Breakfast on Pluto

There's something awful about hastily drafted harsh reactions to films. There's something equally reprehensible about how lately I haven't enjoyed the movies I've had the privilege of not paying for. Blaming capitalism's distinctly efficient powers of seduction, I really never wanted to think about Breakfast on Pluto ever again.

A day later, I still find its shortcomings offensive. Briefly, the film fetishizes its protagonist's obliviousness, distorts an otherwise fascinating queer coming of age story into a flimsy decadence, and induces already thin drama to a boring genre cannibalism (history pic snacks on catholic repression while queer tragedy dines on both). At every turn the film gurgles out indescribably jagged chapters of human discomfort, and instead of calmly organizing them someone had the bad idea of splattering them about. The results are risible. People die, endure physical abuse, search for meaning in vain--and I suppressed laughter. I damn this script for conjuring up comedy in me and for promoting infelicitous scorn for a topic I care about.

It takes so much time/money/talent/vintage clothing to makes these movies, people should start reading scripts before producing them.

Breakfast on Pluto