Human Traffic wants to be a Trainspotting for the rave set, and so it has thick British accents, hip snotty attitudes, slick visuals, a propulsive electronic soundtrack, and unfortunately some very weak writing and drab characters. A band of friends, with the cute names of Jip, Koop, Nina, Lulu, and Moff, are sex-obsessed clubgoers having some sort of premature midlife crisis. Jip and Lulu are best friends, only their friendship is about to be threatened by sexual tension. Koop gets ravingly jealous about his girlfriend, Nina. Moff masturbates a lot and has a repressive dad. Jip's mother is a prostitute. Koop's father is a paranoid schizophrenic. What little plot there is revolves around whether or not they'll get into a particularly hip club. Critics usually complain that movies are too much like music videos, but Human Traffic could stand to be more of one. All the best moments are when the tepid dialogue stops and the driving beats and quickly edited images take over. A brief break dancing sequence is a moment of genuine dazzle. The actors aren't completely without charm, but the movie is just trying too hard to achieve the effervescent buzz it seeks. --Bret Fetzer
We wanna go somewhere else. We're not threatened by people anymore. All our insecurities have evaporated. We're in the clouds now. We're wide open. We're spacemen orbiting the earth. The world looks beautiful from here, man. We're nympholeptics, desiring for the unobtainable. We risk sanity for moments of temporary enlightenment. So many ideas. So little memory. The last thought killed by anticipation of the next. We embrace an overwhelming feeling of love. We flow in unison. We're together. I wish this was real. We want a universal level of togetherness, where we're comfortable with everyone. We're in rhythm. Part of a movement. A movement to escape. We wave goodbye. Ultimately, we just want to be happy. Heh, yeah^Åhang on, what the fuck was I just talking about?