If you put a video camera in the hands of someone with little experience who has no idea what to photograph and why, you might come up with an effort similar to "Twentynine Palms." There's nothing wrong with allowing development of a film to take its own course. Some interesting results may emerge in the hands of an experienced photographer who understands his subject matter, has a good eye for composition, lighting, and action, and who is a genuine artist attempting to communicate something about the human condition to his audience. That goal is not achieved in this film, which the director pretentiously advertises as some sort of minimalist artistic enterprise investigating "the myths of America." One might be reminded of "Deliverance," but that movie attempted a grander subject involving not only the dark side of human nature but Nature, itself. We see here a supposed photographer who painfully tries to evoke John Lennon and who with his French/Russian girlfriend attempts to explore the Mohave Desert in Southern California, supposedly scouting locations for a future shoot but strangely without any cameras along (some photographer he is). He's specifically interested in a section of the desert that is reputed to have some real nutjobs roaming around looking for trouble (a few of whom hail from the local Marine Corps base). Despite the stringing together of numerous interminable takes, nothing of interest happens and the setting is not particularly inspiring, largely because the director doesn't seem to know where or when to shoot his indulgently wasted footage. The couple "enjoys" several sexual interludes in their motel room, in the dumpy motel pool, and in isolated places out in the middle of the desert. They drive around in his brand spanking new Hummer, the wheel of which he turns over to his silly girlfriend rather casually. Ultimately, their pointless wandering gets the two of them into a real pickle because they are doing it in a potentially dangerous place with no way of defending themselves. When they are bushwhacked out in the middle of nowhere and he is brutally dealt with by three wayward scuzbuckets who strangely leave her almost unscathed, we can't develop too much sympathy for him because he's a jerk who has been sexually exploiting her the entire time. We can't develop much sympathy for her, either, because she's obviously nuts and has been acting out at the slightest pretext over the course of this boring non-story. But when she saves his life and he responds by assaulting and brutally killing her before killing himself, we are left with even less than we had before, which is a big fat zero. The shocking conclusion has obviously been tacked on just as the gratuitous sex scenes were, to make something from nothing with minimal effort. This movie didn't have to be made, probably shouldn't have been made, and hasn't added anything to our appreciation of the new French cinema, much of which is brilliant, beautiful, innovative, subtle, and artistic. If this director would like some lessons on how to use all the money he obviously has at his disposal to far greater effect in the American milieu, I'd be happy to lend a hand. He certainly could use it, and frankly, were I employed by the Customs Department, I'd be going over his case with a jaundiced eye. The guy appears to be more than a little twisted.