One of those post-psychedelic burnout non-movies which emerged from the avant-garde independent cinema fringe in the early 70s. The hazy, Gordian narrative concerns three men obsessing over a dove-like and rather pasty-looking Sondra Locke, who has been cast as a female Christ figure for an indie film production. Chockablock with specious arty imagery and pseudo-spirituality, the most troubling thing about this movie is its smug air of self-importance. Truth is, this film is an oblique, audience-divorcing pipe-dream which struts embarrassingly through its duration with impudently splayed tailfeathers. Credit due, it does exhibit some bold editing technique and camerawork, and sets itself afloat with a lovely folk ballad by Leonard Cohen.
Honestly, I have never seen such a wide load of unharnessed grandiosity in all my life. I think it's safe to assume that median viewers will find themselves picking little fuzzballs off their sweaters withing fifteen minutes.
3/10
Honestly, I have never seen such a wide load of unharnessed grandiosity in all my life. I think it's safe to assume that median viewers will find themselves picking little fuzzballs off their sweaters withing fifteen minutes.
3/10