Wake us when the sequel’s over.
Harry Dean Stanton is Lucky.
Twin Peaks is back, and it’s exactly as unlike it used to be as it ever was.
We’ve waited twenty-five years, Lynch, just like you asked us to. What’s next?
It is a half-lucid dream you already had, if only you could remember.
Rend your rictus with screams of inchoate rage and explode my face with eldritch fire. I love you Stay Puft.
Let us now talk of all things Lynch.
There’s what a film appears to be and what a film is, and seldom the twain shall meet, alone, at night, in Iran, with a vampire.
David Chase, never left alone since he blacked out The Sopranos, says something, says something else, and is for the most part completely misunderstood.
Beware the lure of Hollywood! Its many roads will lead you to your doom.