Stoopid

Too perfect, polished, too clean to prefer anything else.

5 a Blackdog

Nice response Black, absolutely shareable. In reality, my comment is not objective at all; I’m just recounting my Lost Highway. I get a headache hearing the events of this story analyzed, but I recognize the value of the narrative reconstruction, it’s a level that exists and to which Lynch has dedicated a manic attention. One day perhaps I’ll be interested, for now, I hold onto that powerful and foggy image.

Yes.

Then suggest three paths, but Lynch has already indicated which highway to take to enter the film, with the wonderful opening sequence, that drunken, blind, lightning-fast, nighttime, lost yellow line, that’s the right road, the others lead to the suburbs.

No. In my sanjuresque review of Inland Empire, I wrote that to review such a Lynch, one must be possessed, certainly not descriptive. I can only confirm that. I, who have the embrace in front of the headlights in the desert of the soul, with the wind blowing and the illuminated dust, with a blonde, unconscious Arquette flooding me with pleasure on Song of the Siren... well, I won’t waste time recounting the film; I just need to continue on the suggestion of the dream. In other words, I gain nothing from this, except for an attempt to come back down to earth. I reiterate, one must speak about Lynch with a tongue in flames and a sword in hand, along with a good dose of hallucination; otherwise, there is no fun. As for the film, it remains locked in my most precious trunk, alongside the first of Faust, Bitches Brew, and another ten things; may the gods preserve Lynch and his delusions, beyond any dull and earthly interpretation.

All true, but the other Lynch is better.

All true, but the other Lynch is better.

This album is worth a thousand times the highly praised The Good Son, in my personal opinion.

I haven't seen the film yet, due to bizarre combinations of events, but Lost Highways was exactly what I want from a movie, so if that's an indication, I can expect, sooner or later, three monumental hours, and on the day that Bergman and Antonioni are gone, that can only lift my spirits.