Movies of this ilk are built on the false conceit that just below the surface of the social fabric of life in the US there is a pervasive swamp of bizarre and outright murderous personalities erupting haphazardly but daily through the surface and giving evidence of the "true" dementia ready to cascade quite randomly into "everyday" existence. There may be eight million stories in the naked city but most are damned boring and far more subject to quiet desperation than to blatant murder and mutilation. This is a young film maker's early effort but, hey, how about a little originality. The reality is that there is nothing new to the filmatic depiction of escaped gun-toting idiots, whores, and the David Lynch-like presumption that surrealism is more real than reality. I guess its just difficult to make good, interesting movies out of the humdrum disasters, desires, tragedies, and triumphs of un-extreme, mainstream life. But that is why intelligence, perception, and creativity are the necessary concomitants of achievement. Everbody in this movie is a moron. This is not hyperbole. Everybody in this movie (apart for a dog and one Mexican) is an outright moron. Every waitress, mailman, passerby, and, especially, cop is a pinhead. Check out Treasure of Sierra Madre, Bogie's Desperate Hours, any of Cagney's criminals, or It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World for the roots of this lightweight kill-a-thon. My God, its so predictable.
