Russell’s crazy quilt of a psychocomedy forces us to accept a gonzo universe in which independent operators latch on to the philosophically unsure, like roving therapists in need of verbose clients. But part of the problem with achieving such a Pynchonesque cram onscreen is that Pynchon would never tie it all together with a banal motivation like parental aloofness or job insecurity. This is some painfully neurotic work.
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