Hollywood has long been skillful in turning good books into bad movies, but Is Paris Burning is an unfortunate perversion of that well-worn theme--it takes a pretentious chunk of bad journalism and turns it into an even worse film. One is nearly awestruck at the achievement, which is perfectly fine since the only other reactions the film could possibly produce are boredom and fury at having paid the whopping three dollar admission. Paris is so interminably long, so badly acted, so deliciously incoherent that it could very well be the flop of the year, nay, the decade.

All of which is rather sad considering the ever-popular material inherent in the story: World War II, Paris, a good-guy Nazi (and quite a few bad-guy Nazis), underground intrigues, and a triumphant deliverance. Hitler has ordered Paris destroyed if it cannot be held--the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, all of it. Even disciplined portly General von Choltitz (Gert Forbe) balks at the task. Finally (because he comes to the conclusion that Hitler is mad) he betrays the city to the Allies and it's all over but the shouting. Producer Ray Stark could have made a documentary or he could have made a movie about von Choltitz's moral dilemma (uninteresting though it may be). Instead he has attempted to place every page of the book in Gallic animation--a feat awesome in itself since every page is as boring as the next. But he has indeed been faithful to it.

The acting is a monument to awkwardness. Only Jean Paul Belmondo seems to see the ludicrous futility in it all--he looks as if he were going to wink at any moment. Leslie Caron perfects her crying technique, the one where she ever so emotionally quivers her upper lip over those embarrassing buck teeth and turns bravely liquid. Alain Delon's limp wrist isn't quite that of an underground leader and Kirk Douglas's General Patton is something to behold. About the only activity for the audience (aside from falling asleep) is identifying the innumerable faces that appear in cameo roles throughout the film, but perhaps most sterling of these is Anthony Perkins as an American soldier (no kidding). Poor Mr. Perkins dreamed of seeing Paris (he nearly has an orgasm when he sights the Eiffel Tower) and just as his eyes water in the Left Bank red-checkered table cloth bistro--right, a sniper. In fact, the only believable role is that of Adolf Hitler, simply because one is prepared to believe anything about him.

To add a little authenticity, there are occasional film clips from a 1944 cameraman who was infinitely more skillful than the one used last year. The clips serve to point out how much wiser it would have been to make Paris in documentary form--for television. The soundtrack is perhaps second only to Muzak in its exasperating qualities. There is, in short, absolutely nothing favorable one can say about this movie except that it is, in its own way, monumental. It goes beyond (or below) mediocrity to achieve a really first-rate bad movie status; in fact it probably will become the classic example to future generations. There is, one supposes, some value in this. But at any rate don't buy the glossy expensive Is Paris Burning souvenir booklet sold during intermission. You couldn't forget this film if you tried--and you will try.