Barbarella exists.
It exists deliberately.
In fact, a team of writers and producers and actors and perhaps even a director sat down and together - through multiple revisions and incarnations - created (if I may be so bold as to use that term) this space-age tale of chomping dolls and hairy ice men and special agent love babes.
Yes, indeed. There can be no question that Barbarella was a purposeful effort. And having accepted that almost inconceivable fact, we can move on . . .
If the horribleness of Jane Fonda wasn't enough to cause one to sink into cataclysmic despair, the presence of David Hemmings (of Blowup infamy) is enough to push this movie over the edge. Was this man incapable of reading a script? Or simply devoid of professional judgment? One ponders . . . and then comes to the most frightening realization that he was one of the highlights of this truly horrendous, tasteless snippet of celluloid.
A comprehensive summary: Rolling around in harvest gold shag carpeting inspires Jane Fonda to don plastic girdles and shag every guy in the galaxy. In the meantime, she discovers Duran Duran, fries a pleasure machine, helps an aerially-challenged angel discover his libido and saves the Great Tyrant in the face of liquid evil with her "bubble of innocence."
I have spoiled nothing. Honestly. The watchability of this movie is not in the plot. Nor the script. Nor the acting. Nor even the naked women and wanton depravity. Instead, the watchability of this film is based in the old adage that one must see it to believe it. In order for civilization to continue as we know it, we must be aware that cinematic train wrecks like Barbarella are possible. Only when we have identified the root of the problem may we work together for a cure.
Conclusion: See Barbarella once, if only to appreciate why Jane Fonda's career has been appropriately reduced to "One. Two. Just one more." Do not see it twice - even in private with the doors and windows barred - lest you lose the respect of eavesdropping dust mites.