Sinema

"Sinema" is the kiss-off film of interloper pornographer Philip Mond who mixes equal parts artistic aspirations with John Derek-styled showcasing of his lady, Gina Mond. Just as her fake tits have seriously gone out of style in the decade since this was shot, La Gina quickly wears out her welcome by appearing constantly on screen during this tedious exercise in artiness.

Coincidentally I was also watching for the first time (as part of my survey of turn of this century porn) Nic Andrews' "Confessions", another feature that like all of Mond's work falls into the dreamy/abstract/perfectionist wing of Adult Cinema. This type of film has morphed into the mindless gonzo of many a current overrated director, like Mason or Greg Lansky, but minus the many takes care to craft a work of art.

Both Andrews and Mond were given their early retirement papers a decade ago, probably because there is no place anymore for these sorts of experiments. In Mond's case, his early Zazel was much better-realized and has achieved an enduring popularity, while Insexts (also starring Gina) is merely screwy.

Six overlong vignettes present us with Gina in different costumes and styles (which she personally devised) and a dizzying array of different hairdos and lengths which I found quite distracting rather than elevating. Her big boobs are always front and center, as unnatural looking as can be. Obviously, superstars like Lisa Ann can get away with that for a lengthy career but they are the exception nowadays when young aspiring porn actresses would do well to model themselves after Riley Reid or Piper Perri (today's most popular femmes in XXX) and not go under the knife.

Her fetish gear and other get-ups are intriguing and director Mond delivers some very beautiful (at times) color schemes ranging from rich Technicolor level pastels to a striking black & white (plus Gina's pink lipstick and tongue as only color) effect. Whether Gina's being gang-banged by bikers, in lesbian clinches with underutilized guest stars Chloe Dior and Nadia, or in a romantic clinch on a piano bench, she projects a snarly, "I'm prettier and better than you" persona that is unappealing. Though she can't seem to keep her fingers out of her vagina for more than a moment, she still seems unattainable as an ice queen.

The oft-voiced criticism of these exercises is manifestly present here - shooting MOS with no sound provided, just strong music tracks. As with Andrews, Ninn and others who toiled in this genre, I admire their hard work and serious approach to cinema, but am afraid that dispensing of narrative results in porn emulating (or devolving toward, take your pick) music videos.