Apparently the director of this film starved his cast of sleep in the hope that it would make their performances flat and ambiguous, allowing the viewer to interpret what little story and character development there is for themselves, the goal (supposedly) being that the audience would fill the void with the colours that reflected their own, everyone coming away with their own version of what the film meant.
Although this sounds like, and actually is, fairly pretentious twaddle, and sleep or not, some of the acting is piss-poor, it does kinda work.
You could equally view the film as a celebration of non-conformity and freedom, where every stop for a burger on the back roads of a vast nation offered new potential adventures, or you could see it as a story of true nothingness, no real beginning, end or message, the endless roads over an unyielding landscape highlighting how brief and unimportant our spark of appearance on the map of eternity truly is.
Or you could just argue that it's a load of old wank that drives right up it's own arse and stays there. All would be fairly valid opinions. Or anything in between.
8/10 or 1/10 or whatever.
"Fucking 'ell, Jeff. Don't drink the oil, you twat."
I wish cars still looked like this. Not yellow though, that's a shit colour.
In the early 1970s, everyone used to look at different things.
"Step on it, you fucking mincer."
"Grey, raining and cold. This ain't bad but I wan't something even more depressing"
"What you driving these days, Clive?"
"Some fucking ponced-up shopping trolley."
"Yellow with a V8?"
"Yeah, that's the one."
"You look like Matthew Corbett"
"Fuck off you fuzzy wank."