Granted, if one guy watches too many episodes of "Twin Peaks," it'sgoing to give him ideas. However, does that give this rabid fan the right to essentially relocate the entire show to the big screen under an assumed name? Is there not one film producer out there capable of dropping his coke spoon, leaning back in his big leather chair, and calmly suggesting that a Lynchian circus set in Montana might not be the freshest of ideas? There's only one David Lynch for a reason -- nobody can stand more than that.
The emergency backup Phoenix, Joaquin ("in case of drug overdose, break glass") plays Clay, a gas station attendant in Mercer, Montana. Before I go on, what the hell is the deal with Joaquin's lip? There's enough plastic surgery going on in L.A. to make iguanas in Peru nervous and Joaquin can't get that scar fixed? What is that? Remnants of a cleft lip? A bad day with the razor? If somebody doesn't tell me what the hell that damn thing is, I might continue to produce run-on paragraphs for the rest of my life. What the fuck is it?!
(Three hours later) Yessss.... sweet Prozac. Where was I? Oh yeah, Clay gets involved in a series of murders because he's sleeping with his best friend's wife, Amanda (Georgina Cates). People are already croaking left and right when Lester Long (Vince Vaughn) shows up. The next thing Clay knows, he's suspected of being a serial killer and FBI agents (Janeane Garofalo, Phil Morris) are after him.
There's enough country and western music in this film to put Willie Nelson in a coma. I can take about one country song a year, provided it's not Garth Brooks, and then I'm ready to start petitioning Congress to make the use of the words "yee ha" a hanging offense. After the twenty or thirty songs in "Clay Pigeons," I felt about as perky as one of those poor souls in the late stages of Ebola.
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