Fernanda, played by the great Bárbara Colen with whom a colleague of mine’s mom used to (still does for all I know) take aerobics class, returns to the rural town she was born in, but never knew, to scatter her adoptive mother’s ashes and claim an uncertain inheritance. She also hopes to discover the identity of her real parents. She arrives in the middle of what looks like a KKK procession but turns out to be some strangely similar local…
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Inland Empire 2006
No one understands this film, and no one understands the texture of my dreams like Lynch does. How the images drain into each other, flare out and smear like light refracted through whisky-residue on glass. How the images are subsidiary to the words, as if the eye is always two blinks behind the ear; as if the film is always playing catch-up, fitting its visual form to its narrative, the same way my dreams feel. For a few years now,…
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Tampopo 1985
Food is life. A spaghetti-eating lesson is subverted by a balding, belching Westerner. A troupe of hobo gourmets trade tasting notes and whip up omelettes in hotel kitchens after hours. A mad granny palps peaches and cheese, pursued by a store clerk. Food is sex. A gangster who resembles a young Chairman Kaga from Iron Chef understands the aphrodisiacal powers of raw eggs and oysters. Food is death. A dying wife wills herself to cook one last meal for her…
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Withnail & I 1987
Ah, Withnail. Like most of my peers, I watched this too many times to count between the ages of 18 and 21, but without ever really appreciating the currents of desperation and despair that flow through the film, or just how poignant their consummation is. It was always on in the background when you went round to someone's place, and what emerged through the fug of inebriation were the endless quotable lines, Richard E. Grant's manic shrieking, Uncle Monty's bombast,…
