Myra Breckinridge is about as funny as a child molester. It is an insult to intelligence, an affront to sensibility and an abomination to the eye. Based on Gore Vidal's sordid little sex-change novel, the movie took nine months and at least $5,000,000 to make and spawned more tales of cast warfare than any film since The Night of the Iguana. The result is an incoherent tale of sodomy, emasculation, autoeroticism and plain bad taste.
As probably everyone in the world but a few Tibetan monks knows by now, the story concerns a Myron...
To continue reading:
or
Log-In
