My first Roth and, I’m sure, not my last. A fun Freudian phallodrama that moves at a breathless neurasthenic clip. Roth holds outsiderness and othership under a jeweler’s loupe and twirls them against the light. He makes himself a Christ figure and begs us to consider if we aren’t doomed to do the same when we engage in psychotherapy. When a confession is given so freely we of course have to wonder whether the penitent truly feels bad or if they’re just enjoying some catharsis of the chaise lounge variety.