There are bad movies, and then there are horrible movies. Bad movies are mildly entertaining spectacles engendering yawns and some head scratching, but horrible movies are something else. Horrible movies are so terrible and annoying that they require a tremendous act of the will to keep oneself from bolting out the door. After 15 minutes, it becomes apparent that "3000 Miles to Graceland" falls into this hallowed group.
A 120-minute exercise in bad-boy clich
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“dusty rusty crusty musty ass california hills”
“frowning in plaid (haunted radios, bird bones + anthropomorphized wind)”
“warming my hands on bridges i’ve burnt”
“songs that make me see god”
“My Playlist #236”
“classy wine moment and intellectual conversation”
“90s heroin chic model off duty”
“tweet tweet bird emoji map emoji”
“not my circus, not my monkeys”
“a grave is probably cheaper than an apartment”
“ATE THESE BITCHES LEFT NO CRUMBS / DID IT IN DESIGNER PUMPS”
