Ten minutes pass into the movie, and I think, okay, not every movie has to have a plot or anything at the beginning. Ten minutes later I understood: we've got a major piece of garbage on our hands. Rarely have I seen a duller or more pointless film - ever. But it really cannot be any different since it tackles the world of fashion - and in a serious manner, without any satire or irony! Does the "auteur" Michael Rymer really believe that there is real substance and depth in a fashion designer or his empty-headed bimbo cat-walkers? There are endless dialogues, 95% of which are mind-numbingly boring and utterly pointless. Watching this fantastic collection of human vomit is like being surrounded by a murmur in a busy New York market: nothing is understood, nothing is relevant, and the tendency quickly arises to stick ear-plugs into your ears to avoid the senseless buzzing that encircles you. Only a certifiable moron or a pretentious and somewhat bird-brained man could concoct this forgettable mess. Rymer uses the Altman cross-dialogue style, but to no avail; Rymer is like a 5 year-old who just got a camera from Dad and tries to re-enact "Star Wars" with his pre-school buddies. There was only one moment of interest - or shock, rather - in this entire hopeless venture: when I read in the end-credits words that made everything clear: "All dialogue was improvised by the actors." Tuh-duh! Well, I thought, this certainly explains why nothing interesting whatsoever was said in the entire movie: Rymer, the self-assured "artiste", felt secure enough in his own infinite artistry to get a collection of actors who'll do the whole thing for him. And the best thing is that two people (among them the auteur) are credited for the "writing". What writing? Rymer seems to have forgotten (or probably doesn't realize) that 99% of actors are whores and morons, and that without text to learn like parrots (I apologize herewith for insulting any parrots) they are only empty shells, totally useless, clueless and lost. This sense of being lost is evident in every scene of the movie: total, utter cluelessness. It also baffles me how anyone who quite obviously thinks that he is an "artiste" could actually consider the fashion world worthy of his (artistic) time?! I cannot think of any part of the business or economic or whichever other world less worth doing a movie about than a bunch of six-foot flat-chested cocaine-sniffing retards and their bisexual limp-wristed face-lifted designers - except to poke fun at. (The amazing thing is that no one has yet made a truly remorseless satire or parody about this pathetic world, even though the targets are more than easy to ridicule.) The cast is "blah": Paul Sorvino comes off as a clown with his phony-sounding Italian accent and big-teddy-bear attitude; Jared Harris is almost the first actor we see and that is a blow in itself; one of the Hemingway sisters quite pretentiously (and badly) plays herself, etc, etc. Goldblum is also in this; the tall doofus co-produced this crap, which says everything about him. Sorvino plays an embarrassing scene in which he discusses the possibilities of a business venture with a rapper; Easy Jay Ziggy D'N Da House Yo-Bro the rapper proceeds to talk (rap) about how the clothes he wears are such because the blacks all have ten brothers and sisters and no money, la-di-da-di-da. Plain awful. (And this was probably the only watchable scene in the movie!) And has there ever been a more unfascinating, uninteresting, and more hopeless scene than when the two giants of cinema, children of nepotism, and uniquely ugly cinematic individuals, Mariel Hemingway and Jarred Harris, have a long improvised scene together in which they exchange experiences from childhood? I think not, and so does anyone with an iota of a brain cell. I have spoken.
