Critical

Lynch, do not ever die. When you go, Nobody will not be.

His short films in digital had seemed certainly loose. The trailer I cast back, with these ugly images, neglected. The reviews were almost unanimously negative, including those of his followers. Everything seemed to indicate the decline of a filmmaker who had made, in the modern era, several masterpieces. Expected me to see the particular "Topaz" David Lynch, his Mannerist fall, to sit in the armchair.

Three hours later, I left the cinema with tears in eyes, incredulous at what they had just seen. In an era of widespread mediocrity, movie garbage, balloons inflated by criticism and geniuses of all one hundred, of disappointment after disappointment and that the next, I am going and I am, at premiere cinema, with this. A monumental work, deep and heartfelt, in which the author leaves the heart and the soul. That goes beyond the barrier of processed product to acquire the shape of a piece of soul, of personal Exorcism led to the limit, unafraid to wrinkle the suit. He understands the way of the film not as a linear development, but in depth. If the film lasts three hours, means that you must have that dimension, in the broadest sense of the term, and not only that duration. Do you remember the detail, that thing endangered? Do you remember him, Velázquez, Bach, Frank Lloyd Wright, Vertigo, of Twin Peaks? Of how the masterpiece was built brick by brick, the dance of relationships, precise, enigmatic, between the Assembly and the detail, its gradual elevation, the magic hidden under the carpet? You must remember. You must remember the time when the viewer looked at and was active, When was this going to work and not vice versa. When inquiría curious, studying the corner, soaked with excitement. Pure. And hard. It is not an experiment, is the end of the road. The tests were left behind and verged on East Sea. Can you see the dance forms, the Association of images, the precise dialogue, crisp, with music? Can you see its pure magic, his poignant infinite capacity? Nobody knows today stop the tempo. Make time to stop, floating, and prolong this idiot grin, This scrutinizing gaze to the screen, for minutes. The film lasts three hours or three days, the film does not last. I means? Lynch heard my cries and the script killed. Death script, eternal rest for the argument. The script is one tool more, an element of shooting more, paper wet table. The Lumière know it, the original know it and the film knows it, definition: Images and music. Six years later, something was to happen in a dark room. This does not end, by Hitch. This not to shut off never.

Tomine, in Filmaffynity