For those convinced the sun does indeed shine out of Quentin Tarantinos behind, here comes a jolt of reality. The honeymoon is over Quent, this appalling pseudo mystical comedy thriller which somehow managed to purloin his meagre acting talents is going to hang around his neck like a lead weight as the marketeers of this world try to flog its minimal wears on the back of his directorial kudos.
Against a pallid Las Vegas, shot through the earthy lens of a movie made on the cheap, Tarantino drifts about woodenly to the tune of twangy guitars. Hes Johnny Destiny, a kind of deity-like personification of fate (no joke) who acts as puppetmaster to a bunch of IQ shorn lowlifes embroiled in a petty crime story. Chief of these is Julian (McDermott) an escaped con back in town for his loot and his girl, crummy bar room singer Lucille (Travis). She, though, has shacked up with local club owner Tuerto (James Belushi), and his best mate Thoreau (James LeGros) has lost the money to the mysterious Destiny, who keeps cropping up to spout wooden epigrams about luck and gambling. The cops close in, fate takes a tumble and a disused swimming pool becomes a supernatural gate to the stars. Somehow, such rubbish slipped past the money men.
The script for all this hokum is so haggard and disjointed it wouldnt pass muster even if it wasnt crammed full of weird magical mumbo jumbo. It is unfunny as comedy, and too quirky to thrill. Out of a cast of, supposedly, up and coming names only an old ham like Belushi ekes out a taste of characterisation. Tarantino freaks will, no doubt, hark to its call, but the answer is ludicrous in the extreme, beggaring belief at ever turn and watch glances by the minute. A Pulp affliction.