High Art

By now, dear readers, you have most likely established the understanding that no film is too tedious, no movie too abysmal, no flick too foolish to be without merit in  my mind. And while I strive to instill and maintain your sense of stability in my style, I am sorry to say that not even I can justify your spending precious time on this pretentious sack of boring.

Plot summary (short because nothing happened): an assistant editor at a photography magazine falls in love with her neighbor, an edgy photographer who has hidden herself away from the business and who is falling ever deeper into the clutches of her heroin addiction. Now, I love a good lesbian flick as much as the next guy, but I tend to pass on "edgy" late-nineties' perceptions of drug abuse, and would have glanced over this one had Netflix given a more in depth analysis of the piece. Trust me, these flicks are rarely as exciting as you'd think. And actually, I'd say High Art's only redeeming-ish quality is that it remains true to an outsider's slant on red chicken abuse (you have to love slang dictionaries): BORING! My experience turning tables brought me in close contact with many a needle lover and all of the melodrama that comes with them.  No really, watching this movie is like reading a poorly executed sensation novel, minus all the fun fainting couches and thinly-veiled rape scenes. And then those demon junkies get theirs!

So trust me when I say there is nothing redeemable about this flick: no lesbian sex, no dead babies on the ceiling, no extended digressions into faulty bodily function. Boring. Straight (Ha! Get it? My word choice is funny because it's a movie that fails to explore homosexuality) boring.

Reason to watch: I got nothing.

Obligatory second snappy insight: Still nothing.