I personally found Mr. Schaeffer himself occasionally funny. Aside from that, we have this supposed "true love" thingamajig about a cab driver (or is he?) with a fetish for makeup-slathered brittly-coiffed stick figures. So, it's basically: empty poetry, fake manufactured poignancy, kinky sex (yeah right, ooh! shocking!), and we get to hear a supermodel whine about how "I don't know what I want" (boo hoo!) for an hour and a half.
I also found the main character's two girl friends incredibly hollow and grating. On one hand we have the "mother", who worries that "she's gonna break your heart", ... but only for a scene or two, 'cause she meets the lust object and all of a sudden they're sisters or something. And on the other hand we have the "feminist-representer", oh she is so rich (straight long hair done up just-so, and the ever-present I'm-a-smart-gal spectacles). The model tickles her ego, declaiming the "relevance" of her pretentious non-sequitorish little play (what a way to enter the priesthood, eh?), and now we have a thumbs-up from this quarter. All bases covered. Schaeffer's obsession is given the nod from all of womanity, then we trudge on through the rest of the film's inanity. Hey, that rhymed! Maybe I should go write direct and star in a film about my own adolescent philosophy-d'amour, and fill it with reams (no pun intended) of my airy polished-turds/love-sonnets! Holy lord, I wish my ego was worth so much money ...
I don't know *who* this movie is for. Maybe those lost forlorn souls who have finally realized they shall never ever partake of that airbrushed lovely on the cover of [insert favorite glossy surgery-fest here]. Or maybe supermodels who want to reinforce their delusions of humanity. ("Hurt me, do I not weep? Pay me in cash, do I not pout and preen and smoke cigarettes?")
Or maybe it's just for Eric Schaeffer, auteur, tortured lover, poet extraordinaire.
I also found the main character's two girl friends incredibly hollow and grating. On one hand we have the "mother", who worries that "she's gonna break your heart", ... but only for a scene or two, 'cause she meets the lust object and all of a sudden they're sisters or something. And on the other hand we have the "feminist-representer", oh she is so rich (straight long hair done up just-so, and the ever-present I'm-a-smart-gal spectacles). The model tickles her ego, declaiming the "relevance" of her pretentious non-sequitorish little play (what a way to enter the priesthood, eh?), and now we have a thumbs-up from this quarter. All bases covered. Schaeffer's obsession is given the nod from all of womanity, then we trudge on through the rest of the film's inanity. Hey, that rhymed! Maybe I should go write direct and star in a film about my own adolescent philosophy-d'amour, and fill it with reams (no pun intended) of my airy polished-turds/love-sonnets! Holy lord, I wish my ego was worth so much money ...
I don't know *who* this movie is for. Maybe those lost forlorn souls who have finally realized they shall never ever partake of that airbrushed lovely on the cover of [insert favorite glossy surgery-fest here]. Or maybe supermodels who want to reinforce their delusions of humanity. ("Hurt me, do I not weep? Pay me in cash, do I not pout and preen and smoke cigarettes?")
Or maybe it's just for Eric Schaeffer, auteur, tortured lover, poet extraordinaire.