ard to imagine more loquacious grimness than what you find in Barbet Schoeder’s adaptation of John Bukowski’s skid row romance. Mickey Rourke, a marvel in gutter roles, is Bukowski alter ego Henry Chinaski. Faye Dunaway, by then 45 and enraged at the Hollywood star system, is faded beauty Wanda Wilcox. Together they drink and stumble between lust and insult, then drink some more. Sex, not love, is the acceptable entertainment. Rourke and Dunaway are method-marvelous. They each perfect a separate horridness. Schroeder, a big Bukowski fan, nails the Depression-era California bar scene — a literally inebriated state. Just how far you want to walk down this plank is up to you. It’s well-acted nowheresville, adrift between black comedy and vomit. (Rourke never escaped this role; he was forever type-cast a rough loser).