Ok just woke up after two hours watching Jim Jarmusch’s Broken Flowers. Two lost hours. Two subtle hours. Full of people,  present, real people. It leaves you dangling. So real, weird. Still searching for moments, minutes passing in non real time. Seeing someone I feel comfortable with, in everyone of them. Yet some of them really disconserting, difficult to comprehend but not less familiar. Aesthetic pleasure, yada, yada, yada… Worth every second but… there is an end :-) Fucked up D night.

Today I saw the Lost Highway by David Lynch in DVD. The film is about a guy who is suffering from a crisis of personal identity, to be more accurate a schizophrenic, whose struggle to cope with a problematic personal life leads him to a non linear world, where facts, images and time convolute in a chaos. Of course such a poor attempt to sum the story, is far from adequate to describe the Lynchian world once again ruthlessly unveiled in front of our eyes and ears (never forget the ears with Lynch). After the film I had the strong urge to dig more into it. I searched for critics and essays, that would help me demystify it: a very interesting site on Lynch’s work is The City of Absurdity with a strong paper’s section for the Lost highway, as well as all of his films. Any one looking for input on the deranged Lynch should check out this one.
Needless to say I loved the film!
PS: I have friend, who has more than one time argued, in front of me and others, that we have watched this film together back in 1997 when it was released. I was and am confident that today it’s the first time I watch this film. Either that, or I should start being worried about my mental state being close to Fred Madison’s one (the film hero).