The worst thing about Dale Restighini's execrable Colorz of Rage isn't that it fails to properly address the issue of racism (though dear God, does it ever), but that the issue takes a backseat to an aspirant actor's desire to make it. Troubles both racial and career-oriented become indistinguishable from each other, and Restighini's interest in them ends when they no longer concern him. This, naturally, places a ceiling on the level of analysis: black resentment of Whitey is borne of nothing but "intolerance," and white racism is that which drives a wedge between him and his black girlfriend. There's no reach to anyone outside of himself and his issues, and you find yourself praying for a bloody coup against this self-appointed despot.

Resteghini plays Tony Mespelli, a white aspiring actor who's following his black singer girlfriend to New York on the assumption that she's got a recording contract. Alas, the contract fails to materialize, and the two are thrown to the lions of a racially-charged Big Apple. There the lopsided bickering begins: Micelli's white associates, of course, think he should cut his girlfriend loose (too much trouble, really), but the film's real ire is reserved for the uppity blacks who wish to lure his girlfriend out of his white clutches. To wit, there is a group of black militants who angrily, bitterly, vaguely denounce the white man and plot--well, fantasize--his destruction. Too bad. So sad. Can't we all just get along?

Not if career issues keep distracting us. Somehow, Resteghini thinks that his hero's work pains should get equal billing with his dubious racial insight, thus a subplot concerns his myriad arguments with his beloved over money, who naturally won't work beyond her duties as a singer. Will she appreciate that he's supporting her? Will she get that he has ambitions of his own? As the plot thread culminates in a scheme involving stolen credit cards, the audience can be forgiven for asking: what the hell has this got to do with racism? A real artist might have been able to relate the domestic squabbling to the politics, but Resteghini isn't one of those, and the only connection that we can see is that they both cause head pains to the lead. Thus the film lurches unconvincingly between disconnected ideas that are at best badly thought out and at worst random and disconnected.

But then, nothing about the film feels planned or thought out--not the politics, not the dramatics, the characters, the dialogue, nor (excuse me while I sneer) the look. Aiming, perhaps, for the immediacy of John Cassavetes, Colorz of Rage succeeds in smearing the screen with image after ugly image: there's the predictable procession of master shots (usually framing something exciting, like people shouting "What the fuck is that all about?" at the top of their lungs), lit either in near-darkness or with a bulb three inches out of camera range, and with nothing even resembling a cutaway to quicken the pace or, God forbid, build atmosphere. The picture's a lump, and coupled with its amorphous mindframe, it shambles across the screen like something out of Hammer horror. We can all get along without its kind.

The full-frame Artisan disc is a disgrace, even for a film of this calibre. The image is broken up with pixels like nothing I've ever seen, and the colours are washed-out even beyond that of the film's muted scheme. The stereo sound is at least head and shoulders above the picture, though not terribly dynamic; while the film has been drizzled with hip-hop, soul and R&B, it's fuzzy and indistinct, too often forced under the film's diegetic sound. There are, blissfully, no extras.-Travis Hoover