Agonizing art-house drivel

Rating: 1/10 (13 January 2008)

If D. H. Lawrence had been on a bad acid trip while writing "Lady Chatterley's Lover," it might have wound up resembling this film. Enough has already been written about the uniformly unlikeable characters, the incoherent plot, the rain-soaked, depressing cinematography, and the odious, anachronistic piano music that supposedly pours forth from the depths of the character's glaciated soul. All very symbolic, no doubt. Perfect fodder for the cappuccino-sipping, more-snottily-intellectual-than-thou yuppies that patronize such establishments. But did anyone notice how often the camera kept focusing specifically on people's ugly naked butts? With the exception of the little girl, just about everyone in this movie dropped their breeches and flashed their unclothed posteriors at the camera at some point. Possibly this is symbolic of some sort of bizarre anal fetish on the part of the director, but in the end, I felt as though I had been mooned by the entire adult cast of this film. And maybe that was really all the point it had.
Thankfully I didn't pay anything to see this trash. (My wife checked it out from the local public library.) So how come I still feel like I've been ripped off?