Out of the serial killers conceived by the all-time master filmmakers, Lang did the most pathetic (Hans Beckert), Chaplin the most unapologetic (Henri Verdoux), and Buñuel the most frustrated one --that is, the most imaginative and creative. His Ensayo de un crimen makes a case for murder as an art form, with the condition that it remain thoroughly wishful.
David Lynch's head is one crazy beautiful place. This short film is an early nightmare turned into art. Poetry with chalky feelings and no morning dews.
How was this possible in 1970? When Hitchcock was still the guidance to follow suit --remember Coppola's underrated Dementia 13 (1963) or Polanski's Repulsion (1965) and Rosemary's Baby (1968)--, Lynch retreated to more primitive impulses and began the development of a new kind of horror.
I can even see the seeds of Goth giving…
A few random thoughts:
--The film becomes gloomy --gloomier-- whenever Yoko Ono appears. Get back, Yoko.
--I think I never noticed the pimple near Ringo's lips before. Ah, my attention span.
--George helping Ringo write "Octopus's Garden" warmed my heart.
--Well, I guess if Yoko wasn't there, John would have already punched Paul in the mouth. Bossy guys always talk way too much.
--At least Paul's little stepdaughter (?) is adorable. Her interaction with Ringo was very cute.