Where Are You

This is the pretentious fever dream of an incompetent screenwriter who thinks they're saying something profound. It's full of demonstrably untrue statements and immature lines. The production value is spectacular. The acting is fine, or it would be if the director wasn't determined to make the audience say, "Deep, man." There is nothing "deep" about this movie, man, partly because there isn't a scratch of authenticity in it. The plot is predictable and diluted with shots of pretty people walking prettily while wearing pretty things. Other filmmakers have handled this subjectmatter with depth. These ones did not.

What on earth made Anthony Hopkins take part in this dreadful movie? It puzzles me. Surely he must have read the script, talked to the director, talked to the other "actors". So how on earth did he manage to get entangled in this utterly horrible movie? Was it a bet?

Is someone blackmailing him? I don't get it.

To make a movie should take more effort than just to put together some scenes that look and sound like a 90s Axe deodorant commercial, right?

The dialogue is just cheezy beyond belief, and the acting is as inspired and as credible as a 90s Axe deodorant commercial.

This must be one of the most annoying attempt at making a movie ever. It reminds me a lot of the Norwegian turkey "Dis" from 1995 made by the Aune Sand. Unanimously hailed as the worst movie in Norwegian history.

Easily the worst film I have watched in a very long time.

Where are you, or should I say, Why are you, is a collection of moments strung together by what seems to be an incompetent film school undergraduate that make no sense whatsoever and is so intent on taking itself so seriously as to be laughable.

Lots of moody piano music is the score. There is no plot. The acting is awful. The editing is pitiful. The direction is childish.

The movie just seems to comprise of getting LA hot people to wander around a nice house for the majority of the runtime.

What Anthony Hopkins is doing in this I will never know.

Avoid.

There are a few artistic fields (i.e. Fashion photography, interior design, singer-songwriter pop music, etc.) which remain to this day whole-heartedly committed to the idea of 'art' which emerged in the eighties, a kind of halfway station between celebrity culture and bohemian hedonism with a generous serving of low-hanging intellectual references. It has very little to do with the actual world, market or practice of art. It's a hazy fantasy of middle-class disalienation, where work and leisure magically coincide for a select few. Like most superficial notions, presenting it visually can sometimes ease or hide the shallowness of its conception. Here unfortunately, the painfully slow and self-satisfied visual narration is interspersed with the oral recounting of the 'philosophy' (FW: Chopra & Coelho) behind the film.

The love-life of a photographer could certainly make an interesting film, and also an occasion for reflection on film, photography and their relation. Unfortunately here all you get is I a vague montage of sun-drenched Instagram reels, interspersed with self-important pronouncements about 'artistic inspiration' and 'the meaning of life'.