Using most of the standard yardsticks employed for cinematic evaluation, Straight to Hell isn’t a good movie. You could look at it as an indulgent, half-assed waste of time, money and talent — an excuse for a bunch of friends to hang out in Spain, drink wine and play cowboys and bandits. But if you tilt your head ever so slightly, you can also see this haphazard homage to spaghetti westerns as a gloriously bizarre, metatextual experiment wherein some of the greatest artists of the 1980s got together to make a DIY, punk rock movie about coffee, cigarettes and . . .
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