When Will I Be Loved?: Review By B. Alan Orange

Hell Mission Statement #40555: When Will I Be Loved?

A cannonball parasite has lodged itself inside my ear, and it’s screaming bloody murder in the form of a Neve Campbell Movie. This sullen thing is beyond bad. It’s that certain type of uber-bad; a stink unobtainable within the sweatiest pits of any given fat lesbian. It hurts deep. An aching kind of pain that resonates through the entire body; trying but failing to leave the skin in the form of a leg cramp.

Kick it out. Kick it out.

You just can’t do it.

I know it may not seem like it, but I am a student of film. I’ve plunged through a hundred books on theory and thematic verse. I’m quite attuned at analyzing any given body of work. As a pop-film critic (aka: Sh*t-talker), most general deconstruction is waylaid by a need to scream, “This just plain sucks!” But once in awhile, a certain film will come along that is shunned by your core-seeking Friday night box office curmudgeon whose only concern is watching things, “Blow up real good.” These cinematic oddities are known as art films. They usually play at that out of the way Shoebox Theater on the hill. The one with the ratty couches and the bed sheet for a screen (Corvallis, Oregon…You guys know what I’m talking about). These are not popular works, but they generally contain some sort of reason for being. They serve a purpose. Sometimes, you have to dig for that purpose. You have to step back and scrutinize the leitmotif…

“When Will I Be Loved?” wants to be this type of cinematic endeavor. Its dream in life is to play the coveted festival circuit. Yes, folks, it wants to be an “Art Film.” This is where things get tricky. Who can honestly judge what art is or should be? No one. Everything qualifies. Maybe even this…If you consider fecal matter a medium.

I’ve dug deep into the nonexistent subtext of this flimsy wisp of air. There is nothing here. It is not a broad stroke in watercolor. “When Will I Be Loved?” is Poop on Cardboard.

Trust me; I doubt you’ll want to waist the time, money, and effort needed to seek this sonva’bitch out. Now, I know, I know…You just saw E! News and Entertainment Tonight. You watched the piece on Neve Campbell and her edgy take on things. How this was such a “challenge” for her. Well, I challenge you to sit through its meager 80 minutes without squeaking your seat like a banshee.

And, yes, I know those faux-news programs extorted the brilliant fact that Neve goes nude. It’s true. Alas, it’s a trick. Sure, the opening sequence is brilliant. Campbell stands in an open-air shower, soaping herself up. She masturbates with a showerhead. And I’m sure that’s all I had to say to get you in your seat.

But wait.

Stop.

That’s it. After that two minute note, things take an ugly turn for the worse. The film literally disappears off screen, and all we’re left with are a bunch of dipsh*ts improvising poorly about inconsequential stuff that is totally meaningless. It’s my susp*cion (one which is strongly backed up by the press notes) that director James Toback simply wanted to see Neve naked. And he wanted to capture it on film. That’s a great goal. He accomplished it. The problem is…He didn’t have anything with which to back it up. Neve’s not going to be in a porno. No way. So, he had to resurrect some sort of pathway. His mind must have been drawing blanks.

The only thing he can throw behind her is a weak-ass Indecent Proposal riff. Yes, the characters reference that Demi Moore, Woody Harrelson, Robert Redford sleaze-fest, so this isn’t a direct rip-off. Also, to be a rip-off, you have to have some sort of elongated plot to hang certain moments off of.

You’ll find none of that here.

Literally, this is just a ping-pong game of badly lobbed improvisational moments that relate to nothing. At all. After Neve’s shower scene, which will be viewed more times on Celebrity Skin than it will be via the actual movie itself, we’re treated to a long walk down a nowhere road. Neve meets up with the director himself, Toback (playing a professor of Black history or some such sh*t; the joke is he’s white and Jewish), and they have a long, drawn-out conversation that is obviously being made-up on the spot. She wants to be his assistant. This never relates back into the story, what-so-ever. (Yet, it does provide the film’s only other highlight, which is a cameo by Mike Tyson. He claims he’s not Mike Tyson, but who else would tattoo that goofy looking thing on their face?)

Next, we meet Neve’s love interest, played by Fredrick Weller. This guy spends a great amount of time flitting about town, trying to be a wheeler-dealer. This notion is given into bloated, superfluous street rantings that never pay off. And everyone around the guy is always fully aware of the camera. Watch the passersby when Fred is stopped in a busy intersection by a scorned female. The people in the background are all enjoying this as if it’s a street-side play for spare change. Is this a doc*mentary? No. Then why are we so aware of the steady-cam?

F*ck, its awful stuff.

And Weller cannot improvise to save his life. Plain and simple. There’s a moment where he accosts the real Damon Dash. It’s an extensive sequence that is thrown on the screen in haste. There’s no movie here folks, just some fat dude rolling a camera on boring subjects. I really get the feeling that Toback doesn’t give a good God f*ck what’s on screen. Around the same time as this awkward edit revolving around Dash, we also get to see Neve interacting with Lori Singer in the park. Lori is playing herself. The two talk as friends. About real things that could actually be going on in their life. Neve is out of character here. She seems to be playing herself as well. They discuss future movie projects. It looks like the two actually met in the park; Toback ran his film stock on it, and then threw it into the film for no apparent reason.

It’s quite inexplicable.

There is a stated synopsis. It makes this sound like an intriguing film. I’m sure you read it in that little box above your head. Neve’s supposed to be this con woman that tricks two men in her life. She does a double payback. It’s the revenge. Well, this seems like a tagged on idea that comes into play fifteen minutes before the movie is over. In short, they play the indecent proposal game. A rich old man sleeps with Neve and gives her a million dollars. Her boyfriend is supposed to get some of that money. She pretends she never got any of the money, so the boyfriend kills the rich millionaire. F*ck and sh*t. That actually sounds like it could be a real, breathing, living piece of celluloid. Doesn’t it. Like, a movie or something.

Well, everything I just stated in the paragraph above happens in the last act of the movie. Quite literally. It takes all of about twelve minutes to play itself out. And you’re left scratching your head. “What the f*ck did I just watch?”

I don’t know. Don’t ask me. As quick as it came the first time around, we end, once again, with Neve in the shower. The trick is; we don’t get to see the booby flash this time around. It’s the titty-twist ending.

And it’s turned me purple.

Hands down, this is the worst film of the year. I know, I said AVP was. That movie was bad in terms of its build-up and pay-off. You could still watch the last half hour and be somewhat happy. Not with this thing. This is a punch to the gut followed by a swift kick to the nuts. It’s a chronic case of Epididimidas captured and contained on the silver screen.

I hate you, movie. You are a bastard and a killer of time. A waist of my precious life.

I’d rather sleep in a ditch for two weeks than have to see this f’ing thing ever again. I guess that means you might like it.

Because you’re a c*cksucker.

You know this.

Yes. I’m talking to you.

“WEEENNNDDDDYYY!!!!!! HELP ME! SAVE ME!”

I never want to go to the movies again.

Never.

This thing is worse than the Whole Ten Yards. Seriously.