A bit naive and i was expecting more.... its just watchable, it wont change your life.
In the nightmare, the director Hal Hartley is on my TV screen, only it is not Hal Hartley, but a steroid-laden musclebound version of the man, more Hulk Hogan than Hal Hartley. HH glares at me through the screen. Sweat drips from his muscles. "Hartleymania is running wild!" he roars. "It's in your children, it's in your film festivals, it's taking over the world!" And a muscular arm bursts through the screen and pulls me through.
Invariably I wake up screaming. And Hartleymania is here, coupled with the content of another indie film mainstay, the ultraviolence bequeathed us by Q. Tarantino. It's in the intentionallly awful acting, the awkward staging, the flat imagery, the crummy digital photography. Thanks, Hal Hartley.
Luckily, Ratanaruang improved by leaps and bounds in "Last Life in the Universe".