Pietro Minchiadura

damn, you were in a bad way, priest...

Bartle, you made me emotional...! What is this wonderful site you’re talking about?

Paloz, I had to click on your nickname to see that photo: don’t take it the wrong way, but from here it looks like a hand doing autoerotism.

I am Pietro Minchiadura and I am entering the chat.

I am Pietro Minchiadura and I enter this page.

This is really living!

I said: not that it sucks for the balls. So it's good, mind you, but I see it up there and it leaves me feeling dismayed. You need a strong stomach to appreciate Pasolini and Jodo. But in short, I await other scenarios to discuss your wickedness. Best wishes, bigùl.

Hey, you big gay, but what does "ultranatalizio" mean? Alright, I’ll see it sooner or later: you have to grant me a little bit of doubt, come on. I open your chart and it's as dry as some Apulian tomatoes. I've already discussed the planetary balls (that’s a good one!) in 2001, but not the lost roads of Lynch because there's nothing to discuss: Mulholland is better, but we’d get lost in a herd. In any case, it’s good for crazy people and pairs well with Salò: only you could have it in the top ten. Shall we talk about The Holy Mountain? Esoteric, symbolic, imaginative but full of bullshit? I know you're going to get mad, that’s why I'm here. In all this mess, where I’m only amazed by your quote about Umberto D (I didn’t think you had the sensitivity to appreciate it, you coprophile, gnek gnek), of course the most suicidal film by Bergman had to be included: it’s chilling. Not that I’m saying it’s bullshit, but seeing it at the top makes me realize you’re not well. Grant me a little bit of doubt, will you?

Never seen it, except in a few historical excerpts: I know, it’s a serious flaw. Before opening the page, I was tempted to revisit it, then I saw that ajeje gives it a 5. Well, damn, that’s not everyday stuff. Best to stay away, then.

I saw it. It would deserve a flat 1 for how pretentious and almost caricatural it is towards the very Lynchian production, disappointing and collapsing for three consecutive hours on the imperfect dentition of a Laura Dern who, as good as she is, ultimately can't help but be unbearable. Still, here and there sprinkled with Lynch-like inventions and the usual labyrinthine and disturbing inner landscapes, it just barely passes. But Lynch's assumption that we buy into it is intolerable. The usual discussion about the presence of a plot has opened up. In my opinion, discussing the plot doesn't make sense, but, as Easy said, the meaning does. Meaning is something else: a plot, no matter how substantial, can lack meaning. Or rather, the film itself can lack meaning, it can lack inspiration, it can be without ideas, and here, in my opinion, Lynch overdoes it. But above all, the point is that it doesn't even come close to the imaginative power of Lost Highway and Mulholland. Not even close, I repeat. Just think of the latter's dark and fascinating sapphic relationship between Harring and Watts, the surreal theater of a Rebekah del Rio crying into the void, the elongated and abyssal shots of a nightmarish Los Angeles. Here, there is nothing noteworthy, just an increasingly tiresome Dern, a sacrificed Irons, and four faded supporting characters. The "rabbits" have their own unsettling stature, but the framework they stand on is crumbling. If you then argue that the four floozies that infest Dern's ego are noteworthy, well, I don't think so. Absolutely postponed.