The Brown Bunny

PREMIERE.COM'S REVIEW (posted 8/27/04)

Notoriously branded by a certain thumb-waggin’ critic as the worst film in the history of the Cannes Film Festival, actor-filmmaker Vincent Gallo’s second directorial feature, The Brown Bunny, isn’t nearly the scumbag fiasco that the hype machine calculated. (It’s also a half-hour shorter now.)  On the contrary, even as the fiercest of debates have been recently held over provocative filmed readings of Christ’s crucifixion and Bush’s presidency, Gallo should be acknowledged for crafting the most audacious, uncompromised, and scandalous film in American cinema this year. No, I don't just say that because the last few minutes feature Chloë Sevigny giving her director a now-infamous XXX-plicit blowjob. The film stubbornly refuses to fill empty space with dialogue or adhere to any structure other than its own downbeat atmosphere, forcing viewers to be intensely patient or squirm. It’s the best film I’ve seen in a while that I wouldn’t recommend to anyone.

Gallo aggressively claims that he isn’t an artist, nor was he influenced by other filmmakers, which should mark his sincerity as questionable; thereupon, The Brown Bunny is an overtly hypersensitive art-prank rendering of the '70s auteur-driven road movie. Call it Too Vain Blacktop: Gallo—who is also credited as the film’s writer, producer, editor, and director of photography—is in nearly every shot as Bud Clay, an oily-haired, emotionally damaged motorcycle racer. After losing a race in New Hampshire, Bud packs his bike in a van and takes off for California, where he’ll eventually meet up with Daisy (Sevigny) in a hotel room. Until then, however, this tortoise-speed hare may seem like a prerequisite challenge to that literal climax. Most of the film is wordless, hit-or-miss imagery filmed from inside the van, with countless Robert Frank–style close-ups of Gallo and drifting landscape scenes filtered through a bug-splattered windshield, all set to a suitably halcyon soundtrack. There is some interaction, as Bud crosses paths with other tragic, flower-named women: Violet is charmed away from her gas-station job until Bud ditches her; Las Vegas prostitute Rose accepts Bud’s lunch offer until he ditches her; and Lilly (former supermodel Cheryl Tiegs) makes out with Bud at a truck stop until ... (sigh).

In its last five minutes, Gallo ejaculates more drama than the whole movie preceding it, but a warning to you pervy voyeurs wondering if Chloë blows her career: The scene is depressing and uncomfortable and not even arguably erotic. It’s also the perfect example of the film’s wasted potential, as Gallo’s narcissistic, singular vision has blinded him to the need for embracing his limitations as a filmmaker. With just a better cinematographer, The Brown Bunny could have bared fangs.

—Aaron Hillis