You know those lightning-in-a-bottle moments that happen every so often when you're watching a film? The feeling that you've witnessed something so rare, so special, that it takes you to a transcendental plane of consciousness? Well, Stop Making Sense is that, non-stop for 88 minutes, and stays that way every time I watch it.
I guess my favourite band is The Beatles (boring, I know), but Talking Heads is the answer I'm more likely to give if you ask me…
This seems so calculated and perfectly composed in its wackiness that it's almost a weakness; every chaotic frame, every baffling structural turn, every moment of weirdly understated (for a film this gaudy) comedy feels carefully deliberated upon and executed to De Palma's exact vision. It's a small miracle that it doesn't feel all over the place.
I think I enjoy the idea of this film more than the actual film itself but there are a million things here that I…
I'm crying at how perfect this is. Sweet and hilarious and jaw-droppingly exciting, and such a pure distillation of everything cinema is about. Buster recreating his dreams, playing around in them and sharing them with us...movies are dreams I never want to wake up from.
Something like The Arrival of a Train at La Ciotat gets all the fame because it is such a clear, triumphant image. "HERE I AM!" it seems to be saying to us. "THE FUTURE OF CINEMA IS RUSHING HEADLONG TOWARDS YOU!" And of course the idea of contemporary audiences fleeing their seats in horror is just too delightful, the kind of cute urban legend that will always boost a film beyond the status it perhaps deserves.
This here is the…
