Take a bunch of moody twenty-something Madrileńos, give them a camera, see what unmitigated rubbish they can produce and call it a film. It's an experimental, meaningless, life-stealer. I watched this so you don't have to. Calling it sci-fi is like calling a piece of toilet paper a 1000-page trilogy. A man is walking through scrubland, then he is in his apartment breaking up with his girlfriend. She leaves, he gets a bit sick. He moods about for hours, or is it days? He's in the scrubland again, his mate comes over to the apartment to move ex's boxes. The hooker comes, doesn't go well. The neurologist comes. WTF? More in the desert. Have to give a bag to someone. What's in the bag? Oh, my salad is talking to me. Look in the ex's boxes. Nothing. Sick. Mooding about. Scrubland. Man steals bag... I can't go on writing about this drivel. I've lost the will to live
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