I should say right away that I checked the spoilers box only because I'm giving this comment the amount of thought proportional to what this mess of a movie deserves, and don't want to be held responsible for some plot point incidentally slipping out.
This comment will take the form of a tirade for the simple reason that I am still under the influence of this movie, having just watched it, and the unique effect this has renders one incapable of the sort of forethought and paragraph structure required for coherent, reasoned criticism. That is not a compliment. It isn't the narcotic effect of a truly hypnotic or thought provoking movie. The feelings it stirs up combine like some uncomfortable emotional Voltron, composed of a confusing mix of some form of rage, the vague desire to take a shower, the rudderless, sinking feeling of true betrayal one gets when they realize they have given 109 minutes of their lives into the hands of someone who would not only squander it, but do so in such a pompous, artless way. And I probably wouldn't have done anything super productive with that 109 minutes anyway! But even if I'd spent it on something trivial, like a power block of masturbation and online poker, I would have felt more fulfilled when all was said and done.
The problems with this movie are myriad, and in better times I'd articulate exactly what they were in a semi-adult fashion. But in keeping with what this movie deserves, I think I'll most likely stick to the realm of masturbation jokes and cartoon references.
The most irritating and terminal flaw is that while watching this movie one is keenly aware that the makers and participants think they are making a much smarter movie than they are. Demonstrating the depth of knowledge one could pick up in a one semester survey of Western art history at a community college or trade school, the art-jargon is piled on thick and from all directions, with much of it supplied by talk between our hero, the tortured detective Stan (Willem Dafoe, who I will forgive for this movie due to him being Willem Dafoe) and his accented antique dealer buddy Blair (Peter Stormare, taking a break from playing a sociopath for whom murder comes easy by playing a 2-dimensional plot device in a movie about a sociopath for whom murder comes easy). And talk they do. In fact, we are dropped into this story at a crime scene that may indicate the reemergence of a serial killer Stan thinks he killed years earlier, so all the back story is established partially through unclear flashback, but primarily through stilted conversations between Stan and his dealer, or Stan and his colleague, the unforgivably irritating Carl (Scott Speedman). And although I differentiate the character Carl (Scott Speedman) from the actor who plays him by using parentheses, I must admit that very early on in the film I despised this character so much that I actually found myself sincerely wishing harm on the actor portraying him (Scott Speedman). Not anything too fancy. Not death or paralysis, necessarily.. But maybe herpes? Or maybe a stage light could fall on him and crush his arm? This is a dangerous digression, but I'm not editing it out because I want to leave anyone reading this who's thinking about paying to see this train wreck of a movie with a clear impression of the horrible wishes and feelings it stirs in even the most peaceful man.
Well, I'm sort of running out of steam here.. over the course of writing this the sick feelings this movie brought up in a me have subsided, my head has cleared a bit. Realizing now that I'm still investing time in something related to this piece of sh!t is startlingly similar to waking up after a night of suicidally heavy drinking next to the heaving form of a still slumbering 200 pound college girl. Your first urge is a desperate desire to flee. This is natural.
This comment will take the form of a tirade for the simple reason that I am still under the influence of this movie, having just watched it, and the unique effect this has renders one incapable of the sort of forethought and paragraph structure required for coherent, reasoned criticism. That is not a compliment. It isn't the narcotic effect of a truly hypnotic or thought provoking movie. The feelings it stirs up combine like some uncomfortable emotional Voltron, composed of a confusing mix of some form of rage, the vague desire to take a shower, the rudderless, sinking feeling of true betrayal one gets when they realize they have given 109 minutes of their lives into the hands of someone who would not only squander it, but do so in such a pompous, artless way. And I probably wouldn't have done anything super productive with that 109 minutes anyway! But even if I'd spent it on something trivial, like a power block of masturbation and online poker, I would have felt more fulfilled when all was said and done.
The problems with this movie are myriad, and in better times I'd articulate exactly what they were in a semi-adult fashion. But in keeping with what this movie deserves, I think I'll most likely stick to the realm of masturbation jokes and cartoon references.
The most irritating and terminal flaw is that while watching this movie one is keenly aware that the makers and participants think they are making a much smarter movie than they are. Demonstrating the depth of knowledge one could pick up in a one semester survey of Western art history at a community college or trade school, the art-jargon is piled on thick and from all directions, with much of it supplied by talk between our hero, the tortured detective Stan (Willem Dafoe, who I will forgive for this movie due to him being Willem Dafoe) and his accented antique dealer buddy Blair (Peter Stormare, taking a break from playing a sociopath for whom murder comes easy by playing a 2-dimensional plot device in a movie about a sociopath for whom murder comes easy). And talk they do. In fact, we are dropped into this story at a crime scene that may indicate the reemergence of a serial killer Stan thinks he killed years earlier, so all the back story is established partially through unclear flashback, but primarily through stilted conversations between Stan and his dealer, or Stan and his colleague, the unforgivably irritating Carl (Scott Speedman). And although I differentiate the character Carl (Scott Speedman) from the actor who plays him by using parentheses, I must admit that very early on in the film I despised this character so much that I actually found myself sincerely wishing harm on the actor portraying him (Scott Speedman). Not anything too fancy. Not death or paralysis, necessarily.. But maybe herpes? Or maybe a stage light could fall on him and crush his arm? This is a dangerous digression, but I'm not editing it out because I want to leave anyone reading this who's thinking about paying to see this train wreck of a movie with a clear impression of the horrible wishes and feelings it stirs in even the most peaceful man.
Well, I'm sort of running out of steam here.. over the course of writing this the sick feelings this movie brought up in a me have subsided, my head has cleared a bit. Realizing now that I'm still investing time in something related to this piece of sh!t is startlingly similar to waking up after a night of suicidally heavy drinking next to the heaving form of a still slumbering 200 pound college girl. Your first urge is a desperate desire to flee. This is natural.
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