Vaiburêta

Vibrator is a movie I'd like to forget. A movie where the fake-outs and plot twists get faked-out and twisted-over so you're right back where you started. A movie that transfers, seamlessly, from grotesquely silent anal sex sequences to intricately technical discussions over the innermost workings of CB radio.

There are shots in this film that make you wonder if the projectionist accidentally spliced in thousands upon thousands of identical frames. Characters sit, silently eating soup, for up to and including ten minutes at a time. It's like watching paint dry, only at some point in the course of the first act, the paint is already dry, and you just sit around watching paint for two hours!

Vibrator is truly remarkable in its refusal to tell a story, to grab your attention, or event to through in a shred of music every now and then! For a movie with practically two speaking parts, you might figure it to be a characters study, but that would involve actually wiggling some effort in the way of character development.

Vibrator never surmounts to anything. The cinematography, flashy at best, is reminiscent of a Mitsubishi commercial, sans-techno. The main players do fine, but are given virtually no material to play to an audience with. Characters cry, and you just watch them. You don't feel them.

I walked out of the late-night screening of Vibrator from the LA Film Festival feeling drastically cheated.