Finn Bingham

A pretentiously bad review of a pretentiously bad movie: Anyone with more than 2 functioning cognitive neurons can write this film off as two hours one would pass with no neurons at all. Pushing the outer limits of every viewers sanity, the fragmentary collision of events that lasts for over two hours leaves said viewer desperately desiring two things: a normal scene and for the film to end. And when it does finally end it feels like an overly artsy high school skit that you don’t appreciate but feel like you should because it is so utterly incoherent that there has to be something meaningful about it that you missed. Spoiler alert — there’s not. Don’t waste a second of your life (or your precious neurons) on this jumble of colors and noises. I, as a human being, implore you to look elsewhere in the vast universe of Netflix for literally anything else to watch; for you will surely have spent your time better there. The 80% rating of this film is some kind of cosmic mishap, in my eyes. A brutal and epic misunderstanding of the same proportion as thinking frontal lobotomies are beneficial for mental illness. Maybe those who have high ratings should consider the operation as an alternative to propogating low-quality entertainment on a mass scale. What these people see is not something that exists and others didn’t see, but a collective figment of the imagination; namely, a delusional sense of purpose found in the film. Jake and his girlfriend can toil in the vast realms of the ether for all I care. Instead of watch them do so, I’d prefer to have my eyeballs slowly chewed by starved chipmunks. Excuse me while I bid farewell to two hours of my existence.