According to the proprietor of the underground gay bar in this little miracle of a picture, Lolita has just "finished in Paris". Perhaps Paris has just finished with her (him). She looks more like a truck driver than a dragster, even for the Ru Paul stable.
While the movie doesn't display much of Harlan's originality or the mise-en-scène more apparent in his wartime domestic Agfacolor melodramas like Opfergang, he does end this sequence with a long lap dissolve from Lolita's chiaroscuro-ed face to a pretty wild expressionist arts soirée at seducer-of-youth, Dr Boris Winkler's (below) salon where we're treated to the cinema's first demo of musique concrète, verse libre poetry readings, some very bad abstract art, and a couple of Hamburg rentboys in sateen underpants doing Greco-Roman wrestling.
Essential cinephilia.
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