Intimate Reflections

Surely the worst film of the year. It would, of course, be wrong to expect a conventional moviegoing experience from something as specifically non-narrative as this concoction of nuance and gesture; but no amount of special pleading, bonhomie towards experiment, or explanation of motive can hide the fact that the result is like a synthesis of every bad detail of every bad undergraduate film you've ever seen. That Anton Rodgers keeps audience interest going during the film's second half is a tribute to a standard of professionalism eschewed elsewhere.