It's obvious watching Luna that Bernard Bertolucci has a visual gift. The movie's opening scenes are lyrical and arresting. Unfortunately, what follows is a ridiculous story about an opera singer (Clayburg) who tries to hold onto her 14-year-old junkie son by trying to have sex with him. Despite touches of humor and candor (like the scene where Clayburg visits her son's Muslim dealer), the overall effect made me sad for the actors, who took a great risk, I think, in agreeing to appear in this. By the time I reached the sappy, "magical" operatic finale, my finger was firmly pressed against the Fast-Forward button.
