Cinematic brain aneurysm. Pure, uncut outsider art. A broken, sleazy, nausea-inducing odyssey of grubby sincerity and punch-drunk macho fantasies.
Under normal circumstances, Unhinged would qualify as an unmitigated write-off. It’s a generic, gutter counter-programmer whose main draw is watching a former Oscar winner slumming so hard you can soak up the greasy desperation behind every hammy Welles-ian tic.
But timing is everything—and this film gains a smidgen of perverse novelty by being one of the first (and few notable) theatrical releases available in a post-lockdown, tentpole-bereft environment. Here’s us thirsting for the escapist, high-concept wonders of Tenet, but being…