Paris, France

In which the Canadian film industry assays a bold experiment: to discover if it can reasonably emulate the portentous erotic trips that Amurukuhns like Zalman King (Red Shoe Diaries) churn out so shamelessly. And what do you know? Not only is the sex a trifle hotter, but Paris, France goes where no Red Shoe would dare step (there's even a foray into — oh my gawd! — male homosexuality). The film's also a lot more pretentious, what with its dramatis personae of frustrated writers and a female object of desire whose pillow talk consists of such observations as ''(I was) trying to impose will and imagination on a sordid mistake.'' C