There is an early poem by Samuel Beckett that for me perfectly captures the mood and self-conscious mournfulness of Vincent Gallo’s second feature, The Brown Bunny:

I would like my love to die
and the rain to be falling on the graveyard
and on me walking the streets
mourning her who thought she loved me

The notion of wishing one’s beloved to die is of course antithetical, but the poem— and the film— ring true as adolescent (and woefully solipsistic) fantasy in which one wishes the worst possible tragedy to befall one so that the entire world will wilt in sympathetic pity and pain.

Vincent Gallo is credited as director, writer, editor, director of photography, and star of the film. Considering the heights (or depths) of wallowing Gallo’s character, Bud Clay, performs, and the fact that the camera rarely leaves Bud’s anguished face for the duration of the film, the one-man marching band of misery, on and off camera, is reasonable.

Of course, being a spectator to such depths of self-pity may be a noxious event for many, and the word from Cannes, where the film debuted, was a clangorous critical howl. A rather humorous (and some suggest, partly staged) debacle between critic Roger Ebert and Gallo sums up the animus. Since its screening at Cannes, which earned the lowest rating in voting history, Gallo abjectly apologized for the film, later denied making such an apology, and in a combination of contempt and marketing savvy, paid for a billboard featuring a movie still of the explicit blowjob he receives from Chloë Sevigny. Since Cannes, Gallo has edited the film; barring the DVD release of the uncut version, most of us may never know what the original looked like. Of course, for Ebert who said watching video of his own colonoscopy was more entertaining than watching The Brown Bunny, that is a good thing.

As it stands, Gallo’s film is by no means a train wreck or a turkey. Self-indulgent it is, but then there is a whole tradition of self-indulgence in the arts (though the creators may not call it thus), and at the very least, this instance bears the uncomfortable truth of the Beckett poem.

The simple love story follows the greasy-haired Bud Clay, a motorcycle racer who has just finished (and lost) a race in New Hampshire, and is bound for L.A. in his van toward his lost love, Daisy. Along the way, he meets three other floral-named beauties, Violet, Lilly (played with aching tenderness by Cheryl Tiegs), and a prostitute, Rose. None of them can take the place of his Daisy, and he lets them go within instants of physical contact. Though it remains unspoken until the end, clearly something has gone terribly wrong in the relationship with Daisy, and Bud bears the traces of that anguish in a palette of simple gestures and signs: furrowed brow, frequent bouts of weeping, and most frequently, a dejected head in hand or hands.

Like most good road movies, the highway itself does double duty as symbol. Here, it feels like the quintessence of loneliness, a state amplified by the intermittent medley of soft ballades and weeping-guitar solos that drift on and off the long drive home— not on Bud’s radio, but in that poetic blend of song and road that distinguishes so many great American films, from Easy Rider to Lost Highway.

Carrying the music metaphor further, the film feels like a crudely-made mix tape that one has received from one’s high school lover. No matter how awkward the transitions or corny the packaging, and despite not loving every song, the tape acquires enormous meaning simply by virtue of its being made by one’s lover. For an outsider, the tape’s songs may be pretty, or forgettable, or whatever, but it is less likely that they will feel entranced by the product. The Brown Bunny is an intensely private film, a discovered mixed tape with a few pleasures and many a dull patch. It will appeal most of all to those who have shared in the loose-tooth twisting pain of its self-torturing and self-loathing antihero. (For example, me, circa 1988.)

There is no question The Brown Bunny is not for mainstream audiences. My wonder is whether the art house crowd will eat this up. Gallo’s first film, Buffalo 66 was a mini-masterpiece, an eccentric and beautiful movie that tread a fine line between abjection and humor with a protagonist (played by Gallo) who was hard not to like, despite being such a bastard. In that film, too, Gallo does a lot of anguished hair-tugging and head-in-hand wincing, but he had his savior/tormentor (Christina Ricci) alongside him for much of the film, serving a delightful and much-needed counter-balance to his egotistical crash and burn. Somehow, Gallo managed to give anomie and self-loathing a happy ending. It is not the lack of a happy ending that drags The Brown Bunny down, but the absence of a foil for Bud Clay’s torment does hurt. Sevigny is resplendent in her sordidness, insanely strong in her vulnerability, but her appearance in the film is too brief and late to save it from its torpor.

* * * *

3.5/5 stars

The Ebert-Gallo slap-fest:
http://www.listology.com/content_show.cfm/content_id.8504

Recommended:
No