Reseñas de la crítica

Gallo’s compact yet idiomatic mise-en-scène is nowhere more inventive than in his transfixing staging of Billy’s climactic act of vengeance in the strip club—a sui generis series of mind’s-eye tableaux vivants, lurid real-time freeze frames set, with incongruous perfection, to Seventies-era King Crimson. I’ve never seen anything like it.

Buffalo '66 is an intriguing, peculiar, ultimately disappointing film loaded with flashy, stylish touches that prove more interesting than anything else. Despite clear aspirations to be an actors' showcase, grotesque caricatures take the place of real humans.

But if this sounds like a giant ego trip, don't be put off - it's disarmingly charming, perceptive, very funny and hugely original, and even makes last year's tiredest plot cliche - the bungled kidnap - work.

Gallo's directorial debut is one of a kind, an eccentric, provocative comedy which laces a poignant love story with both a sombre, washed-out naturalism and surreal musical vignettes.

From the start, it's so grungy that it's weirdly captivating. By the time Gallo's lo-fi joyride cruises to a stop, you've been so beguiled by its surprises, wrong turns, and chance encounters that you'd be disappointed by something more carefully worked out.

Gallo packs the film with odd, endearing flourishes that detract a bit from the storyline but add to the overall whole... In the end, it's a love story after all, but a peculiarly Gallocentric one - cheap, nasty, but salvageable nonetheless.

Vincent Gallo's "Buffalo '66" plays like a collision between a lot of half-baked visual ideas and a deep and urgent need. That makes it interesting.

Candidly and painfully personal, Buffalo '66 seems to spring from the kind of fantasies that inform movies almost exclusively--though vanity publishers offer similar opportunities. For me the film creates more embarrassment than sympathy, but at least it's a kind of embarrassment that's instructive.

Gallo's own demonic charm as Billy or his directorial boldness in juxtaposing the emotional surreality of his story with the bleak reality of his hometown in winter, creating a sort of casual but strangely haunting weirdness.

Personal and private almost to the point of self-absorption, the film is ultimately saved from neurotic narcissism by the director's self-deprecating humor and unapologetic honesty about his own dysfunction.

It’s not merely a product of his personality but a picture of it. The film’s narrative is overtly cinematic, but at heart it feels like a diary, compelling in a voyeuristic manner, even, if one can still use the term, real.

[Billy] bullies [Layla] outrageously but with such crazy brio and jittery persistence that Layla falls for him. Mr. Gallo's film, a deadpan original mixing pathos with bravado, works on its audience in much the same way.