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cert violinist and avenger of acts of totalitarian terrorism, seduces the cover girl Nasty by, literally, using her body as the fiddle for his bow (truly a man with many strings to his instrument), and the one in which Harvey Keitel, as an international terrorist, rides in the back of his car with Kinski and a traitorous henchman between them, and calmly stabs the traitor through the heart and wipes his knife without skipping a beat in the badinage. Though the New York critics have left-handedly praised the film, it will die a swift, well-deserved death in the heartland; how does such a consummate no-talent as Toback repeatedly raise the money for his dismal blood-and-sex fantasies?

As for The Hunger, a vampire film permeated with a totally effete interiordecorator sensibility, it is, like Exposed, most interesting for its utter lack of sense, to which it adds a choppy, crosscutting style full of short takes, like a master chef demonstrating his chopping technique so fast that the eye can’t tell whether he’s preparing an appetizer or dessert, and the stomach feels as if it were being simultaneously force-fed on both. Wan horror, limp sex, and minimal narrative are doused with every sort of visual opulence and chic, in which the mating of Catherine Deneuve and David Bowie looks almost as unisex as the subsequent dalliance between Deneuve and Susan Sarandon. The latter has genuine talent, wasted on what looks like an extended commercial for Calvin Klein jeans.

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cert violinist and avenger of acts of totalitarian terrorism, seduces the cover girl Nasty by, literally, using her body as the fiddle for his bow (truly a man with many strings to his instrument), and the one in which Harvey Keitel, as an international terrorist, rides in the back of his car with Kinski and a traitorous henchman between them, and calmly stabs the traitor through the heart and wipes his knife without skipping a beat in the badinage. Though the New York critics have left-handedly praised the film, it will die a swift, well-deserved death in the heartland; how does such a consummate no-talent as Toback repeatedly raise the money for his dismal blood-and-sex fantasies?

As for The Hunger, a vampire film permeated with a totally effete interiordecorator sensibility, it is, like Exposed, most interesting for its utter lack of sense, to which it adds a choppy, crosscutting style full of short takes, like a master chef demonstrating his chopping technique so fast that the eye can’t tell whether he’s preparing an appetizer or dessert, and the stomach feels as if it were being simultaneously force-fed on both. Wan horror, limp sex, and minimal narrative are doused with every sort of visual opulence and chic, in which the mating of Catherine Deneuve and David Bowie looks almost as unisex as the subsequent dalliance between Deneuve and Susan Sarandon. The latter has genuine talent, wasted on what looks like an extended commercial for Calvin Klein jeans.