But Frisk isn't art: It's nothing. Its location of desire in the entrails of young boys is phony and, worse, meaningless; the movie tells us nothing about life or even death, and it attaches value to neither. Nothing in Frisk matters, and so the film itself can't matter. It's a closed loop of depravity, an odd celluloid bauble that's not worth the trouble either of going to see or storming out of in a huff. Todd Verow may yet make some good movies, but not from the literary oeuvre of Dennis Cooper. That's a dead end.
Frisk opens Fri, March 29, at the Roxie in
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