prolix

In 1949, a young American artist named Ray Johnson left Black Mountain College near Asheville, N.C., moved to New York City and began to explore his prolix talents, both visual and verbal.

On one especially prolix ballad, “Blind,” she lets her lyrics fly fast and furious, only half-apologizing for being “raunchy like Bob Saget” before outlining how toxic romances erode self-worth.

It’s hard to imagine a more committed recording; but if there are moments in the first three movements when Rott’s promise truly shines through, there’s nothing Hrusa can do for the absurdly prolix finale.

Unfazed either by the working conditions or by Maggie Cohn and Jack Stanley’s ridiculously over-the-top screenplay, she lends her grouchy character more than a ramrod spine and steely stare: She gives her a woundedness that keeps us watching long after this prolix quest for redemption should have reached its preordained conclusion.

She added, in a prolix sentence that nonetheless makes its point, “Or is it actually that the sense of achievement his work self-consciously carries with it itself carries less credibility than it used to?”