Gregor Jordan‘s The Informers, based on Brett Easton Ellis ‘s 1994 book of the same name, is about as rancid and repellent as a movie of this sort gets. Set in 1983 Los Angeles, it makes you feel immensely sorry for the actors but mostly for yourself because you’re stuck watching it. I just came out of it; everyone I’ve spoken to about it (i.e, those who saw it with me at the Yarrow) looks pained and deflated — like they’ve got the flu.

I know that I will never ever watch another sleazy, poison-virus flick about a bunch of empty, drugged-up Hollywood zombies smoking too much, drinking too much, doing too much blow and boring the living shit out of the audience. That’s it — I’m done. The script, co-authored by Ellis and Nicholas Jarecki, is occasionally functional but more often flat and tedious; sometimes it’s repulsively stupid. It may be the worst Sundance movie I’ve ever seen — it’s certainly one of the biggest stinkers ever to show here.

I have to go catch Bronson now but this film made me want to puke. What a thing to watch after cheering Barack Obama‘s inauguration! Shame on everyone involved with this film except for Billy Bob Thornton, the only actor in this film who manages to exude at least a smidgen of dignity.