Snow White And Russian Red

Somewhere near the end of this miasmic acid trip the protagonist, suitably dubbed Yobbo, pleads: “If only there was some kindly person who would tell me the fucking truth. Am I alive?” The answer is: “Does it matter?”

Deciphering a storyline would require the assistance of a code breaker. Yobbo has a girlfriend, called Magda, who leaves him (maybe), flirts with gangsters and corrupt businessmen, enters a TV beauty contest and behaves with the abandon only blonde coke addicts can without being shot in the head at close quarters.

Meanwhile, Yobbo seems obsessed with anything that refers to Ruskies – it’s a Polish film, remember. A dead dog, called Bitchy, is discovered behind a sofa and a vegetarian hippy black-haired Goth beauty, called Angela, offers herself as consolation.

Yobbo is as bald as a billiard ball and likes to walk about fully, or half, naked, showing off his inflated chest measurements. When he has a conversation with his erect penis, promising party time, you know that Snow White does not refer to a nice girl in the woods with dwarfs.

Yobbo looks like a bit of rough, as hard as nails and a bully. In fact, he’s so out of touch with the politics of violence he headbutts a brick wall and ends up in hospital. He drifts from a line of coke to a bottle of pills, urinating on budgies en route. His social skills have no relevance. Where he lives they don’t count for much.

Possibly due to an ingestion of banned substances these people cannot stop talking, which means that keeping up with the subtitles becomes a full-time job, not that they make a whole lot of sense. “You’re the dirt under my fingernails,” Magda squeals at Yobbo. Minutes later they are waking up in bed, wasted.

Drunks are boring. Druggies are worse. Snow White is incomprehensible, boring and worse.