Dear Vincent Gallo: Really, what do you want from me, I mean, I just, what. What. What exactly was the point of that giant wank that was “The Brown Bunny”? I’m not saying I want my $10.25 back; I’m not even that annoyed I had to watch Chloë Sevigny in action, especially since for once she wasn’t being hailed for her cutting-edge fashion daring in wearing a pair of goddamn bloomers; and certainly you didn’t have anything to do with the sweat-smelling dude next to me who jiggled his leg uncontrollably and ate hard candies, one after unending other, from a crackly plastic bag.

All in all it was an okay way to spend a Sunday night, and there was even hot chocolate after at Pink Pony, where someone’d requested a bunch of Pretenders songs on the jukebox.

But really.

You do a bang-up job on “Buffalo ’66” and then seem to disappear for years (except that time me and Tom and Lars walked past you on Greenwich on our way to lunch) and then. . . this? Vincent Gallo, did you spend all those years wanking?

Greg said he thought the film was beautifully shot, so I hoped there’d at least be that, but don’t you think that whole depressed-suburbs, mournful-driving, life-in-all-its-subdued-seventies-shades-passing-by thing has been done again and again already? I get it, I get it, I feel the great inescapable weight of Bud Clay’s emotion.

Still, nice job finding actors who make me feel itchy and uncomfortable about their characters’ lives. And nice job actually including a rabbit (even several) in the film, even after I’d wagered, “Twenty bucks says there isn’t even a bunny in this.” And, okay, nice job in that scene where the light from the sun over the horizon is big and white and it kind of hurts.

That is all. Thank you, Vincent Gallo.