One of two alleged motion pictures that I have voluntarily failed to view to completion in my half century plus of movie attendance. Except for a paltry few humorous moments, one of the most worthless efforts ever put to celluloid. But what else can you expect when you allow a shallow thinking, self congratulatory, egocentric like Beatty to run amok with a typewriter. WB, long a Hollywood darling, exposed himself as the personification of the Emperor's new clothes, and the real life equivalent of Being There's Chauncey. Senseless, gratuitously profane, extravagantly offensive and worst of all, gut wrenchingly boring, to the extent that only the most avid devotees of Beatty's crabbed philosophical views could appreciate it. As it sludged painfully on, getting worse with each scene, I found myself wondering what could possess any homo sapien writer with an IQ above 50 to continue to disgorge this bile with absolutely no smattering of socially redeeming value. Fortunately my psychological defensive mechanisms have succeeded in blurring this grotesque memory over the past seven years to the point where I can now bear to write about it without initiating gross reflux. Can you tell I didn't like it? Want a succinct review? Bullworthless.