I haven't seen much else by him, actually, which is weird, considering how much I love Blow Up , so I can't make any other well informed comparisons. And I defended myself, saying it wasn't really a chick flick, and that the nancy boys in advertising had just fucked me again, and written the most consumable description they could, but I really kind of feel like I did watch a chick film. Granted, it was the most astonishingly photographed chick film I ever did see, but still, in the end, it was mostly a plotline off a recycled NBC movie of the week being shown on the Lifetime channel. The other scene, however, asks for me to insert some idiot commentary, so I shall oblige. All of which brings us back to American art, oddly enough, which has believed that the key to the truth has always lain in the direction of sex and fucking and sex and fucking and fucking and sex.
Sex is laughs and kicks.
The booshwah love it, they adore it, it's the latest tourist attraction.