Pretentious, self-indulgent swill. The fictionalised autobiography of a poor little rich boy who goes into rehab, occasioning a plotless -- and pointless -- series of increasingly trite hallucinations. In addition to writing and directing (to the extent the film can be considered to have been written or directed at all), Rooks also stars, contributing a stiff, somnambulistic performance that, like some kind of thespic black hole, sucks the life out of every scene in which he appears. Still, to his credit, he WAS able to corral a pretty impressive bunch of collaborators into abetting him in bringing this piffle to the screen (cinematographers robert frank and eugene schufftan, musicians ornette coleman, ravi shankar, the fugs, and philip glass, hipster icons like william burroughs, alan ginsberg, moondog, and so on), which does give it a certain curiosity value. Neverthess, despite some striking photography and music, the film dates very badly, coming off as a shapeless compendium of off-the-rack "avant-garde" cliches, hackneyed visual gimmickry, and ponderously boneheaded navel-gazing by someone too vapidly irreflective and self-absorbed to realise that it's all been done before -- and better.