A self-indulgent mess with pretensions of deep meaning, but so void of cinematic originality that it cannot disguise the emptiness of its conceit, which consists singularly of an immobile camera, in front of which Rip Torn sits on a couch and bitches and moans for two never-ending hours. There are a lot of nude women to watch but they're so annoying that after a minute or so you just want them to put on their clothes and get the hell off-screen. This is the kind of experimental, cinema-verite film-making that seemed deep in the sixties when everyone was burnt out on acid, but the days of LSD are long gone, leaving only this headache-inducing, stomach-cramping piece of swill, which can at least hopefully serve as a testament to the dangers of allowing no-talent people to use a movie camera. Enter at your own risk.
Review of Coming Apart
