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Like Farentino, this movie platform did nothing for Donna's subsequent career in our universe, as opposed to the parallel world King lives on.
So you cozy up your multiracial, muttilicious, Taiwanese-Latina self to the sushi bar, two seats away from him. " Then another talk bubble lights up, that inner voice that's even deeper in your gut.
Love, pride and jealousy are aroused when a ranch owner's daughter, called Lizzie, has an affair with a cowboy.
Meanwhile a mysterious woman seduces the various lovers of Lizzie, who has ...
As Marshall Mc Luhan would tell you, the concentration of attention required in a movie theater is necessary here: video is the WRONG medium for King (hot vs. I suspect it's a film that will be discovered decades from now when maestro Zalman King gets the retro-treatment recently afforded his softcore forebear Joe Sarno.
King has had a most checkered career: starting out on TV in the mid-'60s he was one of many new leading men that Hollywood threw up against the wall but failed to stick (see notably: Michael Parks, Jordan Christopher, Christopher Jones, Michael Brandon and Barry Newman), whose big-screen break was the then-notorious disaster (but since forgotten) The Ski Bum.
Levity, perhaps an appearance by George Carlin in his hippy-dippy weatherman mode, would have helped.
His premise of an 18-wheel truck rolling all night around L. as home of a Shawnee's pirate radio station is obviously dated now thanks to the rise of satellite radio, but reeks of ripoff from another French avant garde master, Marguerite Duras' classic Le Camion.
Women of the Night represents his nadir, a nearly unwatchable epic that reveals our auteur has spent quite too much time watching the avant garde works of Resnais and Robbe-Grillet.
Its dense structure is nearly impenetrable and quite off-putting; I'm reminded of the many turgid, overdone LPs created in the late '60s when Brian Wilson, Phil Spector (a most worthy subject for a future King trash roman a clef) and The Beatles were blazing the way with the novelty of multi-track recording techniques, fatal to lesser talents.
Another casualty is Seymour Cassel, most of whose embarrassing (blame King's writing) soliloquies are drowned out by music.
King's universe is an anti-Hollywood whose patron saint would be Robert Altman.
Zalman King is not the "misunderstood artist" he styles himself as; he has clearly studied the possibilities of the film medium, but for the millionth time bad writing can sink any project, whether off the Hollywood assembly line or emanating from Bizarro Hollywoodland. Orson Welles had his Rosebud; behind the Oz curtain all King has is an empty Red Shoe.