Signifying nothing

David Lynch is sponsoring The Interview Project which appears to be filmed by his son (among others). It is stunningly good. When I first saw the project I assumed they were just going to go around mocking "weird America," given its connection to David Lynch. I was surprised that the depiction is not only not mocking even in the slightest, but treats its subjects with respect, no matter how wacky or mundane. These are more than interviews--they are long photographs. The interview with Brenda Wray was one of the hardest ones to watch. The interview with Clara , despite its seeming mundaneness, is one of the most inspiring.

So there is a moment in Kaufman's Synendoche, New York That the hero's alter-ego throws himself off the top stage And dies a horrible death, face down in the fake concrete Skull crushed to oblivion for nothing more than the love Of the box office. Or is it the girl whose name is on your breath? Or is it the woman whose house burns continually And kills her, eventually, or the wife whose shower Runs continually, who is never there for you to clean But you clean, anyway, and sleep in the walk in Hoping to avoid the disaster that is imminent He cries, before he takes his deadly doppleganger plunge "You don't see other people! You only care about yourself!" Or something like that. Where does that take us? What are we to say to such A suicide plunge? How do you feel about yourself these days? Have your noticed skin lesions? Strange moles? How are your bowel movements? But it is all fine, because the hero survies The hero moves on in his existence of me and me And ...

I've thought long and hard about this, but I've come to the conclusion that the best film ever is The Third Man . Why, you ask. Why? It was written by Graham Greene, first of all, one of the most interesting and undervalued authors of the 20th century. Seriously, this guy knew what in the hell he was doing and why he was doing it. He was clear-headed enough in his confusing time to understand the clear evil that is rampant self-centeredness. It has the tightest plot development I've ever seen. Its driving sound track played simply on a zither weaves into the movie so well that it becomes a character itself. It presents an ethical/moral dilemma that is complex yet simple in its outcome. The exploration of Harry Lime's crimes (what a rhyme there) is stunning. You could apply it to our current situation in Iraq quite readily. It explores, q.v. above, Americanism in all its naive and horrific glory. The contrast between Holly Martins and Harry Lime creates this weird,...

Something tells me I should write about the passing of Ingmar Bergman, but the only thing that comes to mind is "he was only 89?!" I know 89 is a respectable age and all, but still--I thought Bergman was well passed 90, maybe even a hundred by now. Why? Well simply because of his subject matter and the fact that his films always seemed like the films that a 60-plus-year-old would direct. Fanny and Alexander is a prime example. I thought that he directed that when he was in his 80's, but that was 20 or more years ago. Perhaps I was just thinking of Kurosawa? Probably. In any case, Bergman has some of the most beautifully slow movies I've ever had the pleasure to have wash over me (weird camera angles between talking characters and all.) He also dealt with compelling subject matter that, while seeming to be so dark, also had a sort of hope to it--a sort of human density, if that makes any sense. I mean come on! Wasn't he the same age as Fellini? Actually I...