David Lynch's art thrives on an epistemic game. He instills apophenia, giving clues to maybe more than one well-thought-of simultaneously contradictory narratives. Maybe the way he does his art is similar to surrealist paranoiac-critical method: he works all the "what this could be taken for" ramifications, and seasons it with great styling, clichés from psychoanalysis and Americana stereotypes.

Mulholland Dr took some time for me. Not that I disliked it at first viewing, I was just simply overwhelmed with irrational fear. Two years later I can take it. I can take all the despair and guilt upon the realization of just how much we are still complete losers, even after vengeance. Yes, it is a moral tale. Furthermore, it is a complete psychological poem on film-noir, lacking none of the complexities and horror of timeless tragedy.

I ask myself if the silence of suicide, that Lynch addresses so often, is ever to be meant in an unethical nihilist/escapist sort of way. But I think Lynch's silence is overwhelmingly hot. It is like the oppression of hell has nothing to say but the irrational torture of rediscovering guilt over and over. Nothing left to say, and nothing that can be said can help.

For us, morbidly watching, what is left is the continuous scrutiny of this darkness. There is no redemption on Mulholland Dr: just samsara as samsara is supposed to appear: inescapable. If you openly focus upon this suffering, and find out that it is serious — it happens, sometimes worse — you have no other chance but face the dharma. On the other hand, if we keep our morbid fascination, we are still in that moment before the box opens, before we realize in what deep shit we have been sinking on.

I hadn't read a novel in years, but Ray Monk's "Duty of Genius" led me to search for this hardboiled pulp. Luckly I found it on #bookz at undernet, although it took some research to discover "Rendezvous With Fear" was named "Mouse in the Mountain" in Britain.

It is specially significative to read something under the auspices of another's outlook. That is — this is even most of the use behind a review — we delight not only in our own sense of aesthetics, but indulge on the delight it may have caused on another.

As we find the jokes funny, we also laugh at the character of the one who innitiated us in the mysteries of a peculiar — and it better be somewhat obscure — work.

In this case, without even rendering so much in the psychology of those involved, we see what kind a character Wittgenstein indulged in. The main character in this novel is a witty private investigator, whom in his dialogs (always with somewhat stereotyped detective story characters) in a non-violent way always confronts the speaker with their own blindness about something. He does that in a way clear to the reader, but not always to the interlocutor. It is my fancy that Wittgenstein indulged wishing he would be able to do that more often or with more skill.

Norbert Davis led a miserable life to suicide. I wonder how good it would be for him to know of the famous philosopher's admiration — a philosopher that had so many suicides in his family.

Yes, and the dog is probably the best fictional dog ever — as most reviews point out.

Alison Lohman is such a cutie in this one, even better than in Matchstick Men! The movie is also pretty good, a mystery with some neo-noir characteristics, and a few truly unpredictable plot twists. But the best of all is Alice (from "in Wonderland") face greased by Alison's cream. No wonder it is a NC-17.

One of the funniests movies ever, so damn silly. Actually, my noir inclinations have come from watching this in the eighties. I was drinking some coffee two nights ago, doing some in depth programming and watching this. Almost died laughing in the "you need some of my java"¹ scene.

All dames are alike: they reach down your throat and they can grab your heart, pull it out and they throw it on the floor, step on it with their high heels, spit on it, shove it in the oven and cook the shit out of it. Then they slice it into little pieces, slam it on a hunk of toast, and serve it to you and then expect you to say, "Thanks, honey, it was delicious."