— which I’d call a Nicolas Cage vehicle, but vehicle to where? — are the black truffles buried deep in the Oregonian forest. Everyone else is hirsute; everything else hairy. This includes Rob, who we first meet munching dirt and slowly scampering through the forest.
Once in Portland, the unlikely duo embarks on a series of increasingly outlandish and Odyssean adventures which are meant, somehow, to ladder up to finding his pig. For instance, in the shadows of a food cart pod, they meet Edgar , another bearded sad sack who runs an underground fight club for restaurant workers in the subterranean remnants of the now-closed Hotel Portland.
Obviously, art reserves the right to unmoor itself from reality. Not everything must be mimetic. But if the work in question — be it prose or painting or play or film — chooses to sail into the uncharted waters of abstraction, it should then abide by its own internally consistent set of rules. A work of art doesn’t need to be real, but it needs to be real to itself. And here is where the film falters.stumbles through satire, thriller, and meditative character study.
Stick to sports
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