I had one fairly continuous thought running through my head watching Bruno Dumont's "Twentynine Palms," a 115 torturous minutes about a lovers' horrific, sex-filled odyssey through the barren landscape of the California desert: This, I thought, is the worst movie ever.
Of course, that's not fair. I never saw "Battlefield Earth," or "Gigli," but I imagine it had to be a little bit fun to watch Jennifer Lopez as a tough talking lesbian. And there is was one truly wonderful scene in "Twentynine Palms," a long sequence in which Katia (Katerina Gollub) and David (David Wissak in his first and I sincerely hope last film) take off their clothes and climb a gorgeous rock formation. When they reach the apex, the camera moves in from far away, focusing on the naked couple, Adam and Eve, small dots in the landscape, and it's a gorgeous shot. They lie in the sun, Katia's hand cradling David's balls, and their love seems idyllic.
I feel generous giving mention to this beautiful moment—a kind nod to give Dumont some credit, a director who is certainly trying too hard to charm, disgust and scare his audience. But I stand behind my gut reaction: much of "Twentynine Palms" is ludicrous, awful--and this is long before the terrifically violent ending (think a combination of the end of Catherine Breillat's "Fat Girl," the squeal-like-a-pig moment in "Deliverance" and a bloody knifing straight out of a Halloween horror flick.)
Beautiful Katia is clearly crazy but we get never get to know anything about her. She's a Russian who speaks French and bursts into tears frequently for reasons never explained. David is an American who speaks wretched French and has little patience with his traveling companion. Sometimes he gets so frustrated he hits her, and then, she hits back, and they wrestle in the street. Most of the time though, whether he loves her or hates her, David pulls off Katia's flimsy sun dresses, and off they go, having sex.
Beautiful Katia is clearly crazy but we get never get to know anything about her. She's a Russian who speaks French and bursts into tears frequently for reasons never explained. David is an American who speaks wretched French and has little patience with his traveling companion. Sometimes he gets so frustrated he hits her, and then, she hits back, and they wrestle in the street. Most of the time though, whether he loves her or hates her, David pulls off Katia's flimsy sun dresses, and off they go, having sex.
There is too much sex in "Twentynine Palms," and none of it is ever the least bit sexy. David makes noise while he does it: he groans, cries out, whimpers, pants, screams as if he were in pain. His noises had a screening room of critics reduced to nervous titters. How can we make him stop? Do we have to watch him do it again? Who in their right mind would get naked with this man, again and again, and let him make such horrible noises? (If we needed any more proof that Katia is indeed disturbed, this is it.)
"Twentynine Palms" is all about horrible noises. There is no score, except for the music on the car radio, and great attention is given to the irritating sounds of daily life, engines revving up, the beep from an open car door, sirens passing in the distance, and the gravely, crunching sound of David and Katia's maroon red Hummer grinding over gravel, getting stuck in pot holes – a devotion to sound that is a constant assault on the senses.
"Twentynine Palms" is all about horrible noises. There is no score, except for the music on the car radio, and great attention is given to the irritating sounds of daily life, engines revving up, the beep from an open car door, sirens passing in the distance, and the gravely, crunching sound of David and Katia's maroon red Hummer grinding over gravel, getting stuck in pot holes – a devotion to sound that is a constant assault on the senses.
This was a movie I very much wanted to walk out of, and only stayed because I had to write this bad review. The thought was almost a comfort. Had I followed my impulse, I would have missed the insane ending, brutal violence that comes absolutely out of nowhere. Masochists take note: it's your last chance to watch yucky David squeal during vile intercourse, but finally, at long last, he has reason.
