Vincent Gallo has a reputation. He makes movies that are for a lack of a better word, different, and as such, they find their way into the thought-o-sphere, where everyone forgets what makes Gallo's movies different, and the uninitiated walk away with the sense that Gallo makes real art that really is worth seeing, It's not. I promise you.
As I have seen Buffalo 66, I was prepared for the badly written dialogue and for the inordinately lengthy shots, suggesting, perhaps, that one can reach nirvana by losing one's self in the contemplation of Vincent Gallo's brooding forehead. What I was not prepared for was the sheer intensity of Mr. Gallo's narcissism. Whatever fundamental truth he may think he is conveying drowns with little more than a pathetic whimper, leaving in it's wake only the understanding that Gallo loves seeing himself on film, and that we should all love seeing him there too.
I get the sense that Gallo thinks he is like Antonioni - a master of capturing mood and the complex emotions of his subjects through minimal dialogue and vivid visual composition. He is not. The effect is that he doesn't know how to write and can't think of where to point his camera.
Oh yeah, and the controversy, the other hook to get college students looking for a cinematic rush to rent this crap from Netflix - if a movie is controversial it must be worth seeing right? Despite the desperate attempts to make the audience connect with his character, and to make sex a potent symbol,the climactic scene has the emotional depth of a cheap porno.
This is a bad movie. In every sense of the word. It is poorly written, ineptly acted, and badly directed. Gallo's only accomplishment is convincing the distributor (and enough of the audience) that it is difficult to watch not because it is bad, but because it is ART.
As I have seen Buffalo 66, I was prepared for the badly written dialogue and for the inordinately lengthy shots, suggesting, perhaps, that one can reach nirvana by losing one's self in the contemplation of Vincent Gallo's brooding forehead. What I was not prepared for was the sheer intensity of Mr. Gallo's narcissism. Whatever fundamental truth he may think he is conveying drowns with little more than a pathetic whimper, leaving in it's wake only the understanding that Gallo loves seeing himself on film, and that we should all love seeing him there too.
I get the sense that Gallo thinks he is like Antonioni - a master of capturing mood and the complex emotions of his subjects through minimal dialogue and vivid visual composition. He is not. The effect is that he doesn't know how to write and can't think of where to point his camera.
Oh yeah, and the controversy, the other hook to get college students looking for a cinematic rush to rent this crap from Netflix - if a movie is controversial it must be worth seeing right? Despite the desperate attempts to make the audience connect with his character, and to make sex a potent symbol,the climactic scene has the emotional depth of a cheap porno.
This is a bad movie. In every sense of the word. It is poorly written, ineptly acted, and badly directed. Gallo's only accomplishment is convincing the distributor (and enough of the audience) that it is difficult to watch not because it is bad, but because it is ART.