David Lynch's Mulholland Drive is not for casual movie-goers.

I was shocked yesterday and then again today to discover that there are already some people saying Mulholland Drive was the best movie of the decade. First my favorite critic, Dana Stevens of Slate, said this about David Lynch’s movie:

Unlike many Lynch acolytes, I consider Mulholland Dr. (spelled with the abbreviation, the way Lynch likes it) to be a gloriously imperfect film. No one’s ever been able to explain to my satisfaction what the whole subplot about that Dumpster-dwelling guy is about, or why Justin Theroux keeps running into that cowboy dude. But it makes my list for the sublime central love story between Naomi Watts and Laura Elena Harring, and for being the movie that’s inspired more and better dinner conversations than any film, perhaps, ever.

What she wrote about dinner conversations struck a chord with me. I remember when I went to see Mulholland Drive in the theater, I asked my friend Alexa to come along who had never seen a David Lynch movie. I recall that she liked it, and her first comment when we walked out was something like “I bet the director’s wife wakes up to some interesting pillow talk every morning.”

But while I thought that choosing a David Lynch film was a clever anomaly of “best-of” list writing, I was floored earlier today when I saw that another publication, Time Out New York, and its panel of critics choose Mulholland Drive as their top pick of the decade as well.

Here’s what they write:

At the top of our poll is a film split in half: a glamorous romance that suddenly morphs into bitter rejection, a Hollywood mystery that plunges into doom. Can there be another movie that speaks as resonantly—if unwittingly—to the awful moment that marked our decade? Viewers grappled over the meaning of the movie’s “blue box,” finding little purchase. But in the troubled autumn of this psychodrama’s 2001 NYC release, we might have understood it all too well. Mulholland Drive is the monster behind the diner; it’s the self-delusional dream turned into nightmare. The triumph belongs to David Lynch, who could have rested on the laurels of his three landmarks, Eraserhead, Blue Velvet and Twin Peaks. Creatively, though, he saved this project (originally a misunderstood TV pilot) from dismissal, retooling it and extending his story into complexity. Along the way, a star was born: the extraordinary Naomi Watts, whose fearless double performance wrecked all who submitted to its spell. Is the movie too dangerous and surreal to be our champion? Hardly. It was, after all, a dangerous and surreal decade.

While I certainly enjoyed Mulholland Drive and generally love David Lynch movies, I am surprised by this choice.

For the uninitiated, David Lynch does not make films for the masses. Generally speaking, his films are bizarre, scary, artfully constructed thrill rides that will leave some people wanting more and others wanting to understand WTF they just saw. His movies almost defy description until you see one, and Mulholland Drive represented Lynch’s non-linear mysterious storytelling well. I’m not sure I thought it was worthy of being deemed “the best film of the decade” though.

I remember only a few things about it including the scary, mysterious, evil man who was behind the diner near a dumpster (referenced above by both reviewers), the hot sexuality of Naomi Watts, and weird scenes of an opera singer that were muted. The evil man behind the dumpster was almost a full-scale evolution of David Lynch’s archetypal evil characters and the most succinct representation of one to date. In other words, the man behind the dumpster represents the wonderful creepiness of Lynch’s movies that haunts your mind years afterward. You will know exactly what I’ve mean if you’ve seen several David Lynch movies.

The most accessible thing David Lynch has done to date was his beloved TV series Twin Peaks. If you are interested in what David Lynch is all about, then I recommend starting there. I once proposed to some friends that we watch Blue Velvet, one of Lynch’s earlier successes and more coherent films from a plot standpoint. One person loved it, and one person thought it meant I was the weirdest person in the world. It’s good to know that in my quick research while writing this article, The Guardian in 2007 named Lynch “the most important film-maker of the current era”– so I guess I’m not alone in my weirdness.

Anyone out there have an opinion? Is the choice of Mulholland Drive odd as film of the decade, especially given that the bulk of David Lynch’s movie output was in the 1990s? Perhaps I need to watch it again.

I need to get started on using the vessel to share my work/thoughts/soul/whatever to the world. Let me preface this with the fact that blogging  does not come natural. I am not going to try to be particularly clever, and I will not show you interesting things from other websites that you have probably seen before and six months ago for that matter. I do however love film and photography as many of you do out there, and I thought high it time to extend my hand for the proverbial shake/arm wrestle  that will be my relationship with the internet, FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE.  I have been reluctant put my work online until now for many reasons…

a. As I am still a student here in Austin, I have been really busy with assignments and work most of the time so my web presence has not been a priority.

2.I  currently think of my  work as little experiments, each one I use to learn particular methods of doing things and the fine art of bringing all the elements together to articulate an idea. I am in school to learn, make mistakes, and grow as a filmmaker, and quite frankly I did not really take any of my earlier work seriously enough to show anyone.

c. and now that I am nearing then end (until grad school?) of my academic career I have been pondering about the next step as a soon-to-be unemployed filmmaker. It’s now the time to expose myself, work,passion, and  life  for your musings, entertainment, and brief preoccupation. And so it goes…..

Summer 09′

This first piece is a brief little expose on a vintage shop here in Austin, Blue Velvet. It was for my Intro Doc class with Professor Henry Kyle.

Working on this was fairly simple, a day of shooting (sony A1U), and a turn around of about a week. I have started doing more promo work like this for other local businesses. It a good way to stay working.

…more to come both current and archaic.

Many songs that have been popular in the rock-era were originated by others. In some cases, it was only a few years, but in other cases, it was as many as 100 years.

Here are two examples: Bobby Vinton reached #1 with “Blue Velvet” in 1963 but Tony Bennett had recorded it in 1951. “The Battle of New Orleans” by Johnny Horton, was #1 in 1959 but it came from a battle hymn written in 1815.

Here is the quiz: Name the top five pre-rock-era remakes, based on their total chart performance. Since this is seemingly not an easy one, no need to put them in order (we can do that later). Just list the top five, in any order. These songs were all released after 1955.

A Serious Man is not a nice movie. Like both No Country for Old Men or Burn After Reading, it’s a film where the pieces don’t quite add up. You could compare it to Michael Haneke’s The White Ribbon, except the Coen Brothers are less interested in sifting through history than grappling with the eternal mysteries. Man depicts a kind of war against God, a war which is always going to be one-sided. As the protagonist Larry Gopnik (Michael Stuhlbarg) puts it at one point, why does God give man so many questions if He’s not going to provide any answers?

Larry is a milquetoast surprised to find himself in the center of circumstances that might turn into a movie. We’re somewhere outside Bloomington, Minn., sometime when Jefferson Airplane were on heavy rotation. Larry’s wife is leaving him for another man. His neighbor is slowly encroaching on his property. He lusts after the siren next door. His brother hogs the bathroom so that he can drain a cyst on his neck. Larry’s chances of tenure are endangered by poison pen letters accusing him of moral turpitude and a South Korean student is annoyed that his professor won’t adjust his failing grade after a few thousand dollars are left on the man’s desk.

Gopnik is introduced at his job, explaining Schrodinger’s paradox. Later, conferring with the student he’s failing, Larry explains how he uses fables “to help give you a picture, the math is how it really works,” a key to the film’s method. He confesses that even he sometimes doesn’t really understand the math. There are certainly a lot of fables in A Serious Man. The movie begins with an episode set in a shetl where a Jewish couple find themselves entertaining a dybbuk. The hero’s progress has a fable-like structure, as Larry goes from rabbi to rabbi, seeking some succor from his trials. Each offers a different lesson which doesn’t really apply to him but throws up another signpost to the viewer. Novice Rabbi Scott (Simon Helberg) encourages Gopnik to find God in a parking lot—a somewhat futile suggestion that the audience look for meaning in the sharp angles and forbidding geometrics of this Minnesota suburb. The tea-sipping Rabbi Nachtner (George Wyner)offers the ludicrous story of the goy’s teeth. Like many of the stories in A Serious Man, like A Serious Man itself, it’s an absurd parable whose meaning appears to be that there isn’t any.

This leaves Larry to comfort himself with equally empty aphorisms like “Actions always have consequences.” In a way, he is a Kafka-esque figure, a persecuted man unaware that he’s being persecuted for his inactivity. As he puts it, “Everything that I thought was one way turns out to be another.” He is powerless to prevent his fall. Soon Gopnik and his brother have been exiled to the Jolly Roger hotel.

The film also chips away at language as an acceptable recourse. The use of Yiddish in the film’s opening episode acts as a kind of alienating effect for gentile audiences. Larry’s son Danny (Aaron Wolff) is preparing for his bat mitzvah. The boy wrestling with Hebrew implies that the Old Country is as much another planet for him as for the audience. Indeed, he is introduced surreptitiously listening to “Someone to Love” instead of paying attention to his Hebrew School lesson.

Words frequently assume nonsensical meanings. On the school bus, Danny’s friends use obscenities to the point where their offensiveness is dulled. On top of his woes, Larry is being hounded by the Columbia Record Club, who insist he owes payment for a copy of “Santana’s Abraxas.” In the film’s funniest scene, the phrase is repeated until the syllables become unmoored from their referent. Even the word “serious” is suspect. It’s used as a term of appreciation for a dead man. Gopnik tries to apply it to himself. What it means to be A Serious Man—as opposed to a frivolous one–is never really defined, perhaps because the filmmakers assume that it can’t be.

Even the film’s paragons of seriousness, ranging from doctors to lawyers to rabbis, cannot be trusted. The officials of the temple are ineffectual blatherers. Larry Gopnik is in some ways a cousin to Barton Fink, who made the mistake of entering Hollywood’s absurd universe. The Coens acknowledge a link with their earlier film by casting Michael Lerner, Fink’s tyrannical studio boss Jack Lipnick, as a senior partner who drops dead during a consultation. (Bodies fall in A Serious Man like autumn leaves; in its way, the film is as violent as Old Men.)

Kafka surfaces again in the film’s concern with isolated body parts. Man’s credit sequence ends with the camera traveling through an ear canal to emerge through Danny’s earplug. (This possible homage to David Lynch’s Blue Velvet hints at A Serious Man as a satire of the U.S. suburban film genre as represented by Velvet and American Beauty, whose Lester Burnham deals with a more benevolent God.) The parable of the goy’s teeth turns into a motif when Danny, having successfully completed his bar mitzvah through a haze of marijuana, is invited into the chambers of the inaccessible Rabbi Marshak (Alan Mandell) and sees a diagram of a jaw among his clutter.

Danny also gets an eyeful of a picture of Abraham and Isaac. The myth chimes with A Serious Man’s depiction of man pitted against a willful God, although Danny mainly needs his dad around to fix the TV aerial. Gopnik, however, is outfoxed at every turn in his effort to make right with unseen forces. His dreams urge him to do the right thing, to perform an action—anything—which might have a consequence. When he finally does, however, by adjusting the Korean student’s grade, God (or the Coens as His surrogates) suddenly changes the terms and sics an apocalyptic tornado to blow Larry’s entire world away.

It’s been suggested that the Coens are paying a visit to autobiographical territory. If so, it’s clearly not a place they view with Proustian attachment, nights watching F Troop to the contrary. Their ‘60s are a time of drab polyester relieved only by the lurid boudoir of Gopnik’s neighbor, which may have been decorated by Dante. It’s also been suggested that Man is anti-Semitic. The Coens encourage a sense of corporeal disgust verging on appalled wonder, just dig that extreme close-up of the Hebrew School principal’s ear, crowned with a nimbus of wiry hair, or the procession of faces with more lines on them than a map of pre-war Europe. Even before the proper title, the credit sequence features of a host of unknown, but very Jewish, actor names flying at the screen—as if they had been unleashed from Pandora’s casting service. There’s also a joke in the final credits: “No Jews were harmed during the making of this picture.” This admits to the cruelty of A Serious Man. But when have the Coens not been cruel?

The largely unknown cast functions to further alienate the audience, who lack familiar faces to identify with. However, these are pretty magnificent faces. Standouts in the cast include George Wyner and Fred Melamed as Gopnik’s supercilious love rival. Cinematographer and longtime Coens collaborator Roger Deakins photographs a world where the only curves are represented by the characters’ out-of-shape bodies. It’s been dressed by production designer Jess Gonchor and art director Deborah Jensen. Carter Burwell’s piano-led score provides plenty of red herrings, turning the most innocuous moments into ones of utmost dread.

Over the past couple of days at Special Services we’ve been getting chocolates from our Print Handicapped patrons. The people who call us and we select boxes full of audiobooks to send to their branches so they have stuff to read. It’s a lot of work, especially for the patrons who’ve read almost the entire collection (you have to check the file of what they’ve read compared with what is available compared with what they hate and will not read, all on software that sucks donkey balls).

My favourite Print Handicapped patron came in on Friday to drop off her “rather dubious card.” She’s so British and subdued deadpan funny. She told me how she’d watched a movie last week that she was surprised to discover she owned. It was David Lynch’s Blue Velvet. She didn’t like it very much. But she watched it. We tried to find her a couple of DAISYbooks, and she went off (in a subdued deadpan kind of way) when I suggested she try a Michael Ignatieff biography. Last time I helped her, she’d very conspiratorially borrowed a Trudeau biography, on the condition that I wouldn’t tell anyone. So yeah, good times with the little old ladies.

As a result of this goodwill, I’m eating way too much chocolate at work. One lady sent us a giant bag of those Lindt chocolate balls. I’m pretty sure I’m responsible for at least half of them disappearing.

Love it. So consistently true to himself.

I vaguely recall having read somewhere that David Lynch was offered the opportunity to direct Return of the Jedi, which is the sort of curious tidbit of film history that I wish I didn’t know because that ridicufest would’ve been amaaazing.  We’ll sadly never know what sort of batshit insanity that would have wrought upon us, but I’d like to imagine that it would involve Agent Cooper as a member of the Rebel Alliance, Ewoks in red suits that talked backwards, and Jabba the Hutt huffing nitrous oxide to Bobby Vinton while he fingerbanged Princess Leia:

Also, everybody would celebrate the fall of the Empire with cherry pie, and then our eyeballs would burst into flame like a Jedi funeral pyre from all the crazy.

ANYWAYS, Ain’t It Cool News stumbled upon a video of David Lynch discussing why he ended up deciding to pass on directing Return of the Jedi, and it’s like everything that’s not The Straight Story that David Lynch has ever done.  So, you know, delightfully weird:

You mean to tell me that not only has George Lucas has not only tried to make midichlorians and Jar Jar Binks happen, but he would dare suggest that a Niçoise salad is a meal and not an appetizer?  What a monster.

With some pretty influential filmmakers.

Stumbled across these in the vice archives. These men need no introduction.

David Lynch

(Blue Velvet, Mullholand Drive, etc)

Spike Jonze

(Being John Malkovich, Yeah Right!, Where the wild things are, Countless music videos and TVC’s, etc)

]]> http://tastylacys.wordpress.com/2009/12/05/recuerdos-de-costa-rica-or-ruminations-on-similarities-between-costa-rica-and-alaska-among-the-usual-anecdotes/ Sat, 05 Dec 2009 06:12:35 +0000 lisalacy http://tastylacys.wordpress.com/2009/12/05/recuerdos-de-costa-rica-or-ruminations-on-similarities-between-costa-rica-and-alaska-among-the-usual-anecdotes/

Okay, okay…I’ll stop pretending I know anything about Spanish. (Although I *will* say that it is awfully embarrassing/depressing that after six years of studying the language [...seven years ago...], my vocabulary is limited to a few choice phrases…and even *those* I am essentially scared to say out loud to native speakers.)

And…because I know how easy it is to forget the day-to-day when you go on a trip like this and then try to recall what exactly happened to everyone back home (“There was a zipline…and then we saw some monkeys…”), I made a concerted effort to record the goings-on at the end of each day. What follows is basically me writing up my notes. (And just to cover my bases, I suppose, I should note that these recollections are mine and mine alone…and I’m only human and it’s possible my memory is flawed and that these recollections may not be precisely accurate…so. Perhaps read with a grain of salt. [Also? This turned out to be really long. (Even for me...) And I've been working on it forever...and as I read it for the umpteenth time, part of me is tempted to just click "Publish" already...so Days Eight and Nine may not have received the tender loving care that they deserve...and for that I hope you'll accept my humble apologies.])

Day One

Our flight was at 5:45 in the morning and a car was coming to pick us up around 3…so we just stayed up all night. It probably goes without saying that we were pretty exhausted and delirious by the time we made it to the airport. And after telling J that the easiest way to get from my apartment to JFK was to just call a car service and that this was a unique New Yorky thing and she was hip to the scene because she was with a local…we ended up with a guy who parked at the opposite end of my street and who didn’t move the car when we came out of my apartment at 3:00 in the morning with all of our luggage. (And he wasn’t driving a black Lincoln! It was, like, a gray Nissan Altima.) And then he drove like a bat out of hell and sort of got lost in Queens…and it wasn’t a Dial-7 sort of experience. We made it to JFK in two distinct pieces though…and literally the moment we walked through the airport doors, the handle on my purse broke. It was obviously too late to do anything about it (although we did search for glue at the Miami airport…only to find a man in one of the gift shops who tried to stick my strap back together with scotch tape and then advised me to “pull as hard as [I could],” and I promptly ripped it right back apart again…so he gave me a big shopping bag…that basically served as my purse for the rest of the trip.).

We were so tired we slept most of the way on both flights…and when we actually landed in San Jose, I could see some green landscape and life going on outside…but it was still sort of hard to believe that we were actually there — even when we were waiting in line to go through Customs. I had reserved a car…so J was able to flex her language muscles for the first time when we picked it up. And once we were at the actual off-site rental counter (and they told us not to move the car if we had an accident as it would render our insurance null and void), I asked for directions to the hotel…but the guy behind the counter was a little dubious. I had picked the Gran Hotel Costa Rica because my book said it was in the center of San Jose and that it was very close to the Teatro Nacional and that it had been around since the 1930s and had some Art Deco charm to it or somesuch…and it just seemed more unique and San-Jose-y than, say, the Holiday Inn. But the guy asked if we had prepaid…and then proceeded to give us directions because we *had*, but he said it would have been a lot easier to have just stayed near the airport.

And as we headed out for the first time in our Toyota Corolla in search of the Gran Hotel, J said something like, “I hope they have parking…” and it was the first time I had actually thought about something like that. I guess I figured parking was a given. (I think this is what they call foreshadowing…)

So…finding the actual hotel wasn’t all that hard. There was a big road called Paseo Colon…and I think we had to make one lefthand turn, but that was about it. We could see the hotel off to our left. However…the hotel was in the middle of a big square…and there was no place to park nearby. So…we sort of ended up going around and around the square, wondering what to do. We eventually figured out that “parqueo” is “parking lot” and saw a tiered structure on one of the side roads…in which we found a very nice group of men who listened patiently to us — J was so much better at speaking than I was — and one of them even drew us a map. We ended up back in front of the hotel…where we saw a road sort of going underneath the hotel and the words “NO” and “something.” “Maybe it means ‘Parking for Hotel Guests Only!’” I guessed optimistically. But, nope. We couldn’t park there either. So…we ended up pulling up in front of the hotel and were sort of despairing over what to do…when a man approached us to pay to park there…and he was the one who finally explained that we had to park in the lot with the hut with the blue roof a little further down the road.

When we finally pulled into the place where we were actually allowed to leave the car, a man approached and asked for our room number. And while, in hindsight, I probably could have come up with something like, “Todavia no sabemos el numero de nuestro cuarto,” I sort of panicked in the moment and said, “Estamos llegando!” to which the man laughed and said that it was clear we were new arrivals. And as we pulled our luggage out of the trunk, he offered to call security and J said it wasn’t necessary as the hotel was just across the street and then he told us a story about a woman he found crying because someone had stolen her $1000 necklace and he said it was best for us to just wait for someone to walk over with us.

By the time we were actually checked into our room, we were both pretty frazzled. We ended up having dinner in the restaurant downstairs. Wine helped. And I had the first of several arroz dishes.

Day Two

We woke up ready to kiss San Jose goodbye and to head north to Arenal.

The hotel served a pretty decent breakfast, including — get this — blueberry juice (…which I actually thought said “blackberry juice” at first…). I was *really* excited about it…but actually found it to be a little too sweet.

After breakfast, we got directions and returned to the Corolla…and were heading back to the airport in order to ultimately go north. However, while looking for Paseo Colon again, we somehow ended up going the wrong way on a one-way street and got all turned around (which made me feel bad as J was doing this big, brave thing by driving and I was supposed to be her trusty navigator…but I swear the map said it was a two-way street *and* there was a yellow line in the middle of the road)…but eventually we found another sign for el aeropuerto and proceeded on our three-and-a-half-hour drive. It was very, very green — a really pretty drive…and definitely not like any landscape I’d ever seen before. The turns were a little hairy…and there were lots of people walking along the sides of the roads — including wee little ones…and we kept seeing signs for “queso palmito…” although I don’t think we ever quite figured out what that was.

It was all worth it when we got to Arenal though. We had the cutest little bungalow with an amazing view out back of a very lush, tropical landscape. The focal point of all the resorts in the area — the very reason they exist, in fact (their raison d’etre!) — is Volcan Arenal. And everyone at our hotel kept telling us how lucky we were to be able to see the volcano that day…as oftentimes there is so much fog you can’t see it at all. (And, sure enough — when we woke up the next day, it was gone and we didn’t see it again the entire time we were there. So. We were lucky to have gotten pictures the first day. And this brings me to the first Alaskan Similarity: Seeing Denali [also known as Mount McKinley] is kind of a crapshoot as it is often hidden by clouds. Plus — Similarity #2 — we were in Costa Rica during the rainy season…which I thought was kind of like going to Alaska in the winter. Obviously the weather is different…but in both places, the off-season means lower prices and fewer tourists and it’s still really beautiful.)

We stuck close to home for lunch on that second day, opting to eat in the one restaurant on the hotel grounds. I ordered another “typical Costa Rican dish” that came with chicken, rice, plantains, salad, cheese (perhaps queso palmito?) and a fried egg that I gave to J.

Afterward, we (bravely) donned swimwear and headed down to the pool/spa where, luckily, we were the only guests for miles and miles. J jumped in the pool straightaway despite frigid temps, but I wasn’t as courageous. Instead, I stood with my feet submerged on the top step as a hotel employee walked by and shouted, “Hace frio?” and I said, “Si!” (one of the few words I can say with much authority) and I *believe* he suggested I jump in right away to get it over with. Eventually I did. But it was darn cold. Sooo…after a lap or two, we retreated to the spa…and before too long a bartender appeared — another one of the hotel employees who commented on how lucky we were to be able to see the volcano — and she asked us if we wanted anything to drink. (There was actually a bar right up along the pool’s edge…and I suppose that in the warmer months, you can swim right up and get yourself a drink.) The special on that particular day was a Coco Loco and so soon J and I found ourselves with drinks in coconuts.

We ate in the same restaurant that night…and, this is such a dorky thing to say, but…according to my notes, I had more arroz con pollo (I was big on anything labeled “typical plate” or that was somehow otherwise blatantly Costa Rican). We had tried to go to the supermercado in La Fortuna that afternoon to stock up on some basics and to perhaps not be beholden to that one restaurant…but there was an accident on the main road and we couldn’t get through.

And –- indulge me in one more small aside – -all the rice and beans sort of made me think of the Bartender as his stepfather is from Puerto Rico and he grew up eating lots of it and it’s what he cooked for himself over and over again after he hurt his foot and was out of work and couldn’t really afford to buy much else…and one of our crises this summer was promulgated by him being stupid after he said he was sick of rice and beans and I said, “You know I can cook, right?” and he said, “You’d cook for me?” and I said, “Of course I would!” and I proceeded to plan a totally elaborate meal with an Asian-style flank steak and pickled cucumbers and whatnot…and the night before he was slated to eat said meal, he texted me to say he was going to the Jersey Shore instead. A real gem, that boy. And…prepare to breathe a sigh of relief: When I was in Costa Rica, the relative smallness of the Bartender’s actual role in the grand scheme of things finally sort of hit me. He felt really far away…and, while I still miss him, it feels like something finally shifted. It could very well be that I felt the act of going to Costa Rica was really, totally 100% moving on with my life…and that this trip was about getting out and doing things that make me happy instead of wallowing in my apartment and getting droopy eyes every time I walk by his bar. Or something. I am even attempted to identify him by name in one final reckless act to close this particular chapter…like, say, Carrie Bradshaw with Big at the end of the series or Julie Powell with D at the end of Cleaving (…more on that in my next post…)…but, then again, there are some things about him that I’d like to hold close and keep just for me. (The end.)

For dessert, the restaurant offered us a tres leches cake…and we were too full to eat it that night, so we vowed to come back for it before we left for good. I had never had tres leches before, but J had fond memories of it growing up (I think) and said her sister had it at her wedding. This, of course, got the little wheels in my head moving and when I got back to reality, I did a quick search and found an Alton Brown recipe. My mother thinks Alton Brown is absolutely IT because he’s scientific and stuff. She is even willing to forsake our family pie crust recipe because she saw an episode of Alton’s show in which he said that a mixture of butter and lard makes for the perfect crust and he backed up his theory by explaining what fats bond to and whatnot. I admit that I, too, have been curious about using butter and/or lard…but I haven’t done so yet…and part of it is definitely because I’d feel like a traitor to my aunt and my great-grandmother. (And when J and I went back a day or two later, they were *out* of the tres leches cake…so I never actually got to try it there.)

Over our meal, we also talked about red velvet cake and J went off on a pretend tirade about how it isn’t really fair that we only use red food color…and I eventually vowed one day to try out blue velvet. (So…perhaps that will come after the Cleaving post…)

Day Three

Not a hugely early start. We had breakfast in the same restaurant…and we got lots of fruit again – including guava (I think…). But pineapple is still my favorite.

The ONE thing that J wanted to do while we were in Costa Rica was to zipline through the rainforest. I was less enthusiastic…but I wimped out of a somewhat similar experience in the sixth grade at a ropes course and so J was able to hold this over my head and to talk about how I had a great opportunity to do it over again and to conquer my fears and whatnot. So…I wanted to get the zipline over and done with early on so I wouldn’t have it hanging over my head the entire trip.

And…the hotel was nice and had given us a coupon for a free activity…so, with a heavy heart, I signed up to zipline through the rainforest on Day Three.

Since the hotel was more or less empty, I was hoping we would be the only ones on this zipline trip…but, alas, there were about ten other people, including four guides. J and I were the last to arrive, so we quickly got into our harnesses and I nervously made a joke about having a big head as one of the guides readjusted my helmet.

There were nine lines on this particular course. Another guide, Ishmael, explained to J and I how to use the brake on our right hand and he said that it was important to sit back and to try to be relaxed, etc., etc. I understood all of this more or less in theory. But when I finally looked down from the platform and saw where we were supposed to *go*, I was substantially less sure. It was SO high! And it was beautiful, to be sure…but it was SO HIGH!

J said she was nervous, but she sailed off down the line with the rest of them like an expert.

I was the last one. It was just me and Ishmael left on the first platform. He asked if I was okay. I said I didn’t know. He was nice and patient with me…but eventually I told myself that I was going to have to go sometime, so I finally let him let go of me…and, wow. I was really, REALLY tense and my hand with the brake kept flying off the line and that made me even *more* nervous and tense…and it was just so fast…

But when I got to the next platform, J (in waterproof pants!) was super-nice and very encouraging. She kept saying, “You’re ziplining through the rainforest! Isn’t that incredible??” But I just didn’t feel *quite* the same way about it. It *was* really beautiful. And I am certainly glad I did it…but it’s one of those things that I have crossed off the list of Things To Do Before I Die…and that’s it for me and ziplining, I think.

For the next two lines, it was just me and Ishmael on the platform again after everyone else had left…and it required a lot of encouragement for me to let go again. (I believe the poor guy had to listen to me say, “This wasn’t my idea! J wanted to do this! I’m here for her!” a little more than once…) It was so beautiful and green and, well, rainforesty…and unlike anything I have ever seen before…but I had to look straight ahead toward the end point and focus on that and that alone or I never would have made it. I could, however, sort of see all the pretty stuff in my peripheral vision…and despite all of the worries I had about falling or lines snapping, I *did* acknowledge how beautiful it was, too. (The guides kept saying to relax and enjoy the scenery, but…easier said than done, man.)

PLUS you were supposed to pull yourself up so they could hook you onto the line…but I have absolutely no upper body strength whatsoever (not to mention that I have been feeding feelings for months and months and have maybe never been so fat in my entire life)…and so…more elementary school flashbacks to those California State Physical Education Tests (or whatever they were called) and my inability to do a single pull-up. So, basically, I failed. And I hadn’t – or, heck, haven’t – failed at much in my short(-ish) life. But…despite my best efforts to pull my damn chin up over that damn pole, it never happened. And then we moved to Mississippi where no one had to take tests like that (…but…where further humiliation ensued after I joined the girls’ basketball team without realizing what I was getting myself into and ended up on the team with a certain Jennifer White who absolutely hated my guts because I was so bad and who went on – I believe – to play for the Mississippi State Bulldogs. [And, ironically, our mothers befriended each other in the stands while watching Jennifer win games and me warm benches…but that is a story for another day]).

So…after not pulling myself up on the line and having two distinct panic attacks, I found myself face-to-face with the longest of the ziplines: Number Three. And, boy, oh boy…after Ishmael let me go, I was cursing in my head to such an extent that I would have made sailors, longshoremen and car mechanics blush. (There was a mom along for the trip – her daughters, probably aged 7 or 8 and 11ish, put me to shame – who told me that it helped to scream…but I couldn’t bring myself to actually do that. It was silent terror.)

And as I was gearing up for the fourth line and wondering how on earth I could do this six more times, Ishmael finally said, “Do you want me to go with you?” And I excitedly said, “Yes!”

This solved everything. With Ishmael behind me, I no longer had to worry about how/when to brake…and it was completely comforting to think that if I was going to fall into the rainforest below, a strange man was coming down with me.

He was really sweet about it – when we were gearing up to go on the next platform, he called himself my “private taxi” and hooked his line up to mine again. And it was, like, such a damsel in distress moment that I couldn’t help but think of him as my hero a little bit…although, sadly, even though the zipline guys had a little hut on the hotel grounds and we had to walk by it to go to the restaurant and stuff, I never saw him again after that trip. Wistful sigh…

After two lines together, he asked if I thought I could go alone again…and I begrudgingly said I could…and then he said he’d go with me on the final line, which perked me up immensely. And I found that the guides were right and it really *did* help to be more relaxed…although, as noted, it was not easy to do.

And there was also a strange intimacy associated with ziplining…by which I mean Ishmael could get away with saying things like, “Wrap your legs around me!” and he wasn’t just being skeevy.

Later, J and I were in the hot tub and reminiscing about our adventure and I spoke of a moment on one of the platforms when I had been hooked up on the line but was waiting for Ishmael – and I had perhaps just moments earlier confessed my schoolgirl crush, which, in hindsight, may have accounted for her line of thinking – and I was sort of swinging around and not in complete control of myself when I accidentally kneed one of the other guides in the crotch. So…I said to J, “I kneed him in the crotch,” and J looked totally horrified and I said, “It was an accident! I didn’t mean to!” and a wave of relief spread over her face and she said, “Oh! I thought you were saying, ‘I need him in the crotch.’”

After Line Nine was in the can, the guys offered an optional rappelling adventure and I was sort of torn…on the one hand, I felt like I should do it because I was in Costa Rica and when on earth was I going to have another opportunity to go rappelling down a waterfall? But, on the other hand, I had already done a really brave thing that day…and when I realized that I really hadn’t paid attention to what the guy was saying about how to lower yourself off the platform, I figured I had probably had enough boundary extension for one day.

J was brave though. She rappelled.

As I waited for her by the bus, one of the guides pointed out a bat in a banana tree…and lots of vampire jokes ensued. (Blame Twilight?)

Then there was lots of rain and fog…and the volcano was totally obscured – it was like it wasn’t even there…which, again, sort of reminded me of trying to spot Denali in Alaska. Sometimes you get lucky and it’s a clear day…but when it’s cloudy, you get bupkus. We finally understood why everyone had said it was such a big deal the day before. We were concerned it was perhaps *too* foggy to drive to La Fortuna, but we were sick of the restaurant, so we decide to brave it anyway. There, we stocked up on platanos tostados (my absolute favorite), empanadas, and some sort of cheese sticks, among other comestibles…and we had a little picnic on our patio. There was a cat wandering the hotel grounds that appeared again…and I wanted to take her photo, but J initially chastised me for trying to exploit the poor animal…and later relented when she was annoyed that the cat wouldn’t go away.

Day Four

We had to get a really early start because a bus was stopping by to pick us up and take us to Cano Negro. (We still managed to sneak in breakfast at the restaurant though. More plantains. Which, as noted, I love.)

We had two guides, both named Javier. And after stopping at two more hotels to pick up an additional couple/family, one Javier drove while the other regaled us with folklore. Our first stop was an iguana refuge that Javier alluded to by telling us that the particular animal we were about to see is known as, “chicken of the tree.” (Plus, fun fact: Males are bright orange.)

Javier asked us if anybody in the group spoke Spanish…and then he made the dos cervezas joke that everyone seems to make after asking if anyone knows Spanish (“The only thing you need to know how to say is, “Dos cervezas, por favor…”).

When we finally got to Las Chiles, we boarded a pontoon boat…which sort of reminded me of a scene from the African Queen…

The driver of the boat was known as “Eagle Eyes” because of his incredible ability to spot animals…and he was totally deserving of the name. And this was yet another part of the trip that reminded me of Alaska — Similarity Three — the boat ride was sort of like taking the bus in Denali…you have to keep your eyes peeled and what you see over the course of the day is totally a crapshoot. But…as soon as someone sees something and shouts, “Stop!” the bus (or boat) will pull over and everyone oohs and ahhs and takes pictures and then you all set off again…I was a little worried at first because there was a birdwatching couple from England that repeatedly spotted birds…and we initially stopped for each one and Javier explained what it was…and, you know, I like birds as much as the next guy…but I was really jonesing for some monkeys. Luckily, after we’d more or less seen one of each of the birds they have in Cano Negro, the guide politely acknowledged the couples’ subsequent discoveries, but we didn’t pull over anymore. (And then little boy on shore waved at us. And my biological clock began ticking just a little louder…)

And then…a sloth! And howler monkeys (including an orange one that Javier said had a genetic abnormality that happens when the grandfather is also the father)! And another kind of monkey (perhaps spider?)! And capuchin monkeys! And caimans! (Caimen?) It was really quite something.

We crossed over the Nicaraguan border very briefly — really only long enough to take a picture of the “Welcome to Nicaragua” sign and to turn around. But, technically speaking, I have been to Nicaragua now. (Sort of like Kentucky. I was there for about 15 minutes this summer while we were killing time. It was really only long enough to take a picture of some chickens. So…not sure if I can count it on my list of new states this year…which, for the record otherwise numbers five: New Mexico, Texas, Arkansas, Virginia and Colorado.)

We went back down the Rio Frio, where we saw more birds, bats and another sloth. Javier warned us that you have to be really careful with your camera on beaches as capuchin monkeys really like shiny objects and will run up and steal them from you if you are not vigilant.

And I swear this wasn’t all that I ate, but after we disembarked, we stopped off for more arroz con pollo before the hour-long drive back to Arenal. There, J began talking to a couple from Houston who were in Costa Rica celebrating their anniversary and who really liked Vancouver as well…and they said they had recently visited New York, but hated it…in part because, as the husband said, there are too many foreigners.

It was mostly quiet on the drive back to Arenal…along the way, we stopped off at a farm where we saw some more animals and ate a cassava-cheese thing that was kind of the same consistency as a lemon bar. I liked it.

By then, it was raining again…but we were really lucky that the weather was so nice while we were on the river. It rains eight months out of the year there…which, again, is sort of like Alaska (in that winter — like the rainy season — is really, really long).

That night, J and I returned to the hot tub…where there were a group of youngsters cavorting…including a couple of boys who cut up limes and dropped them into their shorts and squealed.

Day Five

I got up early to go horseback riding. J had opted out of this particular activity…but it had been SO long since I’d been horseback riding and I really wasn’t sure when I would have a chance to do it again, so I decided it was worth going sola. But, unlike the zipline adventure that I had hoped would be just me and J, the morning horseback ride turned out to actually be just me and the guide, Alex.

My horse’s name was Eclipse. Alex asked me how long it had been since I’d ridden a horse and I did some quick math and came up with a 17-year estimate. And…Eclipse trotted and galloped a lot faster than anything I remembered…plus, it was raining and everything was muddy and slippery. The ol’ boy even got up to a canter at one point – which, when I was taking lessons as a girl, was the really big, scary thing that took me a long time to do.

While I was getting ready that morning, I wanted to wear my yellow pants…but because it was raining so much, I *had* to bring my rain jacket…which, unfortunately, is yellow…and I didn’t want to look like I belonged on Deadliest Catch…so I went with my red pants instead…but then Alex gave me a blue helmet…so I ended up looking like a character on a children’s television show (Or worse.).

We saw a howler monkey at the very beginning…but, despite Alex’s best effort to hoot at it, it didn’t make a peep. We also saw a lot of vultures and some toucans…but, sadly, the toucans were sort of hard to make out (distinctive beaks, I guess…but that’s about it…) and so Toucan Sam remains my benchmark. (I hate to whip out Alaska again, but I was really excited about seeing puffins for the first time at Prince William Sound [also where I saw otters in the wild for the first time…]. They’re so tiny! And I think this is maybe Similarity #5?)

The ride was really rainy and muddy…and, like I said, Alex kept telling me to make kissy noises at the horse to make him go faster, but I was perfectly happy with taking a more leisurely pace. (Alex also kept calling me, “Vacara!” and “Cowgirl!”) There were lots of rocks and streams and stuff…so we definitely got out beyond where I ever could have possibly walked on foot…and it was all worth it when we got into the rainforest…which was my absolute favorite part. It was so beautiful and green and just like I had always pictured it (instead of, you know, sort of taking it in peripherally as I flew by in the trees)…

We ran into another group along the way…but, as noted, my Spanish is perhaps less than conversational…and so other than, “Buenas!” I was pretty much out. There was a big lake near the volcano that had lots of water lilies in it and Alex had me bring Eclipse out into the middle of it so he could take a picture of me and the horse in the water. (Alex was really sweet and took a lot of photos of me and the horse along with way…which is just one of the reasons it is so unfortunate that I looked like such a buffoon.)

Unfortunately, we couldn’t see the volcano again because of the fog…but Alex still had me tie up my horse when we reached the top of the mountain so we could give him a breather…which I maybe thought was a little strange as the other group came up right behind us, but went on without a break. And then Alex asked me how old I am and if I am married and it was a little awkward…and I, in turn, asked him all the questions I could possibly think to ask…but then I ran out and we were still just sort of sitting there and I was trying to think about how to nicely ask about when we were going to untie the horses and hit the road again…but finally — after an interminably long break — we took off again.

On the way back, Alex took us through a pen with a bunch of bulls in it — big, huge bulls with jowly necks — and I guess he could tell I was maybe a little nervous as he said, “Don’t worry! Bulls are afraid of horses!” I am not entirely sure I believe him…but, no harm, no foul…and I guess in hindsight, it is kind of fun to be able to say that I rode a horse among Costa Rican bulls.

Along the way down, we ran into the owner of the bulls…who was also on horseback. He was wearing a black cape and had a black cowboy hat and his horse was black, too, and Alex took a picture of him giving me a thumb’s up and I couldn’t help but think that he looked like a Black Bart-type character.

Alex said we should keep our eyes peeled for wild pigs on the way back…and I was tempted to ask about whether they are javelinas as my parents have wild pigs near *their* house…but I was still feeling a little awkward from our “Why are you not married?”-conversation at the top of the mountain and it was still raining and my pants were soaked through and I had a pool of water in the hood of my jacket and, while enjoyable and memorable and everything, I was sort of ready to be done with the whole thing. (We didn’t find any pigs anyway.)

And, you know, the whole time I was thinking, “Boy, Lisa, you’re really going to pay for this tomorrow,” and I was scared that I was going to be sore forever…but, amazingly, I was fine. If anything, my stomach muscles hurt after ziplining…and I really didn’t even pull myself onto the line all that much. One of the poor guides (not my beloved Ishmael) had to help me. (Cringe.) Is it perhaps possible that worrying can make your stomach muscles hurt?

In the hot tub that night, J and I met a guy named Jeff from Jacksonville…who was a big surfer and was talking about perhaps moving to Costa Rica…at least for six months out of the year so he can catch lots of gnarly waves. He seemed rather disappointed with Arenal as he couldn’t see the volcano and there wasn’t much of a nightlife there. At dinner, J said that if I wanted him, he was all mine. I had – not arroz con anything! – tilapia a lo macho…which was supposed to be spicy…but either I am tough or it wasn’t that bad. And…I had seen a lot about a beer called Imperial, which billed itself “La cerveza de Costa Rica,” and this was the first night that I tried it. Good stuff. (Although every meathead American guy at the airport was wearing an Imperial t-shirt on the way home, so it may just be that I have bad taste…)

Day Six

We had to finally say goodbye to Hotel Montana de Fuego. And…I was kind of sad about it. I had gotten (mildly) attached to our cute little bungalow and – here’s unequivocal proof of how clingy I am – I would officially never see Ishmael ever again. (I also finally summoned up the courage to take a picture of the oxcart at the restaurant there by thinking about my mother’s “What are you worried about?? You’re never going to see these people ever again!”-advice.)

J expertly maneuvered our Corolla back down south to Alajuela (which, we learned, is far superior to San Jose when it comes to accommodations near to the airport. MUCH more low-key). We wanted to eventually head further south to Manuel Antonio, but to sneak in a tour of a coffee plantation while we were at it…and Alajuela seemed the perfect halfway point.

We tried to retrace our steps…but it got a little confusing in San Ramon…which was the first place I had to pop out to ask for directions. (By the end of the day, I had never said, “Estamos buscando X y no sabemos donde estamos,” so many times in my life.)

Along the way, we stopped off for more plantain chips…but, sadly, these weren’t as good as those first ones from that supermercado in La Fortuna. (I think they had some lime. SO good.)

We had a devil of a time finding our hotel…it was on the same road as a giant aviary called “Zoo Ave” and I got a lot of mileage out of saying, “Estamos buscando Zoo Ave…” and then we saw a sign that said the hotel was in 1200 meters (damn the metric system!) and I swore we had gone 1200 meters and then some and there was no sign of a hotel and so we stopped at a furniture store and I used my phrase on a guy on a motorcycle…and, while he hadn’t heard of our hotel specifically, he told me that all of the hotels were down to our left…and I really wanted to say, “But there’s a sign right over there that says our hotel is in 1200 meters!” But, alas, I could not…and so I was pointing to where the sign was and trying to say something about the hotel as he was saying, “There are no hotels that way!” So, sadly, after all those Spanish classes in high school and college, I was left on that street in Alajuela, thinking, “How in the hell do you say, ‘sign’?” Sigh again.

We *did* finally find it though…and it was a cute little cabiny room…with a very bizarre showerhead.

J and I were *supposed* to go on the 3:30 tour at Doka Estate…but, alas, we got really lost again…and I tried to use my phrase…but to no avail. (The guy who owned our hotel in Alajuela was a very chatty Canadian who later told us that Ticos – that’s Costa Ricans – find it very rude not to answer a question…and so sometimes they will tell you something just to tell you something.) So…we totally missed our tour, but were determined to find the damn Estate so that we wouldn’t have so much trouble the following morning…and the lady at the front desk at our hotel had said that we’d just go two kilometers and then turn left and then go another two kilometers until we got to the fork in the road and then turn right and then we’d see tons of signs…but…we didn’t see any signs…and facil it was not.

Along the way, we *almost* stopped off for dinner at a place called El Mirador that was supposed to have amazing views…but we ended up going back to our hotel and then walking to a seafood joint called La Princesa that had a giant anchor out front (it was one of the landmarks they gave us when giving us directions to Doka Estate). I had more rice and shrimp and Imperial…and we ordered tres leches…but J didn’t like it very much. I liked the flavor…but thought the texture was a little bit like watery cheesecake.

On the walk back home, we saw giant leafcutter ants all in a line, each carrying a single leaf. And…it wasn’t exactly a restful night as there were very loud Englishmen outside *and* there was a storm.

Day Seven

In an attempt *not* to get lost again, we got very long-winded directions from the Canadian guy who owned the hotel.

And, as luck would have it, we *thought* we had found Doka Estate the evening before, but…really all we had found was one of the signs…and so we had to keep going up the hill and we still sort of struggled to find the damn place…even after all that legwork from the day before.

We *finally* arrived at about 10:15 and were luckily able to sneak into the 10:00 tour that only included one couple from Michigan. There, we learned lots and lots about coffee-making from a guide who reminded me a lot of my friend Carmen. And there was unlimited free coffee at the end of the tour.

We got a little lost on the way back, but we ended up finding a gas station…so sort of kismet.

Afterward, we wanted to make our way to Manuel Antonio…and the Canadian guy had sworn up and down that the route was easy and there would be signs and stuff. And, luckily, he was right! It was a good three-plus-hour drive…but we didn’t get lost! And there were lots of signs! And we crossed a bridge that had crocodiles underneath and were able to pull off and see them and get right back in the car and go on our merry way…and the monkey hotel (when I read its motto was, “Still more monkeys than people,” I was totally sold) had room for us even though we didn’t have a reservation…and we got a room that looked like it was straight out of Swiss Family Robinson that was pretty much all windows and wood…and had a giant sliding door and two rocking chairs that said “Costa Rica” on the seats out front. Plus, our towels were folded into hearts and the toilet paper was folded into flowers. (I am easily impressed.) And the view from the pool was amazing and open and tropical and very much paradise-y…

We had an early dinner at a restaurant called the Anaconda (which made me think of the big butt song) and a bat flew by us over and over as we looked out on the trees and the water and swooned. I had a weird melony drink and J helped me compose a list of traits of my ideal man. (If you’re a brunette with big arms, you’re still in the running!)

Day Eight

Official Manuel Antonio Day. I was *really* looking forward to this day as the park was supposed to be crawling with wildlife. And even though I eventually outgrew the ape/monkey phase inspired by my report on orangutans in the sixth grade, I still really like them and have never had an opportunity to see them in the wild before.

The park was only a short drive from our hotel…so we quickly encountered a guy with a whistle who blew us over and told us where to park and tried to talk us into taking a tour with him. We had heard mixed reviews of these tours (including invaluable advice from Jeff from Jacksonville) and decided we might as well try to go into the park on our own as Jeff advised and that if the trip was totally a bust, we could easily go back the next day and cough up money for a guide. (This particular guide told us that we would only see two lizards the entire day if we attempted to go on our own, but he finally relented when we said we’d maybe be back…)

But as we were walking toward the park, we saw him blowing his whistle at other cars…but they ignored him and swerved around…and he had also said that the park was in 500 meters, but there was a sign around the corner as clear as day that said the park was in 1 kilometer…and then we sort of put two and two together and decided to move the car to a more accessible location.

And…even without a guide, we were still able to sort of mooch off of the tour groups in the park as we knew there would be animals wherever they were stopped. Howler monkeys were easy to spot because they’re so damn loud…but sloths were harder and were where mooching really paid off.

We eventually made it out to a beach and I took a photo of the “Don’t feed the monkeys”-sign while desperately hoping I would see some actual monkeys.

Out on the beach, J found some tadpoles in a pool in some rocks…and I followed behind but then slipped and fell in my dumb tennis shoes…and my knee really hurt…so I was perfectly happy to sit on the beach for awhile afterward while J went swimming. So…as I sat there and watched J swim and marveled at how pretty it was and pondered what to do with my life, a raccoon appeared behind me…and it surprised me, so I jumped up…and, remember that shopping bag that doubled as my purse? Well…that ballsy little raccoon came right up to where I was sitting and made a grab for it and I wasn’t quite sure what to do…but luckily a man saw what was happening and shouted and clapped at him and the raccoon ran away without my bag. (I got a photo of him though…)

And…after J was finished swimming and had showered off and everything, we walked back…and decided to pop off on one of the other trails called El Mirador. And…this is where it all happened. Out on the trail, we found so many capuchin monkeys! And they were right above our heads! And they were eating berries and talking to us…(and, yes, pooping…). And it was just so incredible — it was one of those things I will always remember. I never wanted it to end. And then on the way back, we saw more howler monkeys and sloths. It was quite a successful morning!

We had lunch at a quite little spot in Quepos called Cafe Milagro and then hung out by the pool with the magical view for awhile before changing into fancier duds and hitting up Salsipuedes (one of my favorite names *ever*) for tapas and one of the most beautiful (and fast!) sunsets I have ever seen and a black cat that ended up in my lap. I then talked J into a cantina crawl, so we hit up El Avion, La Cantina and Anaconda again…except this time they were playing that song about hos in different area codes and I was once again able to marvel at the fact that I have lived in SO MANY different places and yet the only area codes I know in that song are from Georgia and New York. And — funny enough — there was a big flat screen TV at one of the bars on which you could watch — get this — the CU/OSU game en vivo. So. A bizarre little reminder of home smack-dab in the middle of Central America.

Day Nine

Our trip was coming to an end…so we had to say goodbye to the monkey hotel, too, and make our way back to Alajuela once again.

But, as our hotel had bragged about having more monkeys than people, I really wanted to go out on one of the trails to find some of the little buggers before we left…but, alas, it was wet and there was a precipitous drop and so J and I decided to quit while we were ahead and we made our way back toward the middle of the country. The drive was pretty much okay…although we got lost a little bit more than we did on the way there…and Hotel Orquideas had a room for us (despite all of my worries that we would be high and dry without reservations for every single night that we were there…). The hotel even had a Marilyn Monroe-themed bar, where we spent the early part of our final evening there…and then we retired to our room, where I happened to catch my very favorite Costa Rican TV commercial one last time. (I *believe* it was for a deodorant…and it showed women in long sleeves who lifted their arms toward the sky and then their sleeves shot off and turned into fireworks. I cannot *believe* that I did not think to write down the name so I could search for it on YouTube.)

And, with that, Costa Rica was basically over. And soooo is my blog post.

Anyone who listens to the show on a regular basis knows that I adore Roy Orbison and this is why: First there’s the voice. It transcends generations by singing of universal longings that touch the heart. His voice sends quivers through my spine: part country, part rock and part pop, it’s a voice that reaches something approaching perfection.

Then there are the songs: a world defined by dreams yet rooted in reality, songs that teach us something about our own vulnerability. Songs of loss and desire and loneliness and, yes, songs about love.

Roy Orbison was born on April 23, 1936 in Vernon Texas,  the middle son of Orbie Lee Orbison, an oil well driller and car mechanic, and Nadine Shultz, a nurse. He was creating music as young as 6 or 7. We played interviews throughout the program, many from Roy himself and he covered his childhood, learning guitar from his father and uncle, his time at Sun Records, why he started wearing sunglasses on stage and whether he was really lonely, amongst other things. Rather than repeat all that here, let me remind you that you can listen to the Theme Park wherever you are by using your internet connection. Go to http://www.bayfm.org and press the listen button.   You should hear the show in real time via your iTunes or other media player. Theme Park airs on Tuesdays 2-4pm (that’s Sydney, Australia time).

So back to the music.  First up it was OOBIE DOOBIE, recorded with the Teen Kings in 1956. We followed with CLAUDETTE, a song about Orbson’s first wife, Claudette Frady. The track was recorded in 1958. Claudette died tragically in a motocycle accident in 1966. We followed with ONLY THE LONELY written by Roy Orbison and Joe Melson and recorded by Orbison in 1960; it was his first major hit. Here he is performing in Australia in the 60’s:

Then it was a great triple play: BLUE ANGEL, I’M HURTIN’ and RUNNING SCARED. We also included the song LOVE HURTS,  originally recorded by the Everly Brothers in 1960. Roy Orbison’s version was issued as the B-side to RUNNING SCARED which was a #1 hit, in 1961. Here’s a rare clip of Roy and his band, The Candymen, taken from a Dutch Tv Show from 1965. The concert was from the Singer Concert Zaal in Laren, Holland, during their European tour.

We had to include the next three songs from the early sixties: CANDY MAN, DREAM BABY, (about the birth of his second son with Claudette)  and WORKING FOR THE MAN - a song about a Summer he worked in the Texan oil fields alongside his father.

By 1963 Orbison was touring extensively throughout the UK, Europe and Australia with The Beatles, The Stones and the Beach Boys. We played a  couple of love ballads from that  era: FALLING and IT’S OVER.

Roy also filled us in on his time, while on tour,  with the Rolling Stones and how PRETTY WOMAN influenced them to write Satisfaction. PRETTY WOMAN, of course, went on to be a big hit and was destined to become Orbison’s signature song. Here’s a great piece of kitch from the 70’s: An American TV variety show called Pink Lady and Jeff. Pink Lady was a popular singing duo from Japan brought to America for the show.  Comedian Jeff Altman was the cohost. Worth watching just to see Roy struggling to keep a straight face and also for the 70’s fashion.

I rarely dedicate a whole show to one performer. The only other time was a tribute to Michael Jackson. But, in my opinion, Orbison is one of the great rock and rollers: a forceful, yet gentle, voice capable of dynamic crescendos. He sang both heartbroken ballads and bluesy rock numbers, running up a formidable hit streak in the early Sixties. From the release of ONLY THE LONELY in 1960 to PRETTY WOMAN,  a span of four years, Orbison cracked the Top Ten nine times.

Orbison’s most memorable performances were lovelorn melodramas, in which he emoted in a brooding tremulous voice. The melancholy in his songs resonated with listeners of all ages.  IT’S OVER is one great example of that style. Another is CRYING. It was great to hear how he came to write that song and we listened to the version he re-recorded with kd lang in 1987.  It went on to win them a Grammy Award.

After his first wife Claudette’s death in 1966, Orbison threw himself into work, which included starring in the film THE FASTEST GUITAR ALIVE, and he continued to tour. In the late 1960s, however, music was very much a part of the psychedelic movement. Orbison felt lost, later saying “[I] didn’t hear a lot I could relate to so I kind of stood there like a tree where the winds blow and the seasons change, and you’re still there and you bloom again.”

During a tour of England in 1968 he received news that his home in Tennessee had burned down and his two eldest sons had died. The property was sold to Johnny Cash, who planted an orchard on it. On March 25, 1969, Orbison married his second wife, Barbara Jacobs, and they had two children of their own.

During the 70’s several artists released covers of Orbison’s songs that performed very well. LOVE HURTS was remade by Gram Parsons and Emmylou Harris, and again by heavy metal band Nazareth and Sonny James sent ONLY THE LONELY to # 1 on the country music charts.

Linda Ronstadt covered BLUE BAYOU in 1977, which went to No. 3 and stayed on the charts for 24 weeks. And later that year, Orbison and Emmylou Harris won a Grammy Award for their duet THAT LOVIN’ YOU FEELIN’ AGAIN. WAYMORES BLUES is from the Class of 55 album with Roy Orbison, Johnny Cash, Jerry Lee Lewis and Carl Perkins. While the album was in part a tribute to Elvis Presley, it was mainly a commemoration of those young performing hopefuls who came to Sun Records  in 1955 to make music in the new era o Rock and Roll.

During the 80’s Orbison participated in a number of movie soundtracks. We played two of the most prominent: LIFE FADES AWAY from the film Less Than Zero, starring Robert Downie Jnr and IN DREAMS, from the controversial film by David Lynch, BLUE VELVET.

Orbison’s return to the public eye really began in earnest in 1987 with his induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and the taping of a tribute concert, Black and White Night. The concert featured such disciples as Bruce Springsteen, Elvis Costello, kd lang and Bonnie Raitt and was produced by T. Bone Burnett. Here’s a clip from the DVD. The song is UPTOWN.

It was a great pleasure to include a 7 minute interview with members of the supergroup of all supergroups: THE TRAVELLING WILBURYS: Roy Orbison, Bob Dylan, Tom Petty, Jeff Lynne and George Harrison. The year was 1988. We also included the song, HANDLE WITH CARE, from the album The Travelling Wilburys Vol 1.

In the same year Orbison was recording a major comeback album, Mystery Girl. It was awaiting release when Orbison suddenly died of a heart attack on December 6, 1988.  The album was finalized for release in the weeks following his death through the collaborative efforts of several artists who were all friends and admirers. The album, MYSTERY GIRL, was named after the chorus from the track SHE’S A MYSTERY TO ME, written for Orbison by U2’s Bono and The Edge.

The album was released posthumously in 1989 and would join Travelling Wilburys Vol 1 on the Billboard chart. The dual success meant that Roy Orbison joined Elvis Presley as the only two singers to simultaneously have two Top 5 albums on the Billboard chart posthumously, at that time. (This record has now been smashed by Michael Jackson who dominated the Billboard Top 10 albums when he passed away this year).

But back to Roy: Mystery Girl was extremely well received and went on to become the highest-charting album of his career. We took a listen to SHE’S A MYSTERY TO ME and YOU’VE GOT IT from that album. Rather than show a performance clip, take a look at Bono and others talking about the writing and recording process of the album. Roy sings SHE’S A MYSTERY TO ME as background to the story.

There was time for more of Roy commenting on how he would like to be remembered: “I’d just like to be remembered. If my contribution to the music scene brought someone some happiness or helped them keep things together, then that would be great.” A medley of some of Roy’s best loved tunes then closed the show: I DROVE ALL NIGHT, OH PRETTY WOMAN, LANA and HEARTBREAK RADIO.

When Elvis Presley stated that Roy Orbison is “The world’s greatest singer”, we know that he wasn’t kidding, that’s for sure.

Next week: We’re going back to THE SUMMER OF LOVE. Yes, its all love beads, incense, tambourines and the great music of the Summer of 67. Peace man.Contact me if you have any suggestions. Meanwhile, here is this week’s playlist:

Childhood – Roy Orbison Interview

Ooby Dooby - Roy Orbison Interview

Ooby Dooby  -  Roy Orbison

Claudette - Roy Orbison

Only The Lonely - Roy Orbison

Loneliness - Roy Orbison Interview

Blue Angel - Roy Orbison

I’m Hurtin’ - Roy Orbison

Running Scared - Roy Orbison

Love Hurts - Roy Orbison

Candy Man - Roy Orbison

Dream Baby – Roy Orbison

Working For The Man - Roy Orbison

Leah - Roy Orbison

Sunglasses - Roy Orbison

Mean Woman Blues - Roy Orbison

Falling - Roy Orbison

It’s Over - Roy Orbison

Oh, Pretty Woman - Roy Orbison

Crying - Roy Orbison interview

Crying - Roy Orbison & kd lang

Blue Bayou - Linda Ronstadt

That Lovin’ You Feelin’ Again - Roy Orbison with Emmylou Harris

Waymore’s Blues – Roy Orbison with Johnny Cash, Jerry Lee Lewis and Carl Perkins (Class of 55)

Life Fades Away - Roy Orbison

In Dreams - Roy Orbison

Uptown - Roy Orbison

Travelling Wilburys  interview

Handle With Care -Traveling Wilburys

She’s A Mystery To Me - Roy Orbison

You Got It - Roy Orbison

Being Remembered - Roy Orbison interview

Medley: I Drove All Night/Oh, Pretty Woman/Lana/Heartbreak Radio – Roy Orbison

Next week: SUMMER OF LOVE (1967)

Why are there people like Frank?

So it’s like this…

Surgery is Thursday, 12/10. I don’t know what time it will be, but it’ll last 2-3 hours. If everything goes properly and there are no complications, I should be released the afternoon of Saturday, 12/12. I’ll be in bed for a week other than getting up to brush my teeth, taking a dump, and ambling around the apartment to avoid developing blood clots, hopefully totally whonked out on oxycontin or oxycodone, but not enough to where I think my catheter tube would be a neat cat toy.

Shadow… hey, Shadow… yo, fucktard, check this out, man… kitty kitty kitty… you filthy sonofabitch!!!!!

I’m not sure what the difference between oxycontin and oxycodone is, and I really don’t care as long as it dulls the pain and doesn’t lock me up too badly, and the insurance covers it. Maybe one is for ghetto dwellers who have a junk habit, and the other is for rich white suburbanoids who have “medical issues.” Whatever, if I get screwed up enough on it maybe I can move to Florida and start my own talk radio show.

My last day at work is Tuesday, 12/08, because 12/09 is a fast and purge day. No food; no coffee. Jello; water; chicken broth; 7-Up. No coffee, food or even water the day of surgery.

I’m going to fucking die…

So if you’re in the neighborhood, stop by and put a bullet through my head. But only if you love me; if you’re one of the people out there that loathe me, fuck you and your family. I won’t give you the satisfaction.

Other surgery prep involves having to shower with Dial anti-bacterial soap, sucking down magnesium citrate, getting intimate with a Fleet enema (after sucking down the magnesium citrate… that’s going to be a hoot…)…

That’s just fucked up. Yeah, let’s make this asshole as absolutely miserable as fucking possible and then slice his gut open and poke around…

Eh, at least it beats working retail or in a corporate environment.

There’s also some judicious shaving involved, but that’s no big thing. I’ve stropped the boys clean for years, so I may as well clean it all up. Besides, it gives me an excuse to unabashedly scratch myself in public.

Post-op follow-up is 12/23. That’s when I get the word on when I can go back to work. Hopefully that will be 01/04/10. Not because I’m a company suck; it’s because I’ll have been bored out of my skull for a couple weeks by then. That and this little sojourn will be without pay since I don’t have short or long-term disability insurance.

My assistant office manager is checking to see if I can get remote access to the firm’s server to do some work from home during my lay up. That would be nice as far as some income (from me) coming in, but even more importantly it would make me feel useful and give me something to do other than being bored or feeling sorry for myself. It would be a most welcome distraction since I’m going to have to avoid my regular distractions.

Got just about everything in that we need. There’s some more honey-do’s to do around here, but most of the immediate needs should already be stocked in. Dia will be making most of the phone calls after surgery, Anna will be making one for me as well as putting up a posting for the world at large. So I think everything is covered.

Oh, crap, I need to wash the cat’s litter box… and clean off the back porch… get those seedling pots cleaned up… move the ice melt into the basement… put up the Weber before it snows… put up plastic on the front window… change the furnace filters… email some docs from work… get Amanda’s honey-do list started… get our holiday cards addressed and mailed…

… tick… tick… tick…

A little later…

The day after I was diagnosed, I checked my usual online news feeds. There was no news about my cancer, which helped put things in perspective. I’m not Andrew Lloyd Weber; I’m not Dennis Hopper (although, when “The Paper” was released, some of the editorial staff at the paper I worked at was entertaining the concept of who would play whom if a movie were made of our publication, and it was a unanimous decree that Hopper would play me, based on a combination of his characters in “Blue Velvet” and “Apocalypse Now”).  So the circle of life continues unbroken.

But tonight I got to chat with Bob Emmett, a friend of mine from Baja Illinois, one of the few immaculate people from that shit hole that everyone in our family carries in our hearts. Just yacking with Bob, well, a lot of shit dropped off my shoulders. Maybe a much-needed change of pace; maybe just a touch of Bob after a too-long period without.

He has such an attitude that he’s one of the few people gracing the face of this green earth that thinks that I don’t have an attitude. Can’t think of a higher compliment off the top at the moment. And talking with Bob– one of the rare ones– always gives me a sense of perspective.

What that is at the moment, I can’t say, but then that’s always the case after a yack-fest with Bob.

Life continues to be, and to be good.

Damn that Nan and her grooviness! Trina, you are just a doormat. Of course, it is possible to go too far in the other direction…

Whoa, Twink — how ’bout you crawl out of Jill’s butt about this? What a lady does behind closed bedroom/car/McDonalds’ restroom doors is her business.

So. Which one would you choose? And remember that things are not always what they seem; Trina could be a doormat because she has been raised according to a view of fundamentally-Biblical, sublimated femininity that also extends to keeping it on clampdown ’til after marriage, and even then, just every third Saturday and only if neither one of you enjoys it! Do you really want a lifetime of hot meals but frigid nights?

Still from Blue Velvet (1986), l to r: Laura Dern, Isabella Rossellini, and unbelievably gorgeous slice of ’80s man meat Kyle MacLachlan — three guesses who the next Hot Man Bein’ Hot of the Day is going to be.

Meanwhile, that alleged whore Jill might actually be acting out because she has been abused, and, like a kicked cat who has not been loved well enough, will just as easily cut you with a broken bottle as blow you.* She may even be one of those chicks who downs a bottle of bourbon and sleeps with your dad so you’ll beat her up, just so she can feel anything.

Ups and downs, blondes and brunettes, femmes fatales and ingenues –and which is which??– deconstruction of assumed codifications. Oh! Such a Lynchian conundrum!

Naomi Watts and Laura Harring, Mulholland Drive (2001).

*Your cat blows you, right?…right??

1. The Elephant Man
2. Eraserhead
3. Blue Velvet
4. The Straight Story
5. Wild At Heart
6. Lost Highway
7. Mulholland Drive
8. Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me
9. Dune

Inland Empire nog niet gezien. Tot het zo ver is blijft dat maar #10, zeker.

NP: Mike Pride’s From Bacteria To Boys – Hang

Versucht man David Lynch wikepadiatorisch zu definieren, kommt folgendes dabei heraus: “David Keith Lynch (* 20. Januar 1946 in Missoula, Montana) ist ein US-amerikanischer Regisseur, Maler, Fotograf und Animationskünstler.”

Ein Multitalent also, dessen Durchbruch ihm mit Filmen wie Eraserhead im Jahre 1977 gelang (und er wohl deshalb die Frisur noch heute in Ehren trägt?), Blue Velvet, der ihn 1986 weiter auf dieser Welle reiten lässt und er mir persönlich mit Lost Highway und Mulholland Drive 1997 und 2001 zwei meiner Lieblingsfilme beschert: “Als Regisseur hat er eine unverkennbare Filmsprache gefunden (der SPIEGEL)”.Was einige seiner Filme, speziell Mulholland Drive, angeht, klicke ich mich noch heute durch alle Foren, um die Intetionen aufzuspüren. Der Meister selbst sagte einmal in einem Interview, das ich vor Jahren las, er verstehe seine Filme als Bilder bzw. Gemälde, bei denen jeder Betrachter einen jeweils anderen Eindruck gewinnt und er ihnen deshalb seine ganz eigenen Interpretationen abgewinnt.
David Lynch ist ein Meister des surrealistischen, grotesk anmutenden Kinos, das sich mit atmosphärischen Elementen des Film Noirs vereint und somit eine Art vertontes Kunstwerk schafft. Sohingehend verbindet er immer Kunst, Film und auch seine Leidenschaft zu experimenteller Musik, die er für seine Filme zu großen Teilen selbst produziert.

“Der Film entwickelte sich für mich aus der Malerei.”

Nun gibt er erstmals in Deutschland sein Werk als bildender Künstler preis und zwar im Max Ernst Museum in Brühl. Seine Bilder sind wie erwartet grotesk, gewohnt verstörend und ein bisschen anders. Die Einflüsse eines Francis Bacon sind sofort erkennbar, sieht man sich die sogenannten “Distorted Nudes”- Werke an, bei denen es sich um verzerrte und teilweise verstümmelte Frauenkörper, am Computer bearbeitet, handelt und auch etwas verstörend wirken. Die ältesten Werke Lynchs stellen die Aufnahmen der schmelzenden Schneemänner dar, die er zu den Dreharbeiten seiner Twin- Peaks Serie fotografiert hat. Auch gibt es großformatige Portraits und kunstvoll gestaltete Materialbilder.

Seine Bilder sind so zugänglich wie seine Filme, entweder man lässt sich darauf ein und die Interpretation erstmal aussen vor, oder man versucht  einfach nicht hinzusehen und verpasst dabei die ihm eigene und phantasievolle Art, filmischen Spielraum kunstvoll zu Nutzen.

Hier eine kleine  Auswahl seiner Bilder in Brühl, die ich hier leider nicht, wie er vor Ort, musikalisch unterlegen kann (was die surrealstische Stimmung noch authentischer erscheinen lässt):

Hmmm what can I say about this film…..well I wasn’t really sure what to expect with this one. I was told several things about it, all of which confused me. And when I watched the film I don’t think I really understood all of it. There’s no doubt that it’s really well filmed but for me the characters were a bit excentric. I’m not sure I’d recommend it. The storyline was very strange and it took me three attempts to watch it.

 Cuando Mel Brooks terminó de ver la fábula postapocalíptica Eraser head (1977) lo primero que hizo fue abrazar al autor de esa ópera prima y decirle: «I love you, madman». Fue el comienzo de una gran amistad. A menos en términos financieros. Del hecho de que le gustara Cabeza de borrador dependía que el exquisito comediante, autor de La loca historia del mundo, produjese El hombre elefante (1980).

¿Cómo definir a este madman de copete abundante en la testa? David Lynch (EE.UU., 1946) es un pintor que plasma pesadillas, sueños diurnos, ensoñaciones, en el lienzo de la pantalla. Mundos obsesivos, sórdidos, extravagantes, bizarros. Para quienes no lo conocen es un hombre formado en bellas artes, excelso dibujante y escultor, fotógrafo de sus primeros cortos; editor, compositor y sonidista de su ópera prima. Diseña muebles y paisajes sonoros (landscapes sounds), escribe letras de canciones y de cuando en vez dirige comerciales (hizo uno memorable para ADIDAS), videos musicales (hizo una versión de  Wicked game para Chris Isaak) y algunos proyectos multimedia. Es un hombre tan despistado y ensimismado que cuentan que al conocer a Isabella Rosellini le dijo: «Es usted tan hermosa que podría pasar por una hija de Ingrid Bergman».

De El hombre elefante a Duna

La historia de John Merril, el hombre del rostro deforme como el de un elefante, parecía ser una historia hecha a la medida para el joven Lynch después de hacer Cabeza de borrador. Es el comienzo de un viaje hacia el estatus de cineasta de culto por una película de estética cuasi gótica en la que el blanco y negro es un fuerte componente visual. El trayecto se desvía radicalmente con una película de encargo que le permite visitar el género de la ciencia ficción con Duna (1984). Con el tiempo se arrepentirá de haber aceptado semejante responsabilidad. Después de todo, nadie quiere el enorme reto de ser parte de una megaproducción de cuarenta millones de dólares (doscientos al cambio actual) de Dino de Laurentis ( King Kong, Hannibal, Flash Gordon). El problema consistió en la dificultad de llevar al cine una novela tan voluminosa y con un millardo de personajes como la de Frank Herbert (distinguido nombre del Olimpo de la ciencia ficción). La desmesura de Duna radica quizá en su tono operático y su ambicioso diseño de producción, escenarios gigantescos, vestuarios fastuosos. El lado oscuro del filme acaso reside en los efectos especiales: demasiado rudimentarios,  definitivamente F⁄X (effects) anti Hollywoodlandia. No obstante, el filme debe ser visto en retrospectiva como una alternativa a Star wars (1977), una respuesta a la parafernalia light de George Lucas con su ciclo épico de moda; significa, además, el comienzo de una asociación fructífera con el actor Kyle McLahlan.

 De Terciopelo azul a Mullholland

 Con Blue velvet (1986), en cambio, deja una gran impronta en la memoria de la cultura. De una manera muy personal, el director desarrolla el tema del voyerismo. «Una historia de amor», declaró alguna vez, «en la que alguien espía en el cuarto de una mujer. Es un extraño ángulo para contar el misterio de un asesinato». Los ecos de La ventana indiscreta son evidentes. Lynch es lo que Hitchcock pudo haber sido si la época y la censura le hubieran permitido insertar todo tipo de aberraciones y abyecciones que están presentes en Terciopelo azul: el sádico Frank (Dennis Hopper) inhalando droga a través de una máscarilla, Jeffrey (Kyle McLahlan) que es obligado a desnudarse cuando es interrumpido en su labor de voyerista por la maltratada Dorothy (Isabella Rosellini), Dean Stockwell como el homosexual con los labios pintados de carmín que reparte besos a sus congéneres… Imágenes turbadoras al son de la canción fetiche que da título al filme. La Rosellini sintetizó bien la historia después del estreno: «Todos dicen que es una historia enfermiza, pero para mí es un estudio sobre el bien y el mal».

Llegando casi al final del camino debemos tropezar con Wild at Heart (basada en la novela homónima de Barry Gifford) distribuida como Corazón salvaje y que ganó la Palma de Oro del Festival de Cannes en 1990. Esto, que habría resultado imposible dentro de la mojigata academia de Hollywoodlandia, hizo que Lynch subiera como la espuma y sea respetado por un espectro más amplio de espectadores. Con este título debuta en un género con el que llegará a identificarse, la road movie o película de carretera (The straight story significará años más tarde su retorno a este género). La pareja romántica de esta historia son Nicolas Cage y Laura Dern en sus roles de Sailor y Lula respectivamente (homenajes certeros a Elvis Presley y Marilyn Monroe). Al recibir el premio, Lynch hizo un comentario no exento de ironía: «El festival de Cannes es, en mi opinión, el mejor del mundo. En general, siempre he pensado que los europeos aprecian mejor las abstracciones». Esta declaración es una dura crítica contra el star system hollywoodense lleno de concesiones donde las películas no se dirigen, se gerencian.

Y por último, Mullholland Drive (2001) se erige como otro de los títulos paradigmáticos de este director que arriba campante a los sesenta años. Originalmente fue un piloto televisivo rechazado por la ABC. El gran desquite, sin buscárselo, fue ganar el premio al mejor director, otra vez en el Festival de Cannes. De seguro que el aparato medidor de rating de la gran cadena televisiva norteamericana se descompuso con la noticia de este nuevo premio.

En El camino de los sueños (como fue bautizado en español este filme) aparece una vez más la obsesión por la dicotomía realidad/ ensueño y surge nuevamente el problema de las etiquetas: thriller, drama, historia romántica sáfica… El vehículo para este nuevo relato es un par de actrices sensuales y de gran talento: la australiana Naomi Watts y la ex Miss Universo, Laura Harring, personajes intercambiables sumidos en un laberinto onírico concebido como un filme policial.

La versión del DVD de Mullholand tiene los siguientes consejos para entenderla. Parece una ironía. Lynch nunca va a ser linchado semánticamente. Su arte no es para entenderlo. Existe para empaparse de él. Secarse, quizás. Pescar un resfriado o una neumonía, en el peor de los casos. Veamos a continuación cuáles son los tips mientras hacemos un comentario entre paréntesis: 1.- Poner particular cuidado al inicio de la película, por lo menos dos pistas son reveladoras antes de los créditos (¿y las otras pistas no sirven de nada?). 2.- Considerar lo que sucede durante las tomas de la lámpara roja (¿Por qué no considerar lo que tiene lugar en todas y cada una de las tomas, no sólo en esta?). 3.- Recordar el título de la película para la que Adam Kesner está audicionando actrices (¿No se supone que un espectador inteligente logra recordar detalles tan vitales como ese?). 4.- Recordar el lugar donde ocurrió el accidente automovilístico (Bueno, esa sí estuvo difícil. A tomar apuntes entonces). 5.- ¿Quién entrega una llave a quién? ¿Por qué? (En los filmes de Lynch cuídate de que te den una llave. ¿Quién sabe cuántas cajas de Pandora puedes abrir con una sola de ellas?). 6.- Prestar atención a los siguientes objetos: un cenicero, una taza de café y una alfombra (Otra vez a usar una libretita). 7.- ¿Qué sucede dentro del club llamado El Silencio? (El nombre de ese lugar parece el título de un filme de Bergman). 8.- Notar qué sucede con el hombre que está detrás de Wilkes (Ya me cansé de comentar cada instrucción del DVD). 9.- ¿Fue el talento lo único que ayudó a Camilla? (Supongo que la respuesta que se espera es algo así como: Su cuerpo también ayudó). 10.- ¿Dónde diablos está la tía Ruth? (Y vaya usted a saber dónde está la pobre).

En busca del sentido perdido

Como en casi todas sus películas, Lynch partió de una imagen.  Si en Wild at Heart la inspiración es una casa en llamas que explosiona, la imagen que le obsesionó para concebir Sueños, misterios y secretos (otro título de distribución en español) es una señal de tránsito en la carretera nocturna. Ese signo contiene el nombre de Mullholland drive iluminado por los faros de un auto. Como en la mayoría de sus filmes la lógica común y silvestre debe ser desterrada. El espectador que busca un sentido está perdido. Los filmes de este cineasta linchan el sentido. Se busca una participación activa por parte del espectador ante una estilística tan personal donde no necesariamente todo tiene una explicación. La tradición judeocristiana ha calado en Occidente de tal forma que nada debe ser dejado sin una explicación lógica. Ni el mismo Lynch sabe a ratos cómo explicar  lo que hace. Una actriz en el set de la teleserie Twin peaks (traducida como ¿Quién mató a Laura Palmer?) se siente turbada cuando en medio de una escena el director le pide que ladre. Cuando la actriz pregunta por qué, recibe como respuesta un solo hazlo. En esta anécdota está el sentido del no necesariamente presente sentido que tiene esta filmografía marcada por lo perverso. En una entrevista para el DVD de Terciopelo azul el director es contundente: «Quiero que en la sala oscura de un cine el espectador se enfrente con imágenes que nunca antes en su vida ha visto. Quiero sorprenderlo». Y remata en inglés con una frase aparentemente inocua pero de gran sutileza: I want to thrill souls. Algo así como «Quiero asustar almas». En definitiva, eso es lo que ha hecho y no ha dejado de hacer este elefante de la cinematografía. Sonrían. Nos están asustando.

What if David Lynch had directed Dirty Dancing?

I miss you, Mr. Swayze