I was not expecting Jeff Jarrett to pop up in the first few minutes here. Anyway, he’s only on the fringes, where the promise of a more interesting story lies. The main thrust is a fairly confused mash-up of violent crime thriller, exploitation aesthetic (I do not get Spring Break; isn’t it just Rumspringa for assholes?) and Malick-esque impressionism that carries no message; it’s only provocative like someone poking you with a finger. Yet I didn’t not like it, and I can’t quite put my own finger on why. Maybe it’s because I’m reading into the depth implied but never explored.
Cross-posted from Letterboxd