The last thing most rookie movie directors would -- or should -- try to do is crawl inside the fertile, chaotic mind of an impoverished, drunken Southern writer, then throw the whole interior mess up there on the screen: the poor bastard's twisted poetic fantasies and occasional bolts of insight, his grieving for a lost wife and a sick child, his hilarious rage over a drawerful of rejection slips, even the war nightmares he endures thanks to a big-league case of post-traumatic stress syndrome. Most rookie directors would balk at such a package, but... More >>>