‘VIRUS’: AIDS AS ULTIMATE BAD JOKE

In “A Virus Respects No Morals” (screening Tuesday only at the Nuart) West Germany’s ever-outrageous, ever-challenging Rosa von Praunheim takes aim at the hypocrisy, ignorance, politics and economics surrounding the AIDS crisis. Leave it to Praunheim to treat AIDS as the ultimate bad joke in this savage, imaginative, scattershot Brecht-like allegory, set largely in a gay bath. (Note: “A Virus Respects No Morals” was shown last February at the Four Star in the L.A. International Gay & Lesbian Film/Video Festival.)

Ivory Coast film maker Desire Ecare’s leisurely, infectious “Faces of Women” (at the Nuart Wednesday and Thursday only) frames two humorous vignettes filmed over a decade apart with the sensual, ritualistic singing and dancing of a traditional street festival.

The first is set in a small tribal village, where a breathtakingly voluptuous (and therefore justifiably confident) young woman (Mahile Veronique) allows a lean, handsome but lazy young man (Sidiki Bakaba) to pursue her while his portly brother (Kouadio Brou) suspects him of playing around with his wife (Albertine N’Guessan). The pursuit concludes in some of the most scorchingly erotic yet tasteful love-making ever filmed, stopping just short of hard core (but lots more explicit than “9 1/2 Weeks”).

The second half of the film, set in Abidjan, centers on an ample, elegant middle-aged woman, Mme. Congas (Eugenie Cisse Roland), who has managed to establish a successful fish-curing business but can’t finance a small restaurant because her income is eaten up in supporting her large family. “Faces of Women” is strongly feminist in tone, especially in its second story. (Congas is such a male chauvinist he allows his wife to support him, yet hypocritically remarks, “Women and money don’t go together.”) Ecare has a way with actors, but he dissipates the spontaneity of his improvisational style with draggy pacing and discursive storytelling. “Faces of Women” is worthy and amusing but could use some creative editing. (213) 478-6379, 479-5269.

“El Dorado” (1967), which screens Thursday at 8 p.m. at UCLA Melnitz in the Paramount series, is a superb example of Howard Hawks’ seemingly casual style which, in its disarmingly comic way, allowed Hawks to explore his major theme, the serious matter of friendship.

Written by longtime Hawks collaborator Leigh Brackett, “El Dorado” gets funnier as its issues and predicaments grow grimmer. The entire plot turns upon the fact one rancher has hired gunmen to wrest water rights from another, which sets in motion a chain of obligations between old pals John Wayne and Robert Mitchum and their young sidekick, James Caan. Hawks persuaded his old friend cameraman Harold Rosson to come out of retirement to give “El Dorado” the rich autumnal hues of Remington paintings.

“El Dorado” is a pure entertainment on one level--and a modern morality play on another. Hawks’ “Red Line 7000” (1965), which is playing with “El Dorado,” takes off like a streak of lightning, zooms through a thicket of romantic entanglements and winds up a winner. Rapid, exciting entertainment results when some young stock car racers (led by James Caan and James Ward) compete on the track--and off. George Kirgo adapted Hawks’ own story for the screen. Modestly budgeted, “Red Line 7000” is a fine piece of economic, unpretentious film making by an acknowledged master. For the full Paramount schedule at UCLA call (213) 825-2581; for Paramount films screening at the County Museum of Art this week, call (213) 857-6031, 857-6010.

If you missed Mitchell Leisen’s “Midnight” (1939) when it was shown last Friday at the museum, you have another chance when it screens Saturday at the New Beverly Cinema along with Howard Hawks’ “Ball of Fire” (1941). Written by Billy Wilder and Charles Brackett from a story by Edwin Justus Mayer and Franz Schulz, it is the epitome of sophisticated ‘30s comedy, and it stars an enchanting Claudette Colbert as a Bronx chorine who arrives with only the gold lame gown on her back and 25 centimes in its matching purse. (213) 938-4038.