There's an old saying that if you had a room with an infinite number of monkeys typing away on an infinite number of typewriters for an infinite amount of time, they'd eventually produced the completed works of William Shakespeare. Well, if you put three monkeys in a room for a weekend with a typewriter and a jug of apricot wine, they'd probably come up with something like The Invisibles.
This feeble, tiresome, black-and-white film is lamer than Tiny Tim (the Dickens' character, not the ukulele-playing oddball), more aimless than Dick Cheney with a shotgun and about as sharp as a wet noodle. It concerns a rock star named Jude (Michael Goorjian) and a model named Joy (Portia de Rossi), two drug addicts who hold up in Joy's loft apartment in France. They lounge around, have sex, eat pizza, go on and off drugs and talk and talk and talk until you start hoping that one of them bursts into flame and dies in screaming agony. It's supposed to be a journey of discovery, where two people who are envied by so many are revealed to be living lives of quiet desperation. It's actually a turgid 89 minutes of writer/director Noah Stern demonstrating that he's not nearly as clever as he thinks he is.
The least annoying thing about The Invisibles is the work of the two leads. Portia de Rossi is a young actress with talent who's hamstrung by an awful script. She also needs to either stop dying her hair blonde or pluck her Groucho Marx-like eyebrows. They're as distracting as having a second nose growing out of her left cheek. Michael Goorjian is a young actor who doesn't seem to have much talent. He's not terrible but whether he's trying to be angry, sad, ironic or sardonic, he always looks like a nice Jewish boy putting on a show for his grandma. The only other character of note is the pizza guy who becomes Joy and Jude's link to the outside world. He's played by Terry Camilleri, who affects a French accent so horribly you can only hope he's doing it badly on purpose.
The writing is tedium interrupted by stupid cinematic contrivances. The direction would get a B+ in film school. The movie is made even more of a chore to sit through by a stream of bad and frequently loud music flowing through the scenes. Sometimes the music is a torrent, sometimes it's a trickle but it's always crappy.
The Invisibles does have one moment of mild amusement revolving around sexual attraction toward cartoon characters. That is the only ripple of entertainment in a swamp of dialog where floats ill-considered pop culture references, boring personal sagas, self-involved ruminations and too many moments that try too hard to be smart.
Since Portia De Rossi doesn't get naked in it, I can say this movie is pretty much without any redeeming value whatsoever. It's not good enough to be art. It's not trashy enough to be fun. It doesn't deserve your time.
This feeble, tiresome, black-and-white film is lamer than Tiny Tim (the Dickens' character, not the ukulele-playing oddball), more aimless than Dick Cheney with a shotgun and about as sharp as a wet noodle. It concerns a rock star named Jude (Michael Goorjian) and a model named Joy (Portia de Rossi), two drug addicts who hold up in Joy's loft apartment in France. They lounge around, have sex, eat pizza, go on and off drugs and talk and talk and talk until you start hoping that one of them bursts into flame and dies in screaming agony. It's supposed to be a journey of discovery, where two people who are envied by so many are revealed to be living lives of quiet desperation. It's actually a turgid 89 minutes of writer/director Noah Stern demonstrating that he's not nearly as clever as he thinks he is.
The least annoying thing about The Invisibles is the work of the two leads. Portia de Rossi is a young actress with talent who's hamstrung by an awful script. She also needs to either stop dying her hair blonde or pluck her Groucho Marx-like eyebrows. They're as distracting as having a second nose growing out of her left cheek. Michael Goorjian is a young actor who doesn't seem to have much talent. He's not terrible but whether he's trying to be angry, sad, ironic or sardonic, he always looks like a nice Jewish boy putting on a show for his grandma. The only other character of note is the pizza guy who becomes Joy and Jude's link to the outside world. He's played by Terry Camilleri, who affects a French accent so horribly you can only hope he's doing it badly on purpose.
The writing is tedium interrupted by stupid cinematic contrivances. The direction would get a B+ in film school. The movie is made even more of a chore to sit through by a stream of bad and frequently loud music flowing through the scenes. Sometimes the music is a torrent, sometimes it's a trickle but it's always crappy.
The Invisibles does have one moment of mild amusement revolving around sexual attraction toward cartoon characters. That is the only ripple of entertainment in a swamp of dialog where floats ill-considered pop culture references, boring personal sagas, self-involved ruminations and too many moments that try too hard to be smart.
Since Portia De Rossi doesn't get naked in it, I can say this movie is pretty much without any redeeming value whatsoever. It's not good enough to be art. It's not trashy enough to be fun. It doesn't deserve your time.
