Stinker alert!

I don't know what I was thinking when I put this movie on my Netflix queue.  It was an interminable two hours and thirty-nine minutes long.  And I mean long.  And depressing.  Did I mention that it was long?  And it didn't even have Kevin Costner in it, mindlessly dancing with wolves.  I much prefer Brad Pitt in a movie where he invokes his inner half-wit (like Burn After Reading) than what always amount to his feeble attempts at dramatic brilliance in a wooden role written for, say, Keanu Reeves.  Sam Shepard had about five lines and I think Mary-Louise Parker had two - and some screaming.  I'm sitting there trying not to doze off, waiting for the coward Robert Ford to actually assassinate Jesse James when I realize that his whole problem is that he has some sort of unrequited hero/idol worship secret love thing for Jesse.  Too weird for a western - not enough shooting and bank robbing.  I mean, was Jesse James retired or something?  If someone near and dear to you suggests this movie for your Friday night flick, feign the flu or run screaming from the room.  You'll thank me later.