This year’s retrospective on Shirley Clarke has valiantly brought to the big screen some esoteric gems that might have otherwise remained in the dusty cellar where they’ve rested for the past few decades, but the inclusion of this justly forgotten obscurity sadly makes quality subservient to comprehensiveness. Shirley Clarke cameos as herself, presumably on a whim or as a favor to her friends making this indulgent junk, who seem to be out-of-work actors/filmmakers/swingers who decided to make a film themselves (hence unrelated and bitter scenes of studio bosses showing themselves to be power-hungry idiots). The characters and the actors playing them laze about on a bed and act like drunken drama students. The only novelty on display is how the film blurs the line between narrative and documentary, but rather than creating an interesting postmodern film, this only underlines the lack of ideas or inspiration on the part of those involved. Let’s just hope that if the festival does a Tarantino retrospective in forty years, they don’t include the comparably listless and irrelevant Destiny Turns on the Radio in which he himself made an ill-advised cameo for some far less talented friends.