It's a toss-up between this 1989 essay film and Until the End of the World (in the abbreviated U.S. version) for Wim Wenders's worst movie. Until the End of the World is silly and boring, but it has a few redeeming moments; this has a few moments too, but it's ideologically much more offensive. Wenders interviews and philosophizes about chic fashion designer Yohji Yamamoto, whose clothes he wears (in exchange for making this movie?), films female models, blithely decapitating them, and ruminates about the meaning of video, himself, life in general—that sort of thing. A rich boy's movie made by a talented artist whose view of the social world has shrunk to the dimensions of his hotel room.