An exhausting send-up of noir dialogue clichés mixed with Bukowski’s prescription-strength libido that doesn’t really hit it’s stride until it goes fully batshit about halfway through and embraces aliens, an actual grim reaper, and a 100+ year old French writer defying age in east Hollywood. Then again, it may all be a figment of the clearly very unwell protagonist’s imagination.
— Sep 27, 2022 01:47PM
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