By Desson Howe
Washington Post Staff Writer



Set on the eve of the French Revolution, "Marquis" is unbridled bestiality in wig and powder. Imagine Jim Henson's Muppets or the cast of "Animal Farm" whipped into a lewd frenzy by David Cronenberg and you'll have some idea about this French movie.

Based on the writings of the Marquis de Sade, this bawdy, one-of-a-kind production features human bodies in puppet-like animal heads, experiencing various throes of sexual, moral and political decadence in and around the famous Bastille prison.

Bert and Ernie would be traumatized for life.

The "story" is centered on the Marquis of the title, a dog-headed personality who -- in the sleazy context of this movie -- turns out to be the most moral of the bunch. Imprisoned apparently for defecating on a cross, he spends his days writing, evading his lascivious rodent-like jailer Ambert and, uh, talking to his sexual organ. The latter turns out to be a rather friendly, chatty being by the name of Colin.

The Marquis is surrounded by bipedal animals ranging from pigs to cows to camels. Justine, a bovine little number, was raped by the king. She has been imprisoned with the hope that the Marquis will further dishonor her, thus indemnifying the lusty monarch.

There's horse-headed Juliette, a mistress of the rooster-governor, who is working behind the scenes to free the prisoners. There's a pigheaded fellow called Pigonou, who's a pork trafficker and who will, if you insist, slice you a piece of hogmeat from his own leg.

As for the activities in this movie, readers of de Sade will need no further explanation. Just about every taboo gets its due here, from masturbation to fellatio to necrophilia. The thing that distinguishes "Marquis" from straight-out pornography is its wicked, satirical agenda. There is some kind of story and commentary going on, involving society's hypocrisies and, well, the French revolution.

It is intriguing to experience this alternate universe, a world of animalistic craziness created by director Henri Xhonneux and graphic (literally) artist Roland Topor. But there is no towering, transcendent quality to the movie. For the most part, despite that satire, it's a whimsical, one-dimensional titillation of the senses. But it does have its amusing elements. At the end, for instance, when the prison doors are opened, look for Colin to make a clean break.

MARQUIS (Unrated) -- In French with subtitles.

If Benoit Delepine and Gustave Kervern's take-notice debut "Aaltra" was cinema of the absurd, their sporadically exhilarating "Avida" heads toward the heights of experimental theater. Somewhere between Monty Python, Jacques Tati and a slideshow of New Yorker cartoons, this critique of life's cruel inconsistency confirms the French co-directors' gift for reinterpreting surrealism in a humorously modern key. Though their often disgusting imagery may alienate the squeamish and send fans of conventional comedy running for the exit, pic's very wildness could earn it a cult following via festivals and maybe attract younger audiences.

Granted, there are some serious longeurs and the sketches are not all equally funny, but enough top-drawer material is packed in the opening half to wring a laugh from almost anyone.

Animals appear in number, and their mistreatment ties in to various abominations to humans via a quote from Chief Seattle: "Whatever happens to animals will soon happen to man." To illustrate the thesis, film opens with a dwarf picador sticking lances into the neck of a rhino lumbering across the lawn, then committing suicide.

Next, a wealthy man (deadpan cameo by screenwriter Jean-Claude Carriere) seals himself into his fully automated home, surrounded by high walls and pit bulls, only to fall victim to the most dangerous person around: himself.

His deaf mute dog handler (played by the hairy Kervern) ends up working in a private zoo-cum-restaurant, where a rich gourmet (hilariously limned by director Claude Lelouch) weighs the merits of ordering roebuck or ostrich.

A plot of sorts develops when Kervern is drawn into a dog-napping by two ketamine-addicted zoo-keepers (Delepine and Eric Martin). The scheme fails, and instead they are forced to help the pooch's obese millionaire owner Avida (Velvet) carry out her death wish.

From here on out, the story turns a teeny bit flat and gradually tapers off, until the final shot (the only one in color) hits the spot again. The directors seem to have amused themselves casting and acting in the film. Kervern brings an animal dignity to his slave-like character, while mad hatter Delepine enjoys deforming his face with the futile application of scotch tape.

A good portion of the cast seems to have physical abnormalities. Velvet, the actress who plays Avida, is a half-dressed Venus of Willendorf so obese she can barely walk, like the physical image of her over-consuming class.

Even more than in "Aaltra," camerawork plays a key role in creating a surreal parallel universe. Hugues Poulain's amusing, carefully composed black-and-white cinematography takes animals, buildings, and people grotesquely out of context for shock effect. Shots are full of off-handed literary and artistic references, and are a good joke if you catch them.