American Fable is ambitious, maybe too much so sometimes, but there's an intense pleasure in the boldness of the film's style.
Let me, Emmanuelle, teach you the secret joys of love. I will show you how to live for pleasure... let me take you to a new world...
And on and on. Emmanuelle was a pristine innocent at the beginning of her first film, but the kid was a quick study, all right, and now here she is in the sequel as a sort of combination sex therapist and hidden garden of desires. She's married now, but that hasn't slowed her down; if her husband explains once, he explains a dozen times that Emmanuelle's life is her own to lead, and that he doesn't possess her (more than about twice a day).
The two of them live in Hong Kong now, in a vast mansion filled with potted palms and slowly revolving fans and white wicker furniture and servants who assist them in and out of states of undress. Life is pleasant. Emmanuelle's husband has no apparent line of work, although he maintains a little office at home - primarily, I suspect, because one scene requires a desk for Emmanuelle to crawl under. Such are the demands of sexual liberation.
One day a young aviator comes to call. He was just flying through, you see, on his way to Australia, when he developed a little engine trouble. He sleeps with his propellor. During waking hours, he polishes the propellor while sitting on the lawn. We wait for two hours to discover what additional purposes the propellor will be put to, but we never learn; some secrets are not to be revealed. The aviator gets the guest room.