(Francisco de Goya)

Oameni mergînd cu măştile trase, trişti, figuri de ceară într-un bîlci ale cărui mecanisme au luat-o la vale... A început Marea Înstrăinare... a început reprezentaţia... Oamenii se travestesc în fiare, buzele subţiri, ochii sclipitori... Uitatul în curtea vecinului a devenit sport naţional.

(Francisco de Goya)

Firescul e demodat şi absurd, firescul şi bunul simţ sunt de tot rîsul. A fi normal este a te înstrăina. Trăim într-o continuă derută. Marile valori sunt fraze de reprodus pe lucrăcrile scrise ale unor şcolari tocilari ... stau ca rufele pe frînghia Destinului. Şi, într-atîta tocmeală şi după atîtea aranjamente, spinările capătă o arcuire sinuoasă, balele se inteţesc de poftă, capriciile devin regula şi legea e zeiţa aceea demodată, cu legături albe la ochi, nu vede, n-aude, capul nu o doare...

Amarul spumant al zilelor pe care le trăim se revarsă şi umple cu înfricoşătoare tristeţe golul săpat de nimicnicia în care ne ducem anii. Frica şi deruta, vidul şi uitarea, imensul hău creat de generaţii succesive îşi arată efectele... ca în acele filme stranii ale Fiinţei contorsionate, regizate de David Lynch...

(Julee Cruise pe o temă din "Twin Peaks")

In trying to write a summary of Tell No One, I've decided, instead, to present the New York Times' review of it. (Sorry for my laziness...)

In the shortcut language of a movie pitch, Guillaume Canet’s delicious contemporary thriller “Tell No One” is “Vertigo” meets “The Fugitive”by way of “The Big Sleep.” That is meant as high praise.

This French adaptation of Harlan Coben’s 2001 best seller is the kind of conspiracy-minded mystery almost no one seems capable of creating anymore, except David Lynch in his surreal way. Watching it is like gorging on a hot- fudge sundae in the good old days when few worried about sugar and fat. There are no bogus geopolitics weighing it down with a spurious relevance. Beautifully written and acted, “Tell No One” is a labyrinth in which to get deliriously lost.

The story, which involves murder and depravity in high places, is so elaborately twisty that about halfway through the movie you stop trying to figure it out and let its polluted waters wash over you, trusting that the denouement will reveal all. It does and it doesn’t. When the truth spills out, and ugly revelations pile onto one another in an extended final confession, the puzzle pieces fit more snugly than those of “The Big Sleep,” the granddaddy of impenetrable noirs. But one of the pleasures of both films is surrendering to a vision of corruption and evil that resists tidy explanations.

The protagonist, Alex Beck (François Cluzet), is a kindhearted pediatrician in Paris who goes out of his way to help the poor in the clinic where he works. He is also a spiritual cousin of Scottie Ferguson from “Vertigo” in his obsession with a woman who may or may not be dead.

As the story begins, he and his wife, Margot (Marie-Josée Croze), are revisiting the remote country lake where they spent summers as children and became sweethearts who carved their initials on a tree. Blissfully married decades later, they return to swim nude in the moonlight, then sprawl on the offshore raft where they have a minor squabble about real estate. Margot abruptly departs and disappears into the woods. A minute later Alex hears a stifled cry. Scrambling to shore, he is struck on the head while pulling himself out of the water. He remains in a coma for three days.

While Alex, who was inexplicably pulled to shore, recuperates, Margot’s father, Jacques (André Dussollier), an imperious police inspector, identifies his daughter’s body in the woods. In the film’s most wrenching moment Alex comes apart in a drunken reverie remembering her cremation, as Jeff Buckley’s version of the early-’50s torch song “Lilac Wine” is heard on the soundtrack.

On the eighth anniversary of Margot’s death, Alex, still numb with grief, is interrogated by the police after two bodies are unearthed near the site of her murder, along with a key to a safe-deposit box that contains incriminating photos and a bloodstained weapon that connects him to Margot’s death.

Simultaneously, Alex begins receiving anonymous e-mail messages directing him to a Webcam video of a woman who appears to be Margot, gazing anxiously into a surveillance camera. An attached message warns: “Tell no one. They’re watching.” He begins a desperate undercover search for the woman, suddenly believing Margot may still be alive.

“Tell No One” is the second feature film directed by Mr. Canet, whose 2002 satire, “My Idol,” examined the warped mind of a sadistic producer of reality television. In that movie Mr. Canet played the producer’s aspiring young assistant forced to be his boss’s court jester (and his wife’s part-time lover) at a sinister country estate with a carnivorous aviary. Mr. Canet also appears briefly in “Tell No One” as the debauched son of Gilbert Neuville (Jean Rochefort), a billionaire politician and horse-racing magnate whose tentacles extend in every direction. In the film François Berléand, who played the producer in “My Idol,” portrays a sympathetic police investigator in charge of Alex’s case.

The characters encompass a wide swath of Parisian society. Alex’s confidante and best friend, Hélène (Kristin Scott Thomas), is the wealthy lover of his secretive younger sister, Anne (Marina Hands), a competitive equestrian. Through Hélène, Alex acquires a high-powered defense lawyer (Nathalie Baye), who begins to doubt Alex’s innocence after he flees the police.

Just as Alex is about to be taken into custody, a gangster (Gilles Lellouche), whose hemophiliac son’s life was saved by Alex in the clinic, rescues him and spirits him to a safe hiding place in a working-class suburb where young toughs delight in foiling the police. The rescue follows a thrilling chase sequence worthy of “North by Northwest.” Like that 1959 classic, “Tell No One” is about an innocent man on the run with nowhere to turn. Mr. Cluzet may not be Cary Grant, but he is a convincing Everyman with a heart and soul stretched to the breaking point.

“Tell No One” is pure, nasty fun. 

This movie was really enjoyable to watch... "Enjoyable" in the sense that I was constantly questioning what was happening and was left completely surprised and satisfied. A. 

The poem’s title being phrased in the negative, “The Road Not Taken” [my italics], rather than “The Road Taken” or “The Road I Took” immediately establishes an element of lamentation about what has been lost. This focus on what was “not taken” would normally precipitate a negative tone, however, the revelation that the “Two roads [which] diverged in a yellow wood” are “just as fair” immediately throws the scenario into conflict. The repetition of this makes the merit of the traveler’s decision relative rather than clearly defined as correct and requires close consideration by the reader to ascertain the nature of the persona’s sentiment. It then becomes a journey for the reader, unique to each individual, as they navigate the ambiguity of Frost’s world to arrive at their own conclusion about the meaning of the poem.

“’The Road Not Taken’ can be read against a literary and pictorial tradition that [reaches] not only back to the Gospels [but also] beyond them to the Greeks” (Montiero, 1988). This motif of a pivotal life-choice is arguably timeless and continues to resonate across “histo-cultural” boundaries (Foucault). The poem itself reveals the far-reaching implications of this ponderous decision, “I shall be telling this with a sigh/Somewhere ages and ages hence”, and invites the responder to consider the ambiguity of the “difference” this decision has made. The change of tense in the final stanza suggest this “difference” is speculative and not certain; the traveler remains at the cross-roads at the culmination of the poem and the reader is left to consider whether the persona has indeed made the right decision and to decide for ourselves if the “sigh” is one of contentment or one of wistful resignation.

Jay Parini points to the poems repetition of the “two roads” being “just as fair” as an attempt by the persona to delude themself.

“What, then, can we make of the final stanza? My guess is that Frost, the wily ironist, is saying something like this: ‘When I am old, like all old men, I shall make a myth of my life. I shall pretend, as we all do, that I took the less traveled road. But I shall be lying’. [Parini, 1988]

This mockery of those who take a revisionist approach to their own history is signaled in the “self-inflated tone of the last stanza” in the repetition of “I”, which rhymes not only with itself but with the ambiguous “sigh”. “Frost wants the reader to know that what he will be saying, that he took the road less traveled, is a fraudulent position” [Parini, 1988] propagated to perpetuate the myth that rebellion and individualism leads to happiness and a satisfying life.

Stanza three of the poem describes the persona as having made the decision of which “road” to take but not having yet committed themself to the arduousness of the journey. The exclamatory statement “Oh, I kept the first for another day!” is suspect in its intensity as it may be interpreted as a defensive statement. Contrastingly, the emotive “Oh” in combination with the intimacy of the 1^st-person utilized throughout the poem may indeed indicate a contented world-weariness. The ambiguity in this ejaculation is indelible to the poem’s mysterious stance of whether “The Road Not Taken” is a celebration of individualism or a lament on the price of non-conformity.

The ongoing relevance of such an image of “two roads” diverging can be seen in great evidence across the landscape of contemporary American cinema. From “teen-movies” like Road Trip and Euro Trip to existentialist art-house cinema such as Lynch’s Lost Highway, the road persists as a metaphor for the path to freedom; but a path with unforeseen dangers and consequences. Robert Faggen posits that “the problem of making a choice at a crossroads is almost [so] commonplace” that Frost is knowingly acknowledging the cliché’ and purposely utilizing it to elicit “a larger mythology by including evolutionary metaphors and suggesting a passage of eons” [Faggen, 1997]; seen in the final stanzas “age and ages hence”. The seeming endlessness of the road which vanishes “in the undergrowth” presents both a danger and opportunity which continues to intrigue both composers and audiences alike. Making Frost’s poem a seminal contribution to the canon of American Literature, which, like The Gospels and works of Greek mythology, demands constant reinterpretation in order to appreciate the nuanced insight it offers into the human condition.

“The Road Not Taken” can be interpreted as an allegory for The American Dream, due to its exploration of the freedom promised by “The Road” and the opportunity for each person to make of their lives what they wish. The traveler in the poem is a man knowingly in control of his own fortunes, and despite acknowledging the onerous nature of deciding between the “two roads that diverged in a yellow wood”, he ultimately opts for the path that is “grassy and wanted wear”. Frost does, however, acknowledge the flickering uncertainty felt by the self-determined traveler; “Though as for the passing there/ Had worn them really about the same”. This anxiety being, seemingly, resolved in the final stanza in which the stanza states with confidence that his life is clearly demarcated from others by his decision to take the individualized path to happiness. The realization of The American Dream is an aspiration that was as relevant at Frost’s time of composition as it is today. However, in a postmodern epoch of cynicism, irony and hyper-consumerist “conspicuous consumption” (Veblen) it is the ambiguity of the poem which intrigues us; begging us to consider the question – is there truly a difference between being able to successfully fool everyone else that we are living The American Dream and actually living it? Thus, as an allegory for traversing the treacherous American landscape on the road to success, Frost’s poem remains poignant as an exploration of the human condition.

BIBLIOGRAPHY:

Faggen, R. (1997) Robert Frost and the Challenge of Darwin, The University of Michigan.

Foucault, M. (1966) The Order of Things: An Archaeology of the Human Sciences.

Montiero, M. (1988) Robert Frost and the New England Renaissance, The University Press of Kentucky.

Parini, J. (1988) “Frost” in Columbia Literary History of the United States [ed. Emroy Elliot], Colombia University Press.

Veblen, T. (1899) The Theory of the Leisure Class.

SURVEILLANCE

A les 9:30 del matí, i havent dormit amb prou feines 3 hores, ens varem dirigir al Casino del Prado per veure el film que ha resultat guanyador del Festival: el segon llargmetratge de Jenifer Lynch, filla del meu director de cinema viu favorit, David Lynch.

I la veritat es que el galardó el té més que merescut: una terrorífica història sobre un serial killer, que s’explica fragmentada segons la versió de cada un dels testimonis de la matança, en un claustrofòbic interrogatori policial. La cinta sap mantenir de forma magistral la intriga i la tensió en cada moment  i ha resultat el milloret de tot el Festival, sense lloc a dubtes! (Vegeu trailer)
El millor: Jenifer ha sabut heretar les millors virtuts dels films del seu pare, sense caure en les paranoies surrealistes d’aquest (encara...)
El pitjor: NO aneu a veure aquesta peli a les 9:30 del matí!!
Nota: 9/10

SESSIÓ DE BRIGADOON

Com no teníem entrades per la tarda ens varem estar un parell d’horetes en aquesta sala gratuïta, pixant-nos de riure amb els curtíssims efectes especials i la pèssima interpretació d’un film de vampirs mexicà dels anys seixanta. Els ratpenats eren de peluix i aguantats per fils!!

ROCKANROLLA

Si, Guy Richie, a part de ser el marit de Madonna, es un reputat director de cinema que va saltar a la fama amb “Snatch, cerdos y diamantes”. Aquest cop torna al atac amb una altre història d’acció delirant entre mafiosos corruptes i divertides situacions còmiques, sense gaires pretensions més (Vegeu trailer)
El millor: Quan un dels mafiosos a punt de morir surt del armari.
El pitjor: La trama és tan absolutament complicada i succeeix tot tan ràpid que resulta impossible no perdre el fil.
Nota: 6/10

Dilluns 6

LA POSSIBILITAT D'UNA ILLA

Per mi la gran decepció d’aquest any. Després de llegir-me apassionadament la novela en el que es basa el film, em vaig convertir en un gran fan de Miquel Houellebecq, autor del llibre i director de la peli i, quina va ser la meva sorpresa quan em vaig trobar amb aquesta veritable MERDA. Imagino que a Houellebecq li ha succeït el mateix que a Paul Auster amb “La vida interior de Matrin Frost”: un escriptor que sense tenir ni puta idea de cine es posa a rodar, creient que això de les càmeres no té cap misteri.

Però realment no entenc com ho pot haver fet TAN malament! Sembla talment com si no hagués entès el seu propi llibre oblidant tota la ironia i provocació, que són la única gràcia de la seva obra. No recordava mai haver vist un film on la gent xiulés en comptes d'aplaudir al final.
El millor: que s’acaba...
El pitjor: TOT. Realment és un desastre absolut de peli: mal gravada, pèsimament realitzada, mal actuada, avorrida, lenta fins al sopor... crec que jo ho hagués fet bastant millor!
Nota: 1,5/10

Vaig sortir tan decebut del cinema que vaig abandonar la idea d'anar a veure "Blindness", l'adaptació de "Ensayo sobre la ceguera" de Saramago: amb un llibre que m'hagin destroçat ja n'he tingut prou!

(Continuarà... i tranquils que ja tan sols queda una part!)

]]> http://stuartcondy.wordpress.com/?p=744 Sun, 12 Oct 2008 11:23:28 +0000 stuartcondy http://stuartcondy.pl.wordpress.com/2008/10/12/desert-island-discs/ Picture the scene..... The FED EX plane you're travelling in has been struck by lightning, causing it to plunge into the ocean. You get washed up on the beach of a nearby island which is apparently without habitants. Instead of a football for company you find a 50 inch plasma TV with attached DVD player which was miraculously wrapped in waterproof packaging. Somehow you discover a power supply and are delighted that 10 movies have escaped unscathed in the over the shoulder folder holder you had on your person at the time of the tragedy.

These are the 10 films that will prevent you going insane whilst you wait for McDonalds to discover this is the one place they don't have a restaurant....

My picks are:

REAR WINDOW, Alfred Hitchcock (1954)

THE BIG LEBOWSKI, Joel & Ethan Coen (1998)

2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY, Stanley Kubrick (1968)

HEAVEN CAN WAIT, Ernst Lubitsch (1943)

MEAN STREETS, Martin Scorsese (1973)

MANHATTAN, Woody Allen (1979)

RASHOMON, Akira Kurosawa (1950)

RIFIFI, Jules Dassin (1955)

IF...., Lindsay Anderson (1968)

PAN'S LABYRINTH, Guillermo Del Toro (2006)

This was a really hard thing to do, and the selections could well change as I think about it more. There's no Welles, Antonioni, Bergman, Ozu, Lynch, Powell & Pressburger.... God, the list is huge. These are the 10 films that tick as many boxes as possible whilst being infinitely watchable. I also think that each of these 10 films gives you something very different, from the half an hour of silence during the robery scene in Rififi to the technicolor joy of HEAVEN CAN WAIT. Although there are many other top ten lists that could be made, these movies would keep me going for a LONG time.

Although this post could be considered cliche, arbitrary or even downright lazy, there are rules.....

Trilogies are allowed, maximum of 4 (no more than a trilogy though, so you can't select the POLICE ACADEMY series, not that you would.... I hope)
TV shows aren't.
Box sets aren't (unless it's specifically a trilogy)
I say DVD, this of course includes blu ray. (That's for Matt, the high def philistine )

So over to you good people. The ten movies that would keep you happy in times of hardship, let's have it.

Precisamente hoy Stiges ha bajado el telón y apagado las luces hasta el próximo año. El terror se ha apoderado por unos días de la ciudad que ha visto reflejadas en la gran pantalla.

El pánico cundió en la sala con Mártires. La película provoco vómitos, ataques de pánico, ansiedad e histeria. La organización se vio obligada a habilitar una ambulancia.

Aunque la ganadora ha sido la hija del famoso David Lynch, Jennifer Lynch (se ve que la chica a aprendido bien la lección), con su film Surveillance, donde dos investigadores del FBI se encargan de un terrorífico crimen en un pueblo perdido de los estados unidos. El cine negro ha premiado este film por el manejo de las claves del thiller de terror y por su sensación claustrofóbica. La crítica califica de magnífica película a esta cinta de terror que por lo que parece que no podemos dejar escapar y que muchos comparan con Rashomon. (1)

En cuanto a las españolas ni Santos ni Sexykiller ni Prime time ha recibido galardones y parece ser que tampoco aplausos. Se esperaba más en la tercera película de Martí. Pero como siempre la esperanza quedo en nada. Con Sexykiller, el género de terror se fusiona con el humor que imita burdamente a las películas estadounidenses que adoran los preadolescentes (veáse Scary Movie y sus secuelas). El sexo, el humor y la violencia se entremezclan con un despropósito de sentido. Macarena Gómez, actriz principal, mezcla satánica entre Paris Hilton y asesina en serie (de ser real sería la mujer más terrorífica del planeta) parece que deja demasiado que desear (conste que creo que el trailer engaña porque de primeras parece una actuación atractiva). Disfrada de comercial mata a hachazo a las bases de este género. Encargada de abrir Stiges, no ha dejado buen sabor de boca. A priori, mi impresión es que se trata de una película más de Martí, entre el "patetismo" de Fin de curso y Slam.  Si alguien quiere más información me quedo con la crítica de El país "Hachazos en tanga".

Particularmente me quedo con Let the rigth one in, que tiene una especial reminiscencia a la saga de Crepúsculo (por el hecho de ser una historia de amor entre vampiros) y que parece comienza a regenerar el cine afianzado en los pilares de Drácula.

En definitiva un nuevo año de sangre fresca para el cine que más salsa de tomate gasta...

¡Muchas voces!

(1)(www.elpais.com/articulo/cultura/hija/David/Lynch/triunfa/Sitges/elpepucul/20081011elpepucul_1/Tes)

It is now a widely accepted fact that the Lumiére brothers are the fathers of the seventh art, though a few films had already been made as early as 1888 (Roundhay Garden Scene, Dickson’s experiment, Carmentica et al). Their series of films starting in 1895 notably Arrival of a Train at La Ciotat and Employees Leaving the Lumière Factory have become pieces of historical interest. It is said that the audience fled the theatre thinking that a real train is heading their way!

Take a look at the piece:

Cut to 1995. To commemorate the event of 100 years of cinema, a project called Lumiére et Compagnie (Lumiére & Company) was undertaken. Its intention was to gather the most important contemporary directors at one place and give them a task - To make a film using the same camera that was used by the Lumiére brothers!. Not just that, there were three more rules:

1.    The movie should not be more than 52 seconds.
2.    The directors should not used synchronized sound
3.    Only 3 takes allowed!

The film as such follows the directors making their films with the bizarre device interspersed with miniature interviews upon various questions including their views on mortality of cinema and their own motives for taking up the medium in order to express themselves. Some interesting opinions come out during these sections.

The list of 41 directors by itself is mind boggling with the likes of Abbas Kiarostami, David Lynch, Theo Angelopoulos, Michael Haneke, Zhang Yimou, Wim Wenders and many more (See Tags for the list!). The result- 41 minute films with totally different perspectives. Abbas Kiarostami’s “Dinner for One” is typically his style as he makes an omelet.  David Lynch’s bizarre piece, as usual, set in a quiet little suburban town that has more mystery than meets the eye is an instant hit. Zhang Yimou’s "cultural piece" near the China Wall, Gabriel Axel’s tracking sot of the various arts and Wim Wenders’ extension of Wings of Desire are all immensely amusing to watch.

Here is David Lynch’s piece for you:

And Spike Lee's cute one:

The film by itself is not very extraordinary. But it is all about the event and the massive operation of bringing all the masters under one place and putting them under such constraints that no one else would dare to in any other year. A celebration of Cinema and one for the cinephiles.

Top! do Leitor:

franc1968

Uma lista desleixada:

01. Dublê de Corpo (Brian de Palma, 1984)
02. Sem Saída (Roger Donaldson, 1987)
03. A Piscina Mortal (Stuart Rosenberg, 1975)
04. A Maratona da Morte (John Schlesinger, 1976)
05. Coração Satânico (Alan Parker, 1987)
06. Prelúdio Para Matar (Dario Argento, 1975)
07. Faca de Dois Gumes (Murillo Salles, 1989)
08. A Trama (Alan J. Pakula, 1974)
09. Seven (David Fincher, 1975)
10. Sinais (M. Night Shyamalan, 2002)

Tops! da Equipe:

Daniel Dalpizzolo

Os três primeiros são releituras daquele que considero o filme mais importante já feito – Vertigo, é claro - e no restante a grande herança sobrevivente pode ser redividida em alguns segmentos bem específicos, desde a construção da farsa narrativa até a composição do humor que sustenta alguns de seus trabalhos. Em tempo, e antes que questionem: Blowup e Blowout, que seguindo rótulos populares seriam dois dos melhores filmes a se citar neste top, ficaram de fora por achar muito pouco representativos em relação ao tema proposto.

01. Blackout (Abel Ferrara, 1997)
02. Trágica Obsessão (Brian De Palma, 1976)
03. A Síndrome de Sthandal (Dario Argento, 1997)
04. Lisa e o Diabo (Mario Bava, 1973)
05. Os Filhos do Medo (David Cronenberg, 1979)
06. O Segredo da Porta Fechada (Fritz Lang, 1947)
07. Halloween (John Carpenter, 1977)
08. Charada (Stanley Donen, 1968)
09. A Vida Íntima de Sherlock Holmes (Billy Wilder, 1970)
10. Busca Frenética (Roman Polanski, 1988)

Djonata Ramos

Não sei se é pra ordenar por ordem de mais hitchcockiano ou melhor filme independente disso, então, não tem ordem alguma.

01. Blow Out - Um Tiro na Noite (De Palma, 1981)
02. O Silêncio do Lago (George Sluizer, 1988)
03. Gosto de Sangue (Irmãos Coen, 1984)
04. Cabo do Medo (Martin Scorsese, 1991)
05. Zodíaco (David Fincher, 2007)
06. Match Point (Woody Allen, 2006)
07. Corpo Fechado (M. Night Shyamalan, 2001)
08. Spider (David Cronenberg, 2002)
09. Halloween (John Carpenter, 1977)
10. Barton Fink (Irmãos Coen, 1991)

Adney Silva

Hitchcok sem dúvida alguma foi um dos diretores mais influentes do cinema. ele era um dos poucos diretores que sabiam agradar a crítica eo público (especialmente na era de ouro da Universal). E essa influência vemos em filmes dos mais variados gêneros, do suspense a comédia.

01. Vestida Para Matar (Brian De Palma, 1980)
02. Barton Fink (Irmãos Coen, 1991)
03. O Mensageiro do Diabo (Charles Laughton, 1955)
04. Charada (Stanley Donen, 1968)
05. Halloween (John Carpenter, 1977)
06. O Grande Golpe (Stanley Kubrick, 1956)
07. Cabo do Medo (Martin Scorsese, 1991)
08. Cliente Morto Não Paga (Carl Reiner, 1982)
09. O Sexto Sentido (M. Night Shyalaman, 1999)
10. Match Point (Woody Allen, 2006)

Thiago Duarte

01. Barton Fink (Joel Coen, 1991)
02. Match Point (Woody Allen, 2006)
03. Blow Out - Um Tiro na Noite (Brian De Palma, 1981)
04. De Olhos Bem Fechados (Stanley Kubrick, 1999)
05. O Homem Que Não Estava Lá (Joel Coen, 2001)
06. Corpo Fechado (M. Night Shyamalan, 2001)
07. Blow Up - Depois Daquele Beijo (Michelangelo Antonioni, 1966)
08. Tubarão (Steven Spielberg, 1975)
09. Veludo Azul (David Lynch, 1984)
10. Seven (David Fincher, 1995)

Luis Henrique Boaventura

Ia colocar Profondo em primeiro, depois mudei pra Tenebre pra não citar acho que pela terceira vez o Profondo Rosso no top 1, aí pensei pelo grau de influência do Hitch notável em cada filme, depois pensei que não precisava levar os tops tão a sério, depois parei com essa putaria e postei o top de uma vez.

01. Prelúdio Para Matar (Dario Argento, 1975)
02. Veludo Azul (David Lynch, 1984)
03. A Tortura do Medo (Michael Powell, 1960)
04. Blow Up - Depois Daquele Beijo (Michelangelo Antonioni, 1966)
05. Sinais (M. Night Shyamalan, 2002)
06. Ensaio de um Crime (Luis Buñuel, 1955)
07. Vestida Para Matar (Brian De Palma, 1980)
08. Olhos Diabólicos (Mario Bava, 1963)
09. O Estripador de Nova York (Lucio Fulci, 1982)
10. O Pássaro das Plumas de Cristal (Dario Argento, 1970)

Welcome to a special, epic two-part magnum opus where we look at the bookended films that encapsulated the 'Twin Peaks' phenomenon of the early 1990s, beginning with the two-hour pilot episode and concluding with the oft-maligned theaterical release 'Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me.'

Film: Twin Peaks (Pilot) (1990) and Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me (1992)
Rated: (Fire Walk with Me) R
Directed by: David Lynch
Written by: David Lynch and Mark Frost

[audio http://www.archive.org/download/NatsukashiEpisodeXxvTwinPeaksPart2/FireWalkfinal.mp3]

Programmation

Je pense me rendre à la nuit Lynch pour les aficionados, où seront notamment diffusés Twin Peaks, Fire Walks With Me, et Mulholland Drive. Lost Highway sera également projeté, mais je vais quand même essayer de découvrir des films que je n'ai pas encore vu (ne pas rester sur ses acquis même si c'est agréable).

David Lynch entouré de Laura Harring (gauche) et Naomi Watts, les héroïnes de Mulholland Drive.

NB : ce soir, Denis Hopper est l'invité du Grand Journal sur Canal + ; retrouvez-le dans Blue Velvet de D. Lynch pendant le festival.

I'm lucky: I can forget for long stretches how much some people suffer. I'm healthier when I do. Otherwise I take too much in; I can lose perspective.

Exotica reminded me of Twin Peaks at times. Inland Empire left me longing for more -- more Lynch; more in general; more Mulholland Dr., no doubt -- and I did enjoy reminiscing over Blue Velvet and Lost Highway at the Mayfair a few months ago, but now I'm thinking that Egoyan's work could also sate some of that; the only other one I've seen to date is The Sweet Hereafter (which I also enjoyed, although not as much as Exotica).

I've seen Bruce Greenwood many times (including Nowhere Man), and, frankly, I didn't know he had this performance in him. He was second only to Elias Koteas, in my opinion, who absolutely shone as Eric.

And, speaking of amazing performances, Rinko Kikuchi as Chieko in Babel was heartbreaking: there was so much suffering in that movie, but her silent anguish will stay with me for a long time, I know.

My sleeping patterns have always been erratic. Since I was a child I have been a nighthawk. Growing up I would get in trouble because of it often, getting caught up at all hours and then sleeping in until the afternoon. But that’s background better expanded on in another post probably.

What I want to convey is my irregular relationship with sleep compared to the vast majority of people I’ve met. I mean, for most of high school, I only got four hours of sleep at night on average. Sometimes less.

I don’t tend to dream often. Or rather, I know that I am dreaming all the time, but I rarely remember them. I will sometimes spend periods of months without remembering any of my dreams. Most often when I do, it will more be a sense that I was dreaming, maybe about certain people, but rarely will I remember what has happened in the dream.

Perhaps it’s because of the content of my dreams. Often they are quite mundane. The overarching motif in them is a sense of foreboding doom, no matter what the situation is. If people I recognize are in the dreams, then more often than not they will be sort of vacuous shells that only look like the person. Characters tend to be fluid in personality or even form, often randomly shifting into other people, though with an insistence by my brain that they are still the same character. Basically, my dreams tend to be like David Lynch movies. Sometimes painstakingly mundane yet filled with dread, other times wildly surreal and filled with dread.

In fact, a brief tangent with that: the absolute closest external depiction that I can offer to say “this is what it is like when I dream” is David Lynch’s most recent film, Inland Empire. It’s ebbing and yet sometimes fractured structure, its tone, the random intersection of moments of visual terror – I’ve never seen anything that gets it quite so close. That was the reason I went to see it; a friend of mine who dreams the same way recommended it. I went and saw it by myself in a local arthouse theater and was shocked by how similar it was to the few dreams I remember. They tend to be long like that too.

When I talk about dreams with my friends I am almost always jealous. This is not to say that I don’t enjoy mine – despite how unpleasant they can be, I still really enjoy having them, because I find them fascinating. But I don’t have the fantastical dreams my friends have; I don’t get to be a superhero, I don’t get to fly, I don’t get to have sex with celebrities. To this day I can probably count on my hands the number of times I’ve had sex at all in a dream, and usually its just implied in the plot. The one time I had a lucid dream, I started flying first, but I was really terrible at it and kept falling and tumbling all over the place. Then I tried to manifest someone to have sex with, and as soon as I did, I started literally feeling myself being pulled out of the dream, sucked back up towards consciousness. I was literally yelling “No, no! Sex!” My brain hates me.

I had a recurring nightmare once when I was a child. I was a scientist in a giant underground laboratory. It was inside a cave, and the cave walls went hundreds of feet up. At the start, I would be looking around at this enormous room, watching all the other typified-white-coat-scientists milling about a giant operating table. On top of it was something living obviously, but it had a proportionately huge sheet over top of it. Suddenly, it would start to stir, and scientists all around me would start panicking and running around like frightened ants. I would be paralyzed by the sight and would watch as a dragon would rear up from the table, come stomping towards me at full pace, lean its head down and roar fire at point blank range.  I would then wake up screaming. My father would come and pick me up, soothe me back to sleep. At the time, my drawings of evil people always had two eyes and a zig-zag mouth. I would see this face all around me in the post-dreaming world, on lampshades and other inanimate objects.

My father ended up telling me that next time it happened, I should punch the dragon in the mouth. The next time I had the nightmare, just as the dragon opened its mouth, a sword appeared in my hand and I thrust it down the dragon’s throat. I never had the dream again.

I suppose I’m thinking of dreams right now because I had the most vivid one I’ve had in a long time the other day. It was even a bit more supernatural than usual, though not in any pleasant way. I’ve been fighting off a cold for the last month and it returned pretty viciously last week. I decided to let myself sleep as long as I needed one day, and that turned out to be a little over twelve hours. During my time sleeping in the day (after having been woken up by my girlfriend returning with McDonald’s breakfast) this dream occurred. When I woke up I forgot all of it. Then, in a completely random flash, I remembered it all while having a completely unrelated conversation with my girlfriend that evening.

The world had been invaded by these aliens that looked like futuristic Nosferatu vampires - they wore techy black onepiece suits, but their face and hands were grey and wrinkled, they had ugly bat-like features and pointy ears, that kind of shit. And I think they didn't go out into the open really, but they had these buildings all around the earth that were temples, sort of. They just looked like office buildings and other public places. Inside them human beings underwent torture sessions with overtones of ritual. The vampires did things or made people do things to eachother that caused them great psychological and physical pain, though not really any damage, and they sort of observed/participated and fed off the general aura of suffering. They weren't necessarily vampires in the blood-sucking sense, but it’s a pretty good metaphor for what they were doing. Similarly, they didn’t like to go into the sun, as they found it unpleasant, but I don’t think it killed them.  When what I remember of the dream was starting, I was escaping from one of these "temples" with a dark-haired, attractive women that sort of had a movie actor thing going on that made the whole thing feel movie-like. I remember surfacing from this fluourescent green goo substance, and while not seeing, understanding that various psychologically damaging acts like rape and torture were going on around me. My impulse as to escape, to refuse participation, and that’s what we did. But when we were roaming the streets trying to get away, the woman and I came upon this inconspicuous office building that we could recognize was one of the temples, but she was compelled to go into it. For some reason I was free of this compulsion, but I got the sense was that this was how it was happening - they had some device, or some technique involved in the torture sessions, that made it impossible for human beings to resist volunteering for further torture when they came within a certain range of these temples. There was actually a specific number of them, and people were compelled to visit each of them at least once. I believe they all had their own motifs of torture too. The point was that they were systematically breaking down human personalities and rebuilding them into docile servants with almost no identifiable-self. Once you had been through the series of temples, your personality would be completely destroyed and replaced with subservient base-level thought. Or even if you could retain your intelligence for some purpose, you no longer had any willpower, any sense of resistance.

The part that really disturbed me was the way the woman, and seemingly everyone else, was compelled to participate. Even though it was coercion, it gave them a sense that it had been voluntary. When we came upon the second temple, a look of despair and acceptance overcame her. She even apologized to me before walking in, knowing that she was leaving me to be alone within the world.

Anyways, not that I didn’t know already, and not that I really think dream-based psychoanalysis really has much to tell you about yourself, but christ do I have issues about people holding power over me.

A fun movie for me has one of the following characteristics: great dialogue, an unusual plot, something funny, With that said, here is a list of ten fun movies:

1. The Big Lebowski - A million great lines are uttered in this movie. This was the Coen Brothers at their best. There's a t-shirt for sale on the internet proposing The Dude and Walter for President and Veep.
2. Being John Malkovich - One man's weird is another man's fun. I love this movie.
3. Night On Earth - The best of Jim Jarmusch's many great movies.
4. True Romance - Written by Quentin Tarantino the cast included Christian Slater, Brad Pitt, Christopher Walken, Dennis Hopper, Samuel L. Jackson, James Gandolfini, Val Kilmer, Gary Oldman, Michael Rapaport, Bronson Pinchot, Chris Penn, Tom Sizemore, and one of those Arquettes.
5. Blue Velvet - David Lynch's masterpiece.
6. Borat - The subtitle says it all, "Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan." Who wouldn't want to see that. Very nice.
7. Thank You For Smoking - There are always two sides to everything whether it's my divorce or smoking.
8. Clerks - The best of the Kevin Smith flicks.
9. Harold and Maude - A love story for no one in particular.
10. Monty Python and the Holy Grail - and now for something completely different.

Keep in mind, these are fun movies as determined by me. If you don't like 'em, well... it just isn't your day today.

        Mini blazers, pantalones pitillo y vestidos ceñidos al cuerpo entre estudios de volúmenes y drapeados dejan un sutil regusto final a Watanabe que, de vez en cuando, no viene nada mal.

*Read me more... sobre Jean Pierre Braganza*

Ny vecka o. nya.... Tja, jag vet inte vad jag ska säga. Nya vadå?? Jag förväntar mig inget speciellt av den kommande veckan faktiskt. Jag tänker bara leva genom den. Sen blir det helg, o. så går helgen lika snabbt som alla andra helger, o. så vipps är det måndag morgon igen. Så rullar det på sen tills det tar slut.

Från det ena till det andra. Det kändes som att det blev tung höst på en gång igår, med tanke på vädret alltså. Mitt i allt ven vinden o. slängde ner regn. Nåja, snart är det jul o. efter jul är det så gott som midsommar igen. Efter det tar det inte länge tills det åter är tung höst. Så rullar det på sen tills det tar slut.

Spelar: Radio Rock-Soitetaan mitä halutaan

passeando no youtube achei uns videozinhos de uma palestra que ele deu ano passado em berlim sobre a prática da meditação transcendental. ele inclusive escreveu um livro sobre o assunto e veio ao brasil há dois meses para divulgar a obra e fazer palestras. até aí tudo bem. o problema é que botaram o diretor numa saia justa. na época, ele esteve em berlim para fazer palestras sobre o assunto e para apresentar um projeto que visa criar as "universidades invencíveis" destinadas ao ensino da prática da meditação transcendental em vários países do mundo (começando por alemanha, frança e áustria) e gerar a paz mundial. na alemanha, ele tentou comprar um terreno de 12 milhões de metros cúbicos situado numa montanha de pedra (que fora destruída na segunda guerra mundial e que servira de base americana durante a guerra fria) conhecida como Teufelsberg ou "montanha do diabo". se liga no projeto:

um tal de "raj emanuel da alemanha" entrou como parceiro de lynch no negócio e estava tentando viabilizar a contrução da universidade no país. daí durante uma palestra na capital alemã, após um discurso de lynch, sobe ao palco o tal raj emanuel e começa a proferir frases clamando para que a alemanha se torne invencível e coisa e tal. a platéia, formada em sua maioria por estudantes de cinema, se revoltou contra o cara alegando que hitler também queria uma alemanha invencível. "sim, mas infelizmente não obteve sucesso", respondeu o charlatão. foi o que bastou para arruinar o evento e para a platéia se revoltar contra o próprio lynch que, sem entender direito o que estava se passando uma vez que o cara estava discursando em alemão, tentou apaziguar os ânimos. se liga nos vídeos.

parte 1

parte 2

depois david lynch ainda soltou um comunicado oficial pedindo desculpas pelo comportamento inadequado do fulano e dizendo que não tem nada a ver com hitler, que foi tudo um mal entendido e que a idéia do projeto é trazer a iluminação e a paz mundial.

sinistro.

o mais assustador

e o melhor de todos

foda, hein.

os vídeos acima são alguns comerciais dirigidos pelo diretor mais demente (entenda como quiser) da história do cinema. já pensou como seria se ele fizesse um comercial das havainas, por exemplo?

Un dia interessant, malgrat el que he dit més amunt. Per començar el meu puto refredat pràcticament m’ha abandonat i per continuar tres de les quatre vistes han estat, com a mínim, interessants, i en un crescendo francament d’agraïr després de tanta pel.lícula. De tot plegat n’extrec algunes conclusions. Una, que per aguantar aquest ritme de visionat cal ser espavilat i comprar pel.lícules amb horaris que et permetin certs moments de descans. I avui, malgrat no he sopat (i ara són les 3:30 de la matinada, no crec ja que ho faci) sí he pogut dinar amb tranquil.litat i després fins i tot fer una volteta pel Brigadoon. La segona, que potser valdria la pena passar de la secció oficial fantàstica i anar directe a allò que es projecta fora de concurs, perquè fins ara és aquí on m’he topat amb les produccions més interessants. En concret dues que m’han entusiasmat i de les què espero poder -quan tingui una mica de temps- fer-ne esment al blog. Parlo de la torbadora i magnètica Deadgirl, dirigida per dos ninyatos amb el que he pogut xerrar un parell de minuts ara que encara no són coneguts i es passegen per Sitges sense ser reconeguts, i la terriblement perversa Home Movie, que ha aconseguit posar-nos dels nervis a mi i a tot el Prado. Cap de les dues exempte de polèmiques, puc dir amb força garanties de no equivocar-me que seran dues de les grans d’aquest any, encara que essent, com són, cintes petites. Bones notícies sempre des de la veu del cinema més independent i conseqüentment, més arriscat.

La decepció d’avui ha estat Your Name Here que malgrat ens ha deixat una bona interpretació d’un Bill Pullman que avui repetia (no us ha semblat un doble del Michael Douglas?) no ha fet res més que confondre a un públic que sembla que en part ha assistit gratuitament -gentilesa del Festival- probablement perquè la sala semblés més plena. Una sort per a ells, una feinada pels que ens havíem deixat els quartos per veure aquest absolut despropòsit. Llàstima perquè prometia. Com gairebé sempre tot el que fa fallida.

Per contra, la visió poètica del dia l’ha protagonitzat una noia amb un vestit lila a la platja de Sant Sebastià. Jo baixava de l’Auditori amb el cap a la cinta de la Jennifer Lynch i repassant mentalment el possible comentari que acabaré fent sobre el que m’ha semblat. Mentre observava el tall de l’horitzó, mig ennuvolat i tacant la perspectiva d’un fosc cendrós adient amb el que acabava de veure, he vist una noia que ballava enmig de la sorra, aliena a tot i a tothom. La fresca de la tarda no semblava afectar-li massa, i tampoc el fet que desenes de caminants i curiosos s’haguessin posat a mirar-se-la encuriosits. Primer rient; després, com jo, gaudint de la imatge d’algú que es deixava anar per allò que li demanava el cos. El ball m’ha seduit fins el punt d’aturar-me i seguir amb atenció la seva estranya dansa, mentre pensava amb allò que es deien capcots el Kyle MacLachlan i la Laura Dern a Blue Velvet i que subratllà tan bé el mestre Badalamenti amb la seva banda sonora original: “que n’és, d’estrany, aquest món”. Afegiria que durant el mes d’octubre, a aquesta localitat costanera anomenada Sitges, i en el meu cas des de ja fa 17 anys, també és un món meravellós i del que val la pena gaudir-ne. I no paro d’agrair que això continuï essent així.

(demà Gonzo, The Life and Work Of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, The Sky Crawlers i Vinyan)

An Auteurist Approach to David Lynch

Since its inception the notion of an “auteur theory” has been a contentious one. More than just a framework for interpreting film it has extended to a framework for interpreting directors themselves. By examining the body of a directors' work we can glean insight into their motivations, perspective, and understanding of people and the world that they inhabit. David Lynch is a man who has a very particular, strange and often frightening view of the world which he is not afraid of depicting in his films. This essay will examine the works of David Lynch with a particular focus on Lost Highway (Lynch 1997) and Inland Empire (Lynch 2006) (his most recent work to date) and attempt to interpret them with an auteurist approach.

Before we turn our attention to the films of David Lynch we must gain an understanding of what auteurism is. The notion of auteurism began in 1955 when the film jounal Cahiers du Cinema published the article politique des auteurs (Tudor 1973: 121). The central idea was that the director is the true creator and driving creative force of a film (Tudor 1973:122). The intention was to further the cause of cinema as a legitimate art form by bestowing the status of 'artist' upon the director. There has been much conjecture over what exactly constitutes auteurism and the extent of it's usefulness. For the purposes of this essay, we shall say that the usefulness of auteurism is found when we view a single film from a director in the context of that director's body of work, rather than in relation to the works of other directors. As Tudor (1973:130) points out, it is counterproductive to tout a director as a auteur and then use it as a pedestal on which to place all of their works, regardless of quality, in order to comment distainfully about the works of other directors. That is to say, Hitchcock's worst film is not automatically better than Micheal Bay's best film, just because Hitchcock is considered an auteur (Tudor 1973:123). Instead we should examine the canon of a director's work to try and gain an understanding of how they see the world and the people who inhabit it, with all of their foibles and glories (Cadbury & Poague 1982:160-161). It is in this sense that we shall be viewing the films of David Lynch.

In Lynch's first feature, Eraserhead (Lynch 1977), we are presented with a stark, frightening and dystopian view of the world that would prevail amongst all of Lynch's future works. In the case of Eraserhead the main character, Henry, lives in a bleak, industrial wasteland and spends much of the film in the claustrophobic confines of his one room apartment with his wife and hideously deformed child. In Blue Velvet (Lynch 1986)we are confronted with a world of murder, perversion and corruption, lying just beneath the surface of an idllyic, suburban American town. This is similar in many ways to the town in Lost Highway that Pete inhabits, which at face value is an ordinary town in middle America. We soon find, however, that the town is effectively run by the psychotic maniac, Mr. Eddy who mirrors Frank, the psychotic, perverted gangster from Blue Velvet. This dystopian element is most thouroughly explored, however, in Lynch's now discontinued television series, Twin Peaks (Lynch 1990) in which an intrepid FBI agent comes to the town of Twin Peaks to solve the murder of teenager Laura Palmer. Here he finds a town which presents a pleasant, sunny facade but which has a disturbing underbelly of wife-beaters, pimps and corporate thugs all of whom seem to answer to a backwards talking midget in a room lined with red curtains (another Lynch tradmark as seen in Lost Highway, Mulholland Drive [Lynch 2001] and Blue Velvet to name a few). This all leads to the very bleak, pessimistic picture of the world that we are consistantly shown in the works of David Lynch.

Implicitly tied to the physical reality of Lynch's films are the people who inhabit it. As alluded to above, there is invairably a 'villian' in Lynch's films (such as Mr. Eddy in Lost Highway, Frank in Blue Velvet and even the shady studio executives in both Mulholland Drive and Inland Empire) and even the characters who we would most remotely associate with being a hero or protagonist in Lynch films are often far from perfect or functional human beings. In Eraserhead Henry is an emotionally removed recluse who all but destroys his family from sheer indifference and incompetence. Lost Highway (Lynch 1997) and Blue Velvet both have leading male roles who, while basically good people, are oblivious all-american boys who surround themselves with various women who look, act, dress and talk in the same fashion and who's only purpose seems to be one of benign eroticism. In Mulholland Drive, the female lead, Betty, is at best a girl too naïve for her own good and at worst a girl who's lost all touch with reality, oblivious to how demented her behaviour really is. It is not, however, this quality of placing flawed characters in leading roles that is particularly distinctive about Lynch's films, rather it is the fact that often these characters shift and switch between different personas, people and worlds that is truly distinctive.

When first encounted this shifting and phasing of characters is abrupt and often disorienting but, when examined closely, this element of Lynch's films often gives us interesting insights into how he feels about these characters and the world they inhabit, that at first often appears arbitrary. Lynch has an almost obsessive preoccupation with dreams, nightmares, hallucinations and character perspective. Often when a character or the world around them changes dramatically this a cue that the character's state of consciousness has undergone some kind of massive shift and we, the audience, are right there with them, along for the ride. Lynch doesn't give us the usual cues that we're entering a flashback or a dream sequence. There's no misty condensation punctuated by the sound of windchimes to inform us that something odd is occuring with the internal timeline of the film. Like the character experiencing it we are taken with a straight cut from reality to fantasy, from waking life to nightmare and regular existence to unadulterated delusion. Although far from conventional, Lynch often gives hints that what he is presenting or about to present to us is not a strictly realist depiction of the world, but he does so in a more veiled fashion than many other directors. Fine examples of this exist in all of Lynch's films, but for the sake of brevity we shall only explore a few key examples.

Early in Lost Highway the main character, Fred Madison, tells a police detective that he doesn't own a video camera because he doesn't like video cameras. When asked why he responds 'I like to remember things my own way ... how I remember them. Not necessarily the way they happened' (Lynch 1997). This is almost the quintessenial David Lynch line, in Lynch's films we will rarely see things simply 'as they happened', everything will be coloured by perception (often the perception of both the characters and Lynch himself). In the case of Lost Highway, the video camera scene is an excellent example of Lynch's preferred method of foreshadowing. As the film progresses, Fred murders his wife, is arrested and is put on death row. During his time on death row Fred disappears in his cell and is replaced by a young man named Pete. Pete is returned home where he lives an idyllic existence in suburban America. In the end we see Fred driving madly down a highway, screaming, as stark, blue elctricity streaks through the interior of his car. Taken at face value this film would appear to be one about a man who murders his wife and disappears from the face of the earth. However, if we take the clue from earlier in the film that Fred likes to remember things 'his way' and not nessiarily how things 'really happened' perhaps there's a deceptively linear narrative lurking beaneath the facade of insanity. What if after the trauma of murdering his wife and being sentenced to death Fred entered a delusional fantasy in which he was young again, living in an idyllic suburban world and surrounded by beautiful women who gladly have sex with him? In the final scenes we see Fred driving down the lost highway, unable to cling to his fantasy any longer as thousands of volts of electricity surging through his body and both his real and imagined lives come to an end.

When talking about the films of David Lynch, however, we cannot neglect to examine in some detail his most recent feature length film, Inland Empire. If we are to examine any of Lynch's works using the aueurist framework we set out earlier there is no better display of Lynch's attitude to both the world around him and the people who inhabit it than Inland Empire. A pessimistic, dystopian picture of America, literal depictions of the characters dreams, nightmares and psyches and frequent metamorphoses in which one character becomes another (and often switches back and forth without warning). As Emerson (2007) points out, Inland Empire is the culmination of Lynch's career and feels very much like the film he's been trying to make ever since Eraserhead. The film is, at its heart, a brutal examination of Hollywood and the way in which film, actor and audience relate to one another. Inland Empire is essentially the story of a young actress, Nikki Grace, who lands a role in a film about a couple who enter into a sordid love affair. The young actress and the male lead, Devon Berk, enter into a sordid love affair of their own and their lives come to so closely resemble that of the characters they play that not only does the audience become confused, but they themselves lose track of what is screenplay and what is reality. At one point whilst speaking intensely with Devon about her husband knowing about their affair, Nikki laughs and yells 'Goddamn! That sounds like dialogue from our script!'. At this point we hear the director's voice yelling 'cut!' and it's revealed that what Nikki said was indeed reading dialogue from the script. Not only are the characters of the film so similar to the characters they play that it's confusing for the audience, it's confusing for the characters themselves. To complicate things further we also see Nikki's grasp of reality slip further and, as she sinks deeper into her subconsious we see her as a miserable housewife, a violent psychopath and a prostitute. Each of these personas is played by the same woman who pointedly asks (in various accents) 'Look at me and tell me if you've known me before', daring us to draw comparisons to not only this collection of characters but (in a broader context) to Lynch's canon as a whole.

Naturally we have no idea precisely how these stories relate to one another. Is Nikki real and the violent psychopath a fantasy in which she answers to no man or is Nikki a fantasy of the psychopath, prostitute or housewife who have aspirations of a life beyond poverty and crime? To confound us further the film is also punctated by a disjointedly terrifying mock sitcom starring rabbits which appears to be watched by an audiece who seem to deliberately laugh at the most inappropriate times. This is of course, all part of Lynch's game. If there is one thing that can be uniformly said of the works of David Lynch it's that they're infuriatingly difficult to develop a concrete understanding about. In his review of Inland Empire, Jim Emerson (2007) comments that even when the film has left the screen, it hasn't left you. It will stay with you, bouncing about in your mind as you desperately try to understand what it is that Lynch was trying to accomplish and by letting the film do that to you, it's quite likely that Lynch has accomplished precisely what he set out to do.

To conclude let us review what we can say about David Lynch as a auteur, within the framework we set out at the beginning of the essay. Our aim was to discover what we could glean about the creative vision of Lynch by examining his films in relation to his whole body of work. In doing this we were looking for common stylistic and thematic trends which would give us an idea of how Lynch sees the world and the people within in, with all of their hopes and dreams as well as trials and triumphs. It seems that Lynch constistently produces a cynical picture of an America frought with corruption and moral decay. The people who inhabit his films drift freely between fantasy, reality, dreams and nightmares and the audience is swept along with them, often with no warning. The works of David Lynch present us with a cinematic Rubik's Cube where the fun is not in the achievement of solving the puzzle quickly and then discarding it. Rather the enjoyment is derived from sporadic and infuriatingly difficult insights which slowly move you closer and closer to the end and, like a Rubik's Cube, chances are most Lynch films would find themselves abandoned on a shelf after hours of frustrating attempts at solving them. There is no doubt that David Lynch is an auteur in the truest sense, with very clear ideas about the world and a definate agenda to spread those ideas in an opaque and obscure fashion. Their exact nature, sadly, will most likely be buried with Lynch who seems in no great hurry to shed light on the subject.

Works Cited

Top! do Leitor:

Fábio Rockenbach

Tops! da Equipe:

Luis Henrique Boaventura

Os três primeiros são simplesmente as obras-primas mais tristes e amargas de todo o cinema. Filmes destrutivos, com um sopro pesado de dor que é aliás a essência do ar sempre tóxico que se respira nas atmosferas deste gênero todo construído de tristeza.

01. O Samurai (Jean-Pierre Melville, 1967)
02. No Silêncio da Noite (Nicholas Ray, 1950)
03. Os Chefões (Abel Ferrara, 1996)
04. Expresso Para Bordeaux (Jean-Pierre Melville, 1972)
05. O Mensageiro do Diabo (Charles Laughton, 1955)
06. O Falcão Maltês (John Huston, 1941)
07. A Marca da Maldade (Orson Welles, 1958)
08. O Terceiro Homem (Carol Reed, 1949)
09. Rififi (Jules Dassin, 1955)
10. O Grande Golpe (Stanley Kubrick, 1956

Daniel Dalpizzolo

Como o noir é vasto e normalmente incorporado a outros estilos preferi citar apenas aqueles genuinamente noirs, os que eu apresentaria a alguém que tivesse interesse de conhecer exemplos diretos das características do gênero. Grandes filmes ficaram de fora, mas além de ser mais condizente com a proposta, faz com que eu fique menos insatisfeito com as ausências. E a lista, mesmo assim, só tem obra-prima, obviamente o critério base de qualquer top.

01. No Silêncio da Noite (Nicholas Ray, 1950)
02. A Marca da Maldade (Orson Welles, 1958)
03. A Morte Num Beijo (Robert Aldrich, 1956)
04. Cinzas Que Queimam (Nicholas Ray, 1951)
05. Almas Perversas (Fritz Lang, 1945)
06. Império do Crime (Joseph H. Lewis, 1955)
07. Laura (Otto Preminger, 1944)
08. O Beijo Amargo (Samuel Fuller, 1964)
09. Curva do Destino (Edgar G. Ulmer, 1945)
10. Fuga do Passado (Jacques Tourneur, 1947)

Thiago Duarte

Acho que tirando Chinatown, nenhum outro da minha lista pode ser chamado de um noir genuíno, daquele incontestável e até o talo. Todos podem tranquilamente ser enquadrados em outros gêneros, e vá lá pra suspense, romance, ficção, etc. Mas como é lista de favoritos, não me preocupei em me apegar exclusivamente a definição de noir por gênero, mas sim em filmes que, entre outras coisas, preservam a alma desse estilo.

01. De Olhos Bem Fechados (Stanley Kubrick, 1999)
02. Cidade dos Sonhos (David Lynch, 2001)
03. O Homem que Não Estava Lá (Joel Coen, 2001)
04. Seven (David Fincher, 1995)
05. Mistérios e Paixões (David Cronenberg, 1991)
06. Sin City (Robert Rodriguez, 2005)
07. Blow Up (Michelangelo Antonioni, 1966)
08. Blade Runner (Ridley Scott, 1982)
09. Oldboy (Chan-wook Park, 2004)
10. Chinatown (Roman Polanski, 1974)

Pedro Kerr

01. O Beijo Amargo (Samuel Fuller, 1964)
02. No Silêncio da Noite (Nicholas Ray, 1950)
03. Pacto de Sangue (Billy Wilder, 1944)
04. À Beira do Abismo (Howard Hawks, 1946)
05. A Dama de Shanghai (Orson Welles, 1947)
06. Chinatown (Roman Polanski, 1974)
07. A Sombra de uma Dúvida (Alfred Hitchcock, 1943)
08. A Marca da Maldade (Orson Welles, 1958)
09. O Grande Golpe (Stanley Kubrick, 1956)
10. O Falcão Maltês (John Huston, 1941)

Djonata Ramos

01. Poderoso Chefão (Francis Ford Coppola, 1971)
02. Fogo Contra Fogo (Michael Mann, 1995)
03. Bons Companheiros (Martin Scorsese, 1992)
04. Era Uma Vez na America (Sergio Leone, 1984)
05. No Silêncio da Noite (Nicholas Ray, 1950)
06. Crepúsculo dos Deuses (Billy Wilder, 1950)
07. Casablanca (Michael Curtiz, 1942)
08. Oldboy (Chan-Wook Park, 2003)
09. Os Intocáveis (Brian de Palma, 1987)
10. Dália Negra (Brian de Palma, 2006)

Adney Silva

Hollywood na sua chamada 'Era de Ouro" teve os musicais como um dos seus maiores símbolos, Mas, á sombra desses filmes, surgia também o mais autoral e, por que não dizer, o mais "sujo" gênero cinematográfico, que, tal qual os filmes de terror, irrompeu das profundezas para influenciar um sem-número de filmes e diretores. Por conta dessa influência, algumas pessoas podem estranhar a presença de alguns filmes na minha lista.

01. A Marca da Maldade (Orson Welles, 1956)
02. Pacto de Sangue (Billy Wilder, 1945)
03. O Falcão Maltês (John Huston, 1941)
04. Chinatown (Roman Polanski, 1974)
05. O Homem Errado (Alfred HItchcock, 1956)
06. No Silêncio da Noite (Nicholas Ray, 1950)
07. Operação França (Willian Friendkin, 1973)
08. Bonnie & Clyde (Arthur Penn, 1968)
09. A Dama no Lago (Robert Montgomery, 1947)
10. Prisioneiro do Passado (Delmer Daves, 1949)