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There is an elaborate myth behind the story that Manuel Pradal has devised to display the talents of Ms. Giocante. Something about a blood sacrifice to the gods of the Riviera that persists down unto modern times... a flash of metal and we see a young boy swimming in the water get stabbed and on his face a look of incomprehension... oh, the exquisite transitory nature of existence...
On our faces, too, are looks of incomprehension at the end of the film. I'm not quite sure what happens, but in that sun-drenched way of the Mediterranean, little scenarios play out, one after the other, as we watch a gorgeous young girl, Marie, explore her freedom. There are local delinquents, American navy boys and finally, Orso, the little criminal whose blood is as hot as hers. They sneak away and... oh, well, whatever happens, we see Vahina Giocante's many moods and flirtatious come-hither virginity flit back and forth like a butterfly.
Years from now, in one of those coffee table books of screen sirens, people will stare at the title "Marie Baie des Anges" and wonder if it's available on video. Then they will rent it and the sections where she is most beautiful will be all scratchy from previous viewers running the tape back and forth at the hottest scenes.
It's not such a bad fate: to be known as Vahina's first film.
More than that you don't need to know even now.
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