text: This movie has no heart and no soul; it's an attempt to whomp up a cult film out of the leavings of other, better, directors, principally David Lynch and Tim Burton. Rifkin seems to think that if he overloads on a kind of rotted visual style and fills the street with crud and garbage, he's making a statement. But it's not a statement ABOUT anything -- except the director's shrill shriek of "HEY LOOK AT ME! I'M AN ARTIST, TOO." But he doesn't have the imagination of an artist, just a good memory for things that worked -- such as some of the actors trapped in this -- for other directors. All of this would be almost acceptable if this movie was not a turgid, boring chore to sit through.