Beautiful when you are newly illustrated, crusty and garish when it begins to dry up on your skin.

Soulful, stomping, shimmy shakedown shenanigans. One of the best songs of 1997, by far. I also love how the singer pronounces “haaahhhhuunnds,” with his unmistakable, heavy Scottish accent. Good times.

Here in Hawai’i, it’s known as waiwi. My all-time favorite fruit. Got to look for it when it’s in season.. then we rob trees blind. Great chilled. I find regular guava disgusting.

It’s rather a pity that the insolent brat known as Tom Cruise inserted this word into my lexicon.

It definitely stabilized my mania and the general level of fluctuation between my moods, but it also made me gain an INCREDIBLE amount of weight. I saw a picture of myself, and was shocked at how swollen and inflated my face was. I stopped taking it that same day, and never will again.

Gorgeous.

Eric Roberts is the reigning king of skeeze. He’s so vile, so lecherous and slimy in this film. Mariel Hemingway is mousy, ineffective and her absence in a scene is often not even noticeable. Was the real Dorothy Stratten this boring?

Simultaneously visually stunning and stomach-churning thanks to the very distinct style of director Tarsem (REM’s “Losing My Religion” video), but Jennifer Lopez’s “acting” is an absolute joke. It is incredibly painful just watching her try to pull off the role of an experimental psychotherapist. The surreal visuals haunted me for days, but this film almost angered me that Lopez has achieved the level of fame she has- for what? The woman cannot act.

Wow, this film was a mess- a self-indulgent, irredeemable mess. I enjoyed the first half, but then it began to slowly segue into the unwatchable. I happen to be a fan of surrealism, but there was nothing remotely rewarding to be found within the fragmented, disjointed imagery. It actually made me start to view ‘art’, at least within the context of this film, as something ugly, soul-destroying, even unnervingly vile. The message I gathered from this is that life is depressing and interminably long, and then you die.

I also had a real problem with the role of women in this film. They seem to either exist as irrational/detached/flake-y art ‘muses,’ (again portraying art as divisive and harmful, not conjoining, redemptive or liberating, as I and a great deal of the world see it) or as vacuous bit parts who seem devoid of passion except when regularly offering Hoffman’s character comfort through sex.

The only brief moment of the film I enjoyed was the “priest” in the rain/collective cast photo scene (I don’t know how else to describe it) and his diatribe on the sadness of the human experience in our lifelong efforts to find love and relativity to others. It was a bit high school diary, but it rang irrefutably true and touched me immensely. But that scene was short lived, immediately followed by a random, completely unrelated moment of what I can only describe as an obligatory exercise in the license of creative lunacy. I cannot even recall offhand what was even involved in that particular scene, but that’s precisely my point. It’s pretty much how this film operates. One moment of mild, life-affirming poignancy is then “cut” into by something completely irrelevant and, frankly, nihilistic. It makes for a very unsettling experience, as there is nothing rewarding about the sequence, subsequently. The poignancy is overtaken by the nihilism and effectively cancels it out.

And then, it all ends with a dull, deathly, silencing “beep.”

To paraphrase the great John Lydon, ever get the feeling you’ve been cheated?

I tried my absolute damndest not to let my huge music geek sensibility affect my opinion of this movie. Granted, Lou Barlow (who, in my opinion, is the sexiest living thing in indie rock in the last 20 years and is the one third of Dinosaur Jr. that doesn’t actually resemble, well, a dinosaur) and Daniel Lanois make cool appearances, but even with all the rock cred it has going for it- said cameos, the in-house band in the film doing covers by Sparklehorse, a rad soundtrack featuring Mercury Rev, Roxy Music and Serge Gainsbourg- Laurel Canyon can’t be saved from its weak plot and trite sexual cliches.

Oh, man!! The girlfriend is smoking a joint now!! Holy shit, dude!! She just made out with that lady!!

This film tries to ride on the tired assertion that rock ‘n’ roll can make anyone, even the incredibly, incredibly frigid Kate Beckinsale, who is ice-cold and blank even in the midst of a heated sexual tryst- drop their panties and give in to its seductive ways.

Did I mention Kate Beckinsale is frigid? I find her presence to border on the unbearable in every film I’ve seen her. She manages to suck the life out of every scene she’s in. Perhaps American Psycho is still fresh in my memory, but I also found Christian Bale to be a brick wall on screen, the only thing coming through being his undercurrent of sexual desire.

Bottom line: everyone in this film is HORNY!!! That’s what you need to know. That’s all just about everyone in this film seems to exhibit! Loin warmth. However, there exists a beacon of light in the form of one Frances McDormand. She is the only person in this film who managed to convey a wealth of human emotions, in addition to said horniness. She is, as always, a joy to watch.

This movie doesn’t do much for the plight of the sensitive rock star. I’m going to go listen to some Sebadoh love ballads now.