Buffalo '66

Buffalo '66 ★★★★½

Diary Of A Wimpy Kid

Buffalo 66 should be totally unlikeable, in the sense of it being a foul, egotistic and narcissistic self-examination of a self-absorbed cunt who hates women that nobody asked for. And trust, Vincent Gallo is exactly that.

But Buffalo 66 portrays a man so feeble and pathetic, so small that he ends up being totally disarmed by a fucking teenager. Billy isn’t so much as charming as other people read him (the charm comes from the look of the film, which is fucking great); more, Billy’s neuroses (and in turn Gallo’s), his worst qualities, are totally exploded onto the screen. This is cinema as bleeding catharsis, and you can’t help but see the worst of yourself in Billy. 

There are appropriate sexist readings to this, in that Layla isn’t afforded anywhere near the examination of Billy, but if we are to believe that Billy is such a pathetic worm he has to kidnap a girl to pretend to be his wife, it’s not a stretch to read this film as his small-minded delusion, that he is indeed worthy of love. 

The filmic equivalent of Pinkerton.

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