Where do babies come from? The stork brings them, they grow on a tree, they are sent by the Good Lord, by a faraway relative. But take a closer look at the faces of these kids: they do not even try to give the impression that they believe what they say. […] The stork is a way to make fun of the ‘grown-ups’, a way of paying them back in their own counterfeit money. It is the ironic, impatient sign that the questioning will go no further, that the adults are prying, that they shall not join the game, and that the child will keep the ‘real story’ for himself. That’s how Pasolini’s film begins. Enquête sur la sexualité (An Inquiry into Sexuality) is a very strange way of translating the Italian Comizi d’amore: a meeting, a convention or perhaps a forum on love. It is the age-old game of the ‘Symposium’, but outdoors, on the beaches and bridges, on street corners with children playing ball, young boys hanging around, bored girls in bathing suits, clusters of prostitutes on sidewalks, and workers after hours. […] These are street conversations about love. After all, the street is the most spontaneous form of Mediterranean conviviality. Pasolini, as if in passing, holds out his mic to a group of people strolling or basking in the sun; off-camera, he throws out a question about ‘love’, that vague area where sex, the couple, pleasure, the family, betrothal and its customs, prostitution and its rates, all intersect. Someone makes up his mind, answers with some hesitation, gets up his nerve again, speaks for the others; they draw nearer, give their approval or grumble, arms on shoulders, face against face. Laughter, tenderness, some feverishness passes quickly between those bodies huddled together, or touching each other. And they speak of themselves with a reserve and a distance inversely proportionate to the warmth and closeness of their contact. The ‘adults’ stand next to each other and make speeches, the ‘young’ talk briefly and take each other’s arms. Pasolini, the interviewer, fades out; Pasolini, the director, watches with both ears. This document cannot be appreciated if one is more interested in what is said than in the mystery that isn’t told.

Michel Foucault, Les Matins gris de la tolérance, “Le Monde”, 23 March 1977; tr. Eng by Danielle Kormos, “Stanford Italian Review”, vol. II, n. 2, Autumn 1982