The puffy eyes of Lindsay Lohan. The deadened eyes of James Deen. The frozen faces of the forever tan. Vast and elegant interiors as two-dimensional as they appear in lifestyle magazines—the very same houses rented out for pornography shoots, by homeowners who then watch the DVDs. Breasts unnaturally aloft. Breasts held aloft by naught but youth and hubris. Penises precisely half-erect. A camera that moves with the stealth of a surveillance drone, shooting from the distance of a surveillance drone. A straight man oiled up for the gay male gaze and photographed over and over and over. A straight woman telling two straight men to fuck. The straight men doing this. A twosome on a couch while a stranger masturbates. A foursome upstairs, après-pool. Empty people. Empty Los Angeles people with empty sex and empty joyless glamour and limitless money. Empty people popularized separately by Bret Easton Ellis and Paul Schrader in the early 1980s, now popularized by Bret Easton Ellis and Paul Schrader together in the last year of the tweens. The death of movies, or the sordid downfall of movies. Gus Van Sant playing the psychiatrist of a trust-fund movie producer. Lohan stiltedly asking a woman whether she really likes movies anymore, whether she goes to them in the theaters for fun. Deen using his one facial expression, a raised eyebrow and a pursed lip. Lohan looking as if she has had a rough night, every night, for the entire film. The discomfort of this. The discomfort of this.