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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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1997, 2116, 5691, 1045, 3427, 2007, 2026, 3008, 1010, 2021,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It 's never about | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It 's never about resolution, it | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It 's never about resolution, it 's only about | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It 's never about resolution, it 's only about interminable introspective babble. It | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It 's never about resolution, it 's only about interminable introspective babble. It is nothing more than | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It 's never about resolution, it 's only about interminable introspective babble. It is nothing more than a psychological drama taken to | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It 's never about resolution, it 's only about interminable introspective babble. It is nothing more than a psychological drama taken to an extreme beyond | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It 's never about resolution, it 's only about interminable introspective babble. It is nothing more than a psychological drama taken to an extreme beyond the audience 's ability to | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It 's never about resolution, it 's only about interminable introspective babble. It is nothing more than a psychological drama taken to an extreme beyond the audience 's ability to connect. Woody Allen | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It 's never about resolution, it 's only about interminable introspective babble. It is nothing more than a psychological drama taken to an extreme beyond the audience 's ability to connect. Woody Allen chose to | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It 's never about resolution, it 's only about interminable introspective babble. It is nothing more than a psychological drama taken to an extreme beyond the audience 's ability to connect. Woody Allen chose to make characters | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It 's never about resolution, it 's only about interminable introspective babble. It is nothing more than a psychological drama taken to an extreme beyond the audience 's ability to connect. Woody Allen chose to make characters so immersed in | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It 's never about resolution, it 's only about interminable introspective babble. It is nothing more than a psychological drama taken to an extreme beyond the audience 's ability to connect. Woody Allen chose to make characters so immersed in themselves we | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It 's never about resolution, it 's only about interminable introspective babble. It is nothing more than a psychological drama taken to an extreme beyond the audience 's ability to connect. Woody Allen chose to make characters so immersed in themselves we feel left out. And for | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It 's never about resolution, it 's only about interminable introspective babble. It is nothing more than a psychological drama taken to an extreme beyond the audience 's ability to connect. Woody Allen chose to make characters so immersed in themselves we feel left out. And for that reason I | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It 's never about resolution, it 's only about interminable introspective babble. It is nothing more than a psychological drama taken to an extreme beyond the audience 's ability to connect. Woody Allen chose to make characters so immersed in themselves we feel left out. And for that reason I found this movie | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It 's never about resolution, it 's only about interminable introspective babble. It is nothing more than a psychological drama taken to an extreme beyond the audience 's ability to connect. Woody Allen chose to make characters so immersed in themselves we feel left out. And for that reason I found this movie painfully self indulgent and spiritually draining. I | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It 's never about resolution, it 's only about interminable introspective babble. It is nothing more than a psychological drama taken to an extreme beyond the audience 's ability to connect. Woody Allen chose to make characters so immersed in themselves we feel left out. And for that reason I found this movie painfully self indulgent and spiritually draining. I see what he | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It 's never about resolution, it 's only about interminable introspective babble. It is nothing more than a psychological drama taken to an extreme beyond the audience 's ability to connect. Woody Allen chose to make characters so immersed in themselves we feel left out. And for that reason I found this movie painfully self indulgent and spiritually draining. I see what he was | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It 's never about resolution, it 's only about interminable introspective babble. It is nothing more than a psychological drama taken to an extreme beyond the audience 's ability to connect. Woody Allen chose to make characters so immersed in themselves we feel left out. And for that reason I found this movie painfully self indulgent and spiritually draining. I see what he was going for | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It 's never about resolution, it 's only about interminable introspective babble. It is nothing more than a psychological drama taken to an extreme beyond the audience 's ability to connect. Woody Allen chose to make characters so immersed in themselves we feel left out. And for that reason I found this movie painfully self indulgent and spiritually draining. I see what he was going for but his insistence | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It 's never about resolution, it 's only about interminable introspective babble. It is nothing more than a psychological drama taken to an extreme beyond the audience 's ability to connect. Woody Allen chose to make characters so immersed in themselves we feel left out. And for that reason I found this movie painfully self indulgent and spiritually draining. I see what he was going for but his insistence on | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It 's never about resolution, it 's only about interminable introspective babble. It is nothing more than a psychological drama taken to an extreme beyond the audience 's ability to connect. Woody Allen chose to make characters so immersed in themselves we feel left out. And for that reason I found this movie painfully self indulgent and spiritually draining. I see what he was going for but his insistence on promoting his | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It 's never about resolution, it 's only about interminable introspective babble. It is nothing more than a psychological drama taken to an extreme beyond the audience 's ability to connect. Woody Allen chose to make characters so immersed in themselves we feel left out. And for that reason I found this movie painfully self indulgent and spiritually draining. I see what he was going for but his insistence on promoting his message through | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It 's never about resolution, it 's only about interminable introspective babble. It is nothing more than a psychological drama taken to an extreme beyond the audience 's ability to connect. Woody Allen chose to make characters so immersed in themselves we feel left out. And for that reason I found this movie painfully self indulgent and spiritually draining. I see what he was going for but his insistence on promoting his message through Prozac prose and distorted film techniques | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It 's never about resolution, it 's only about interminable introspective babble. It is nothing more than a psychological drama taken to an extreme beyond the audience 's ability to connect. Woody Allen chose to make characters so immersed in themselves we feel left out. And for that reason I found this movie painfully self indulgent and spiritually draining. I see what he was going for but his insistence on promoting his message through Prozac prose and distorted film techniques jettisons it past | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It 's never about resolution, it 's only about interminable introspective babble. It is nothing more than a psychological drama taken to an extreme beyond the audience 's ability to connect. Woody Allen chose to make characters so immersed in themselves we feel left out. And for that reason I found this movie painfully self indulgent and spiritually draining. I see what he was going for but his insistence on promoting his message through Prozac prose and distorted film techniques jettisons it past the point of | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It 's never about resolution, it 's only about interminable introspective babble. It is nothing more than a psychological drama taken to an extreme beyond the audience 's ability to connect. Woody Allen chose to make characters so immersed in themselves we feel left out. And for that reason I found this movie painfully self indulgent and spiritually draining. I see what he was going for but his insistence on promoting his message through Prozac prose and distorted film techniques jettisons it past the point of relevance. I | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It 's never about resolution, it 's only about interminable introspective babble. It is nothing more than a psychological drama taken to an extreme beyond the audience 's ability to connect. Woody Allen chose to make characters so immersed in themselves we feel left out. And for that reason I found this movie painfully self indulgent and spiritually draining. I see what he was going for but his insistence on promoting his message through Prozac prose and distorted film techniques jettisons it past the point of relevance. I highly recommend this | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It 's never about resolution, it 's only about interminable introspective babble. It is nothing more than a psychological drama taken to an extreme beyond the audience 's ability to connect. Woody Allen chose to make characters so immersed in themselves we feel left out. And for that reason I found this movie painfully self indulgent and spiritually draining. I see what he was going for but his insistence on promoting his message through Prozac prose and distorted film techniques jettisons it past the point of relevance. I highly recommend this one if you | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It 's never about resolution, it 's only about interminable introspective babble. It is nothing more than a psychological drama taken to an extreme beyond the audience 's ability to connect. Woody Allen chose to make characters so immersed in themselves we feel left out. And for that reason I found this movie painfully self indulgent and spiritually draining. I see what he was going for but his insistence on promoting his message through Prozac prose and distorted film techniques jettisons it past the point of relevance. I highly recommend this one if you 're | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It 's never about resolution, it 's only about interminable introspective babble. It is nothing more than a psychological drama taken to an extreme beyond the audience 's ability to connect. Woody Allen chose to make characters so immersed in themselves we feel left out. And for that reason I found this movie painfully self indulgent and spiritually draining. I see what he was going for but his insistence on promoting his message through Prozac prose and distorted film techniques jettisons it past the point of relevance. I highly recommend this one if you 're feeling a little too happy and need | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It 's never about resolution, it 's only about interminable introspective babble. It is nothing more than a psychological drama taken to an extreme beyond the audience 's ability to connect. Woody Allen chose to make characters so immersed in themselves we feel left out. And for that reason I found this movie painfully self indulgent and spiritually draining. I see what he was going for but his insistence on promoting his message through Prozac prose and distorted film techniques jettisons it past the point of relevance. I highly recommend this one if you 're feeling a little too happy and need something to | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It 's never about resolution, it 's only about interminable introspective babble. It is nothing more than a psychological drama taken to an extreme beyond the audience 's ability to connect. Woody Allen chose to make characters so immersed in themselves we feel left out. And for that reason I found this movie painfully self indulgent and spiritually draining. I see what he was going for but his insistence on promoting his message through Prozac prose and distorted film techniques jettisons it past the point of relevance. I highly recommend this one if you 're feeling a little too happy and need something to remind | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It 's never about resolution, it 's only about interminable introspective babble. It is nothing more than a psychological drama taken to an extreme beyond the audience 's ability to connect. Woody Allen chose to make characters so immersed in themselves we feel left out. And for that reason I found this movie painfully self indulgent and spiritually draining. I see what he was going for but his insistence on promoting his message through Prozac prose and distorted film techniques jettisons it past the point of relevance. I highly recommend this one if you 're feeling a little too happy and need something to remind you of | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It 's never about resolution, it 's only about interminable introspective babble. It is nothing more than a psychological drama taken to an extreme beyond the audience 's ability to connect. Woody Allen chose to make characters so immersed in themselves we feel left out. And for that reason I found this movie painfully self indulgent and spiritually draining. I see what he was going for but his insistence on promoting his message through Prozac prose and distorted film techniques jettisons it past the point of relevance. I highly recommend this one if you 're feeling a little too happy and need something to remind you of death. Otherwise, let 's | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70 's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non - love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a" more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is" lost" and" struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It 's never about resolution, it 's only about interminable introspective babble. It is nothing more than a psychological drama taken to an extreme beyond the audience 's ability to connect. Woody Allen chose to make characters so immersed in themselves we feel left out. And for that reason I found this movie painfully self indulgent and spiritually draining. I see what he was going for but his insistence on promoting his message through Prozac prose and distorted film techniques jettisons it past the point of relevance. I highly recommend this one if you 're feeling a little too happy and need something to remind you of death. Otherwise, let 's just pretend this film | 0 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. | 1 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. | 1 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70's wine and cheese tripe. | 1 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. | 1 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non-love, halitosis, whatever. | 1 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non-love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. | 1 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non-love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a "more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". | 1 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non-love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a "more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. | 1 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non-love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a "more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. | 1 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non-love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a "more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. | 1 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non-love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a "more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. | 1 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non-love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a "more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. | 1 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non-love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a "more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. | 1 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non-love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a "more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is "lost" and "struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. | 1 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non-love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a "more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is "lost" and "struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It's never about resolution, it's only about interminable introspective babble. | 1 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non-love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a "more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is "lost" and "struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It's never about resolution, it's only about interminable introspective babble. It is nothing more than a psychological drama taken to an extreme beyond the audience's ability to connect. | 1 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non-love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a "more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is "lost" and "struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It's never about resolution, it's only about interminable introspective babble. It is nothing more than a psychological drama taken to an extreme beyond the audience's ability to connect. Woody Allen chose to make characters so immersed in themselves we feel left out. | 1 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non-love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a "more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is "lost" and "struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It's never about resolution, it's only about interminable introspective babble. It is nothing more than a psychological drama taken to an extreme beyond the audience's ability to connect. Woody Allen chose to make characters so immersed in themselves we feel left out. And for that reason I found this movie painfully self indulgent and spiritually draining. | 1 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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When I was little my parents took me along to the theater to see Interiors. It was one of many movies I watched with my parents, but this was the only one we walked out of. Since then I had never seen Interiors until just recently, and I could have lived out the rest of my life without it. What a pretentious, ponderous, and painfully boring piece of 70's wine and cheese tripe. Woody Allen is one of my favorite directors but Interiors is by far the worst piece of crap of his career. In the unmistakable style of Ingmar Berman, Allen gives us a dark, angular, muted, insight in to the lives of a family wrought by the psychological damage caused by divorce, estrangement, career, love, non-love, halitosis, whatever. The film, intentionally, has no comic relief, no music, and is drenched in shadowy pathos. This film style can be best defined as expressionist in nature, using an improvisational method of dialogue to illicit a "more pronounced depth of meaning and truth". But Woody Allen is no Ingmar Bergman. The film is painfully slow and dull. But beyond that, I simply had no connection with or sympathy for any of the characters. Instead I felt only contempt for this parade of shuffling, whining, nicotine stained, martyrs in a perpetual quest for identity. Amid a backdrop of cosmopolitan affluence and baked Brie intelligentsia the story looms like a fart in the room. Everyone speaks in affected platitudes and elevated language between cigarettes. Everyone is "lost" and "struggling", desperate to find direction or understanding or whatever and it just goes on and on to the point where you just want to slap all of them. It's never about resolution, it's only about interminable introspective babble. It is nothing more than a psychological drama taken to an extreme beyond the audience's ability to connect. Woody Allen chose to make characters so immersed in themselves we feel left out. And for that reason I found this movie painfully self indulgent and spiritually draining. I see what he was going for but his insistence on promoting his message through Prozac prose and distorted film techniques jettisons it past the point of relevance. | 1 | tensor([ 101, 2043, 1045, 2001, 2210, 2026, 3008, 2165, 2033, 2247,
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