Ed. Note: This is the first in a series of recaps of films with lesbian or bisexual content.

I begin with an admission: I've seen Claire of the Moon about a dozen times. No, I wasn't the victim of some sort of lesbian version of A Clockwork Orange; rather, I very much enjoy laughing at this movie. And rolling my eyes at it. And quoting it. And shaking my head in disbelief. And — OK, you forced it out of me — at first I thought the dancing scene was kinda hot.

One other admission: I was 21 when this movie showed up in art houses. For a while there, it was all we had.

The characters — It's easiest to just give you a rundown up front:

Claire Jabrowski: The titular character. (And I think you know what I mean by titular.) Claire is a witty writer; think of her as a lesbian Carrie Bradshaw, but without the fashion sense or the foxy, red-headed lawyer friend.

Noel Benedict: The first Noel to catch Claire's eye. Or, um, the first Jane, Jill or Kathy, for that matter. Noel is a sex therapist.

Maggie: A boozing butch who owns a writers' retreat, as well as every room she saunters into. (Or at least she thinks she does.)

Tara O'Hara: A romance novelist with a molasses accent and a stay-thither stare.

Adrienne: A poet and a poseur.

Shiloh Starbright: The name says it all. I don't think we ever really know anything about her, except that she's a flake.

Lynn: The token clueless housewife.

B.J.: Maggie's significant other. (It was 1992. We said “significant other” all the time.)

Nicole Conn: The director. If you're wondering why I'm listing her as a character, you clearly haven't seen the movie.

Nicole Conn's mother: She's the one tickling the ivories on the soundtrack, and that makes her a star player.

The sea, the booze and the smokes: The true stars of the movie. We are treated to some lovely shots of the Pacific Ocean, but its pristine serenity is nearly undone by the constant imbibing and puffing it seems to inspire.

I think that's everyone, or at least everyone who matters. Roll 'em.

Thrust-o-rama — What is this we're seeing? Oh, golly, is that someone having sex? Could it be — do you think it's — oh, I hope it's — nah, never mind, this is just some average boring straight sex. I thought this was supposed to be a lesbian movie.

That's Claire on the floor, writhing under some golden-haired guy. But before we can make much sense of it, we fade to black and come right back again. (Get used to this kind of “transition.”)

Claire is lighting a cigarette, but not just any cigarette. She is elite, experienced, cultured, cosmopolitan: She smokes Gauloises. And she stares out the window. I'm a big advocate of window-staring, but I recommend doing it in a slightly less ostentatious manner.

Claire's also remembering the frolicking on the floor with Mr. Golden Hair Surprise. It seems to make her exhale more vehemently; it seems to spur her forth, to suggest a course of action. That's right: She's going to pick up an envelope, goddammit. The return address? Arcadia Writers' Retreat, Arcadia Beach, Ore.

Oh — mustn't forget the piano. It lilts, or perhaps lumbers, over everything. Because piano music and cigarettes? They signify introspection. This movie is nothing if not prefrenchious.

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