Whoa! It opens up with a chick stroking a dude's naked boner! And, judging from her giant bush (and the fact that the film is from France), she's gotta be French. Money shot within the first two minutes, but not once do they show a straight-up gash. There's a lot of fucking, some dick sucking, and I counted at least TWO very explicit money shots. But if it's porn you want, this movie kinda sucks.
Now that I've gotten the sophomoric stuff out of the way, Love (2015) was a surprising find. Its somewhat disjointed telling makes the film a little hard to engage at first, and the shadows of prior French and Italian film movements sometimes peek in to take quick curtseys, which is similarly distracting (the film keeps trying to tell you that it IS art and not just an uneven, sporadic porno). But if you manage to get past the shock of its overt sexuality, the film will take you on an introspective ride to the place it promises several scenes into its opening: the place where adolescent love dies.
At first, the film seems preoccupied with a degree of excess and self-indulgence (foreshadowed and constantly reminded by the poster for "Salò" on the film student protagonist's wall) as Murphy (the film student guy with the boner) and Electra (the French painter girlfriend) explore each other's affections. Murphy isn't your typical brash American heartthrob (he looks somewhat dweebish), and Electra is not a young Natassia Kinski (though she is attractive). They live together, hook up with a second girl -- Omi -- and then things get way too serious, fast. Not to fear: the film does not bog down in the serious stuff; it just lets you know it's there and then it puts you back on the bus to continue the tour around young excess and abandon. What becomes apparent as the film progresses is that the story and the film itself gain more structure as the story progresses, in reverse. If you went to college/university and fell crazy in love, this film tells that story. You were stupid, and it was fun. But, seriously, you were stupid.
Fun observations: The dialogue confirms what we've all suspected forever: French people speak English most of the time (I KNEW it!), even to each other (an interesting choice by director Gaspar Noé). It answers the question why college artists produce no art (because they are too busy trying to be art). And the scene where Electra tries to get Murphy involved with a Tranny is unintentionally hilarious. Again, this was you in college, and you were awkward, and stupid.
BUT WAS IT SEXY?
For all of the sex in this film, I didn't find it particularly appealing to my prurient tastes: I actually got into the story (about half-way through, albeit); that's right, it made me feel like I was actually reading Playboy for the articles (for you kids who grew up on the internet, Playboy was a sort-of nonmoving PornHub without real porn and with stuff to read as well). Don't get me wrong: the sex was unsimulated, filmed well and not even that awkward. But, like I said, it ain't no porno.
There's nothing earth-shaking here, but it is an oddly enjoyable telling of the way-station between youthful excess and adulthood and the permanence that results from even the casual decisions we make. The film apparently bombed at the box office, making back less than one-third of its $3 million budget, and very likely due to its sexual focus. But there IS a story here, and it is significant.