No plot, no acting, no photography, no editing, no anything...not even any THINKING was put into the making of this waste of time.
This debacle was absolutely the worst junk to ever have the presumption call itself a movie; the image on screen so fuzzy that the film is almost impossible to view which served the purpose of masking the total lack of... anything . To even call this a film is an insult to people who actually make movies. To dignify it by assuming this is a review is a mistake. Movies get reviews. This was not a movie. This was an exercise in nothing more than some kind of pathetic therapy by someone
with a video camera who should be receiving serious treatment somewhere rather than being allowed to foist his pretensions on an unsuspecting audience.
Like it must have been filmed with the cheapest of vintage 8mm cameras,
I could have made a better film with my portable telephone on the way home from the theater with friends after having laid out 21 Euros for three tickets and wasting an hour of my life, having stayed that hour waiting to see an actress friend make an appearance on screen and when she did I could hardly recognize her through the blur.
Why did the Entrepot cinema agree to to screen this monstrosity?
It's easy to see why the number of art house cinemas in Paris has diminished if they are willing to subject audiences to such nonsense.
This debacle was absolutely the worst junk to ever have the presumption call itself a movie; the image on screen so fuzzy that the film is almost impossible to view which served the purpose of masking the total lack of... anything . To even call this a film is an insult to people who actually make movies. To dignify it by assuming this is a review is a mistake. Movies get reviews. This was not a movie. This was an exercise in nothing more than some kind of pathetic therapy by someone
with a video camera who should be receiving serious treatment somewhere rather than being allowed to foist his pretensions on an unsuspecting audience.
Like it must have been filmed with the cheapest of vintage 8mm cameras,
I could have made a better film with my portable telephone on the way home from the theater with friends after having laid out 21 Euros for three tickets and wasting an hour of my life, having stayed that hour waiting to see an actress friend make an appearance on screen and when she did I could hardly recognize her through the blur.
Why did the Entrepot cinema agree to to screen this monstrosity?
It's easy to see why the number of art house cinemas in Paris has diminished if they are willing to subject audiences to such nonsense.