Time can do dreadful things to movies. Although it seems clear that I was just too green when it came out to see how dreadful much of The End of Violence already in fact was. These actors have clearly been directed incompetently. Never has ennui seemed so much like a brand of perfume. Sam Fuller's soul poring out through his blanching eyes as his flesh stammers is, however, one of the greatest gifts of all cinema.
Muddled effort from Wenders attempts to be a mediation on the role of violence in American society, but never really coalesces into a compelling story. An intriguing, slick atmosphere and an impressive cast aren't enough to elevate it from its pretensions and heavy-handed allegory. A dull mess, but an effective score by Ry Cooder.