It’s bad enough when a film disappoints and doesn’t live up to expectations. But what’s perhaps worse is when a picture not only fails to live up to expectations, but also validates the negative reputation that precedes it. Such is the case, regrettably, with the latest feature from filmmaker Paul Schrader, an embarrassingly bad production from an artist who has written and/or directed such masterful works as “First Reformed” (2017), “American Gigolo” (1980), “Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters” (1985), “The Last Temptation of Christ” (1988) and “Taxi Driver” (1976). This miserably unfocused slog struggles to tell the story of Leonard Fife (Richard Gere), a famous but terminally ill director who’s being interviewed for a made-for-TV biography discussing his legendary life and career as a revered documentary filmmaker. However, the protagonist doesn’t see this so much as a congratulatory tribute to his accomplishments but as a cathartic, unburdening confession about the life he led that virtually no one knows anything about. To complicate matters, his rapidly failing health and cloudy memory keep him from fulfilling this objective, especially when he reveals secrets about himself not known by even those closest to him (most notably, his wife, Emma (Uma Thurman), and his protégé, Malcolm (Michael Imperioli), director of the biography), revelations that they’re quick to attribute to faulty recall. Leonard’s previously hidden back story comes to life through a series of clumsy, disjointed flashbacks featuring his younger self (Jacob Elordi) presented in a largely unintelligible fashion that brings new meaning to the term “nonlinear.” What’s worse, though, is that the relevance of these admissions largely goes unexplained and unresolved, bearing seemingly little relation to the nature of his character or his career as an auteur. His flight to Canada and experience as a conscientious objector during the Vietnam War, for example, receives surprisingly little attention given that his defection from the US is essentially responsible for what made his vocation as a filmmaker possible. Then there are snippets from his many passing dalliances with women that make for a story more like “Oh! Calcutta!” than “Oh, Canada.” Taken together, these elements make for a hodgepodge of moments from a life undefined, one that viewers are likely to care little about in the end. Such work is highly uncharacteristic for an artist like Schrader, which makes the impression it leaves all the more worse. Whatever the director was going for here, it’s not particularly clear. And that’s too bad, given that the filmmaker appears to have had plenty of good material and resources to work with here, including a cast of players who turn in some of their best-ever on-screen performances, the dreadful script that they’ve been handed notwithstanding. For what it’s worth, the result is a major disappointment, one that exceeds the negative impressions it has already left on so many movie lovers who expect more from a talent like this.

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