What in the name of...? Anthony Hopkins goes way, way, way off the deep end with Slipstream, a straight-outta-crazyland film written and directed by the actor in some sort of feverish attempt to mimic the work of former The Elephant Man collaborator David Lynch. It's Hopkins' very own Inland Empire, minus the inspiration and double the stylistic wackiness, with so many flash cuts, insert shots, freeze frames, rewinds, fast-forwards, color changes, perspective switches, discordant soundtrack noises and repeated scenes (featuring cast members in various roles) that it takes only a few short minutes for one's brain to start hurting from madness overload. And that isn't even a full list of all the tricks and gimmicks employed throughout this awe-inspiringly loony evisceration of Hollywood, the filmmaking process and - given its own awfulness - maybe art-house cinema as well. Who knows? To say Hopkins is going for something a tad more avant-garde than the standard fare in which he usually participates is to say that black is slighter darker than white. Slipstream is straight-up bonkers, a deliberately unintelligible and aesthetically insane head-trip into the fractured mind of its protagonist, screenwriter Felix Bonhoeffer (Hopkins).
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