Okay, Catherine, you win. I will dare call your work shock value crap. Now you can call me a boorish slob who can’t recognize art, or can’t relate to the feelings of young women, or whatever you like. I’ve stood up for you twice before (I defended Romance and actually rather liked 36 Filette) but this time I must shoot you down. It’s not that I am shocked by the content of your film (although vomit, urine, vaginal secretions, more urine, chicken blood, semen, chopped up earthworms on pubic hair, even more urine and ear wax aren’t exactly my favorite things to see. . .) but I reject the concept that just showing these things (in close up) blesses your film with the cure-all of brave realism. You are not granted a free pass over things like acting, dialogue, pacing or camerawork just because you dare smack the audience with a big fat glove stating “this is the way adolesence is!!!” Teenage girls masturbating? What a concept! With no story or arstisty (imagine Eric Rohmer devoid of any narrative elegance), even 90 minutes of that gets dull.