Kudos to Nick Cage for taking the risk of playing "himself". It takes a lot of irony and one mustn't take oneself too seriously. But this film is a mess that not even Pedro Pascal can save.
Since you have to meet a character limit to submit a review, here's a poem by Sylvia Plath:
Clownlike, happiest on your hands, Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled, Gilled like a fish. A common-sense Thumbs-down on the dodo's mode.
Wrapped up in yourself like a spool, Trawling your dark as owls do.
Mute as a turnip from the Fourth Of July to All Fools' Day, O high-riser, my little loaf.
Vague as fog and looked for like mail.
Farther off than Australia.
Bent-backed Atlas, our traveled prawn.
Snug as a bud and at home Like a sprat in a pickle jug.
A creel of eels, all ripples.
Jumpy as a Mexican bean.
Right, like a well-done sum.
A clean slate, with your own face on.
Since you have to meet a character limit to submit a review, here's a poem by Sylvia Plath:
Clownlike, happiest on your hands, Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled, Gilled like a fish. A common-sense Thumbs-down on the dodo's mode.
Wrapped up in yourself like a spool, Trawling your dark as owls do.
Mute as a turnip from the Fourth Of July to All Fools' Day, O high-riser, my little loaf.
Vague as fog and looked for like mail.
Farther off than Australia.
Bent-backed Atlas, our traveled prawn.
Snug as a bud and at home Like a sprat in a pickle jug.
A creel of eels, all ripples.
Jumpy as a Mexican bean.
Right, like a well-done sum.
A clean slate, with your own face on.
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