjob anticipatory mode, before finally realizing that she’s away. Only after taking hold of the vein-y tumescence do we comprehend the most salient point of this whole narrative, that this chick doesn’t have a lot of experience, as her technique is reminiscent of a bad comic’s on open mic night.

Is this thing on?

For an alleged siren, Miss Hilton sure takes her sweet old time before finally deciding to insert Mr. Solomon’s bowsprit into her mouth, as if the thought of gagging on his choad was beneath the station of her serendipitous existence. As a cocksucker Miss Hilton has the embouchure of a camper desperately trying to master the recorder before going home for the summer. She’s not sucking it, she’s playing it…and badly too. Paris can’t swing like the professional fellatrix’ in most adult films, women who growl like wild animals when another bitch tries to jump their claim.

Like so many women in the world, Paris’ style is dutiful, rendered in an almost chore-like fashion. And this is the point you invariably come away with even before the credits roll, women do it not because they want to, the thought of something warm, viscous and non descript going down their throats has about as much appeal as clipping the yellowing toenails on your mother’s arthritic feet, but because it is expected of them. All Paris Hilton really wanted to do was earn her merit badge.

It is only in porn that you see people so into it, so willing to boldly tongue every inch and crevice on the human body. Pornography feeds the fantasy of how we’d like our sex lives really to be, unencumbered, pure animal. Men want no emotional baggage to get in the way of an unsolicited rusty trombone. And even if this was unencumbered and pure animal in Miss Hilton’s mind that is not how the episode ended. Even she forgot about an impulse that’s even more volcanic than sex, the impulse to make a few bucks. Mr. Solomon sold her down the river by releasing the film. It wasn't enough just to screw Paris Hilton; he had to screw her financially too.