Can we please place a permanent injunction on improvisation in films? This movie, an incomprehensible hash of bored, "shocking" casual drugs-and-sex-and-violence and limp criminals-as-surrogate-family themes carelessly thrown Pollock-style across the screen, almost nudges "The Daytrippers" and (the worst offender) "Blue in the Face" as the most irritating example of shameful, self-indulgent cinematic improv. Keitel and De Niro's sublimely playful guy-banter in "Mean Streets" has given way to a steady stream of desperately babbling pretty faces trying to fill silences with big emotion. Of course, it isn't such a terrible problem if you have great actors, tight direction, and a strong story, which you don't here. Yes, James Woods is electric as always (though his mid-film transformation from role model to abusive "dad" is as annoying as it is baffling) and heck, I'll pay 8 bucks to look at natascha gregson wagner for 2 hours. But as a movie, it's a joke.
Review of Another Day in Paradise
