"In dreams, I walk with you. In dreams, I talk to you. In dreams, you're mine, all the time. Forever. In dreams..."
Written and directed by David Lynch. 1986.
David Lynch's bedroom closet is full of monsters. Isabella Rossellini opens her legs for Dennis Hopper and falls into Kyle MacLachlan's arms. I love the world these characters inhabit, the idyllic town of Lumberton where, according to the W.O.O.D. radio announcer, "there's a whole lotta wood waitin out there..." Indeed. Indeed.
"I had a dream about you last night."
Written by Barry Gilford and David Lynch. Directed by David Lynch. 1997.
"I like to remember things my own way," says Fred. "How I remember them, not necessarily the way they happened." Seems that's the key to figuring out the enigma of Lost Highway. You might say Lynch was working out an idea here that he would perfect in Mulholland Dr.: the murder of one's lover and the rationalizing fantasy that follows (only, in Mulholland Dr., the fantasy comes first and the murder is the reveal). Here, instead of killing himself afterward, Bill Pullman ends up in jail, and in jail he breaks from reality, is reborn innocent (complete with new body and identity), and proceeds to reconstruct the pieces of his past in order to justify the murders he's committed -- his wife's and her lover's, a man named Dick Laurent, aka Mr. Eddy. Or is Mr. Eddy, like platinum-blonde Alice, just a fantasy, substituting for Andy (Eddy/Andy), whom Pullman suspected of cheating with his wife at the beginning of the film (it's hinted at that he discovers their infidelity in room 26 of the mysterious Lost Highway Hotel)? Either way, the video camera wielded by creepy Robert Blake is a lot like the little blue box and key in Mulholland Dr. It's the signifier of memory, one that Fred ultimately rejects in favor of his own re-creation. It's creepy as hell.
Also: nobody makes sunshine and breezes as frightening as David Lynch.
"I had a dream about this place."
Written and directed by David Lynch. 2001.
Mulholland Dr. is a movie about Hollywood. As such, it fits snugly into a category of films that's one of my favorites: the dream factory dreaming of itself. Lynch's major entry into this sub-genre is specifically about achieving some sense of identity in a place that subverts identity on a regular basis, promoting some to stardom and discarding others. For Diane, one of the discarded, it's about wish-fulfillment, dreams come true. Which is, in the end, if not reality, Hollywood. All the rest -- magic keys and scary old people and dimly lit apartments -- are just the trappings of truth.
"You're not only wrong. You're wrong at the top of your voice."
Written by Don McGuire and Millard Kaufman. Based on a story by Howard Breslin. Directed by John Sturges. 1955.
Nowadays, Hollywood manufactures Molotov cocktails by the twelve-packs, so it's something special when Spencer Tracy makes just one -- with his necktie.
"If she was here I'd probably be just as crazy now as I was then in about 5 minutes. Ain't that ridiculous? Naw, it ain't really. Cause being crazy about a woman like her is always the right thing to do. Being an old decrepit bag of bones, that's what's ridiculous. Gettin old."
Written by Larry McMurtry and Peter Bogdanovich. From the novel by Larry McMurtry. Directed by Peter Bogdanovich. 1971.
When I was in high school, I played trumpet in band. Every Friday night football game we played, we marched. Which meant heavy drilling during the week, after-school practices, an early end to summer -- all so the fans could come and cheer for everyone but us. A girl stood next to me in the bleachers, this freckled, brown-haired flag-twirler. She played first trumpet. So did I. We shared a lyre of music. Every now and then, her shoulder touched mine. I hated football games. Still do. Lately, I've been thinking about these things. Football games, that girl -- now married, someone's wife, mother, etc., a passenger departed from the everyday train of memory, like most of my hometown. How dull, the utterly ridiculous necessity of high school, the motions we were required to go through, the roles we were required to play. The pain we were required to endure. And yet, there is, from time to time, when the wind blows right and the light slants just, a caul of nostalgia over it all. It's comforting, somehow. I can't put my finger on it, actually. Youth.
I think, just maybe, this movie does.
"You know what you done there? You told my story, you told my whole story right there, right there. One time, I told you I was gonna make you somebody. That's what you done for me. You made me somebody they're gonna remember."
Written by David Newman and Robert Benton and Robert Towne (uncredited). Directed by Arthur Penn. 1967.
Bonnie and Clyde startles in its silences, its awkward moments, its missing pieces, sometimes literally, when the edits are rough, the frames just not there -- as if the filmmakers, too, lack the full and cohesive picture of Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker. Of course, don't we all. Theirs is a story that intersects gloriously between fact and fiction, truth and myth. And Arthur Penn's movie is a brilliant, unforgettable telling of that story myth.
"This was an important place in their lives."
Written and directed by George Romero. 1978.
In the DVD audio commentary featuring Romero, his ex-wife Christine Forrest, and make-up/stuntguy Tom Savini, Forrest spends a lot of time lamenting the fact that no studio's ever given George the money to make the kind of movie he really wants to make. It's a weird kind of apology for a great flick. That's the way it is with me, Romero shrugs. And that's why your movies are great, Savini adds. And, admittedly, going against the principle of Orson's No, a bigger budget didn't do much for the late-in-life sequel Land of the Dead except bring it closer in line with every other zombie movie released these past couple of years. We forget that the zombies in Dawn are all gray pancake and stiff walks. Squibs made with tin can lids and condoms. Boris the Dummy under the wheels of a garbage truck. Man. This movie's a romp.
"The book says, 'We might be through with the past, but the past ain't through with us.'"
Written and directed by Paul Thomas Anderson. 1999.
Magnolia gets heat for being long, but I don't think so. For me, it's more like spending three hours (or, if you go by the movie's timeline, one rainy day) in the company of interesting and sometimes horrible people (in other words: people). For your consideration: Anderson's adept handling of mise en scene, the camera's movement, the lighting, the editing -- all top notch. Also, the way the rain beads on Officer Jim's uniform. The sequence in Claudia's apartment -- when Jim responds to a "disturbance" -- remains one of the most endearing things I've seen on film. As for those much-maligned frogs, well, there are foreshadowings throughout the movie, glimpses of signs bearing a tell-tale verse from Exodus (though they're hardly visible on the small screen), and the entire movie builds toward a revelation of this sort: that there is a power at work in the minutiae of life, that yes, strange things do happen all the time, but not without design. So why frogs? I don't know. And I'm not sure I'm meant to. I like that.
Written by Jean Renoir and Charles Spaak. Directed by Jean Renoir. 1936.
Is the love of the right woman enough to set a crooked man straight? Is forty rubles enough for two people starting over? I don't know, but Gabin believes yes and yes. And, as an old man says of a dying girl's picture of heaven, "If she believes it, it is true." This --the tenuous alliance between fear and hope, what some of us would call faith -- is the truth of Renoir's beautiful movie.
"I'd want to tell him that I cherished the time we spent together, and I never expected anything from him. Even if I only saw him for a few moments, it made me happy. And I'd want to tell him that I love him and that I'll always love him. And no matter what happens on this world, I know he tried his best to help us."
Written by Mark Rosenthal and Lawrence Konner. Directed by Sidney J. Furie. 1987.
"The Dude of Steel," intones Lex Luthor's nephew, Lenny, in one of the movie's more pithy moments. "Boy, are you gonna get it." And get it the Dude of Steel does. This one ranks right up there among the worst films ever made. Golan-Globus got their mitts on the property from the Salkinds and milked it like the cash cow it was. After all, at this point in their movie-making careers, they were in financial trouble. Witness the sign on the Kent farm early in the film: "This property for lease or sale." Or: the driving philosophy here can be summed up in one hilarious headline: "Superman Says 'Drop Dead' to Kid." Make "kid" "kids" and you've got yourself a tagline.
Speaking of headlines, remember that one in the original Superman: "Look, Ma! No wires!"? You can see a wire or harness in almost every special effects shot in this movie.
My favorite moment: when Clark Kent takes Lois Lane by the hand and walks off a roof. Lois, for whatever inexplicable reason, thinks Clark is committing suicide. "Clark!" she cries. "Things aren't that bad!" Well, for Christopher Reeve, who shared story credit on this one, I imagine they were.
"A lot of holes in the desert, and a lot of problems are buried in those holes."
Written by Nicholas Pileggi. Directed by Martin Scorsese. 1995.
The Marty who made Casino is, without a doubt, the same Marty who cast Larry David as a hard-talking Jew in Curb Your Enthusiasm. Casino is Scorsese at his most playful and reckless: lots of flashy lighting, jump cuts, lots of severe camera angles, and lots of old geezers plugging one another between hits on their oxygen tanks. James Woods as a pimp named Lester? Don Rickles as a no-nonsense pit boss with a shotgun? Marty's mother as an old wiseguy's mother, admonishing her son not to talk so dirty?
What's not to like.
"I've been no place I wanna go back to, that's for damn sure."
Written by Frank Kowlaski, Sam Peckinpah, and Gordon T. Dawson. Directed by Sam Peckinpah. 1974.
Warren Oates is too cool to live, and -- unfortunately -- such is the end.
"I need a strong man to carry out my orders."
Written and directed by Sam Fuller. 1957.
Barbara Stanwyck is as grand and big in this movie as the vast landscapes and valleys she inhabits. And so is the movie itself, one of Fuller's best. Fuller: a director whose voice never compromises and always understands, keenly, what an audience wants, what cinema demands.
"Every grey hair on my head, I call Kinski."
Written and directed by Werner Herzog. 1999.
I'm not sure which is better: Klaus Kinski's mad raving that he's Jesus or Werner Herzog's quiet intent toward deicide. "One day I seriously decided to firebomb him in his home," director Herzog tells the camera, the Peruvian jungle and the shoot of Aguirre, The Wrath of God his backdrop. "I was prevented from doing so only by the vigilance of his Alsacian shepherd." One only wishes there were footage of that.
"Death is not the worst. There are things more horrible than death."
Written and directed by Werner Herzog. 1979.
Herzog's interpretation of the original German film is eerie, atmospheric, and somehow apocalyptic -- as a good vampire narrative should be. Kinski's vampyre is forbidden to participate in his own apocalypse, here confined to a German village, a household. A woman's heart.
