A vile, vulgar nightmare of a movie that amounts to little more than a dirty garbage bag filled with closeups. Tom Ford’s (A Single Man) latest begins on shock with a quartet of naked Mrs. Grapes go-go dancing and quickly plummets. Ford intercuts two stories — the life of cauterized gallery owner Amy Adams clashes and the visualization of an existential hallucination in manuscript form penned by her long-estranged husband (Jake Gyllenhaal) that recently arrived in the mail — neither of which is particularly meritorious. Borrowing liberally from the Hot Rods to Hell playbook, the novel details a violent encounter between a gang of hoodlums and the unsuspecting family that acts as their target. The only laughs the film has to offer come in the form of embarrassing flashback transitions. One redeemable facet: Laura Linney does a dead-on impression of Dina Merrill. Other than that, file this messy nocturnal emission under “must to avoid.” (2016) — Scott Marks
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