Matt Barats is an idiot. He says so himself. He should have dropped a knee in his marriage proposal to his rich, blonde, much younger girlfriend. He didn’t. Now she is kissing her co-worker in the park. And here he is. On a boat he cannot sail. In a marina by the airport. Alone with his childhood DV videotapes. Wallowing in self-pity, unacknowledged narcissism, and a questionable artistic project of unconnected vignettes. Vignettes. Yes, vignettes. Vignettes. After honing his confessional-cringe style with Cash Cow, a film about a struggling actor waiting for some Domino’s advert royalties to roll in while he wallows in a tent in Mormon country, Barats returns with Anchors Aweigh, a smart film about cluelessness. Or, perhaps, a self-aware film about a...
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