Another in Robert Altman's series of struggles against innate staginess, orchestrated with his usual sloshing fluidity and trickly leaks around the edges, and permeated with his special vision of humanity as a matter of the askew bow tie and the visible lingerie strap. The theatrical source-material this time, set in a pink-neon motel of the mind, is by Sam Shepard, about a rodeo stunt rider and his runaway mate, who take turns blowing hot and cold, and who at long last claw their way to the bottom of their relationship, or at least into its slimy depths. Shepard himself takes the male lead, to show how it's supposed to be done (i.e., slightly less thick on the hick accent than Kim Basinger). But the problem isn't the how; it's the what. With Harry Dean Stanton and Randy Quaid. (1985) — Duncan Shepherd
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