This low-budget indie film redefines the word "blah". It will surprise most that this word can actually be found in the dictionary, defined as: "nonsense.. uninteresting, dull, lifeless". The movie redefines the word because I would have to add to those four words: "PC crap", "pretentious on a pathetic level", and "pointless".
The film tries so hard to be "hip" and "in touch" with contemporary beautiful-people-struggling-for-je-ne-sais-quoi behaviour and "thinking" (do they think?). There is almost no plot to speak of, though there IS one to sleep to. The phoniest and most politically-correct things about it are how a white woman is great friends with a young, black stud, the black street-sax-player with a penchant for oh-so wise council and advice, and the fat black psychic. Isn't it beautiful how the races can get along after all?... Ahhhh... In the end, the woman reads out "poetry", which is nothing more than one of her dull "dear diary" entries. She gets a standing ovation(!!!), although in real life her listeners would have more likely than not dozed off into deep slumber. But this movie has little to do with real life, even though that is where it's supposed to be happening. In real life her "poetry" reading would have gotten standing ovations only if she had the sense to include the juicy, sexual details. "And then I rubbed his huge penis against my sweaty, impatient pink little vagina..." Cheers! What's worse, the lead actress has a dozen scenes in which she either bathes or screws with someone, yet they never have the sense to show her breasts, which was clearly the only thing left to save this mess.
The black guy and the blonde, who are separated by about a meter in height, hook up: they look like a cheap variation of Rodman and Madonna (as if the latter two aren't a cheap enough combination already). Nicole Eggert, mentioned by Howard Stern in his "Miss America" book, is the blonde. Stern writes of Eggert that she took her implants out. Yet I believe that when they took her implants out they also sucked most of the meat out of her flesh and muscles by mistake, for she looks starved here.
The sax player in one scene develops angel-like wings; he looks like Al Roker advertising angel food cakes.
The film tries so hard to be "hip" and "in touch" with contemporary beautiful-people-struggling-for-je-ne-sais-quoi behaviour and "thinking" (do they think?). There is almost no plot to speak of, though there IS one to sleep to. The phoniest and most politically-correct things about it are how a white woman is great friends with a young, black stud, the black street-sax-player with a penchant for oh-so wise council and advice, and the fat black psychic. Isn't it beautiful how the races can get along after all?... Ahhhh... In the end, the woman reads out "poetry", which is nothing more than one of her dull "dear diary" entries. She gets a standing ovation(!!!), although in real life her listeners would have more likely than not dozed off into deep slumber. But this movie has little to do with real life, even though that is where it's supposed to be happening. In real life her "poetry" reading would have gotten standing ovations only if she had the sense to include the juicy, sexual details. "And then I rubbed his huge penis against my sweaty, impatient pink little vagina..." Cheers! What's worse, the lead actress has a dozen scenes in which she either bathes or screws with someone, yet they never have the sense to show her breasts, which was clearly the only thing left to save this mess.
The black guy and the blonde, who are separated by about a meter in height, hook up: they look like a cheap variation of Rodman and Madonna (as if the latter two aren't a cheap enough combination already). Nicole Eggert, mentioned by Howard Stern in his "Miss America" book, is the blonde. Stern writes of Eggert that she took her implants out. Yet I believe that when they took her implants out they also sucked most of the meat out of her flesh and muscles by mistake, for she looks starved here.
The sax player in one scene develops angel-like wings; he looks like Al Roker advertising angel food cakes.