Apart from the bathroom scene, it falls well short of harnessing Cage's self-proclaimed nouveau-shamanic style (I was constantly reminded of how well Wild at Heart managed to use his OTT, slapstick schtick to greater effect in comparison, in fact, it accomplished everything this film set out to do), which is a must if you're going to use him as the centerpiece. To make matters worse, as a director/writer you can't fake the funk, your films are a window into who you are, therefore, you can't pretend to be someone/something you're not or you better be damn good at trying to. David Lynch makes you believe he's been down that rabbit hole where only the subconcious exists; Lars von Trier makes you believe he's a pretentious, entitled cracker who wallows in his own introspection; Jodorowsky makes you believe he's forever trapped in an hallucinogen-induced state and a mental vegetable to reality, and their work is better off because of it.
Unfortunately for Cosmatos, he couldn't make it more obvious that he didn't live it; he just witnessed shyt from his folk's pad, scribbled in his notepad and created his life.