By way of introduction, Oliver Stone’s Natural Born Killers offers grainy, black-and-white images of the arid south-west that flicker disjointedly to a red tint. There are cuts to eagles and rattlesnakes, and one of those rusty diner signs that are the ultimate cliche of America in decline. Flipping television channels juxtapose Richard Nixon with Leave It to Beaver, and the canted camera angles make it seem like the cinematographer Robert Richardson, known for his hot-white overhead lights, worked in close collaboration with a seesaw. Slathered over all this nonsense is Leonard Cohen’s Waiting for the Miracle.
Welcome to the longest two hours of your life.
