Chloë Sevigny blows Vincent Gallo. For real. For maybe, at most, a minute of verifiable screen time, short of completion. There is, to be sure, an actual film before the act of sex: a quasi-Seventies road movie (all the way to a sappy Gordon Lightfoot tune, untruncated, on the soundtrack, and a nonspeaking part for erstwhile supermodel Cheryl Tiegs) that discovers in its travels the barrenness of America and the anomie of the traveller. In specific, he is a motorcycle racer travelling east to west, en route to his next race in California, and searching on both coasts for a girl he used to live with, name of Daisy. (Half an hour into the running time we get a glimpse of her in flashback: Chloë.) A gas-station cashier by the name of Violet is willing, after an exchange of a couple of lines of dialogue, to walk away from her register to go with him. An older woman named Lilly, so it says on her purse, complete with double-L, trades smooches with him at a rest stop after no more wooing than the one-word blandishment, "Okay?" And a streetwalker in Vegas catches his fancy with a necklace that identifies her as Rose. To round out this cornball floral pattern, the hero himself is called Bud, a tender innocent who, in each instance of a willing woman, loses his interest before the seed can take root. No one stimulates his stamen like Daisy. It is impossible to overstate the dullness of the film, best captured in the interminable driving scenes where we're looking through a bug-spattered windshield at an often out-of-focus roadscape, or else looking at a badly framed profile of the driver. (Gallo is cited not only as writer, director, editor, and producer in the opening credits, but as director of photography in the closing ones.) And after the enervation of the hour and a quarter of aimless foreplay, the probable response to the unclimactic climax is "Ho-hum." (2004) — Duncan Shepherd
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