Eraserhead – The Movie Not For You

Warning – The Following Inner Monologue is Merely Fan Fiction!!!

A still frame from the film “Eraserhead” by David Lynch

Movie Ideas:

1. The-birds-and- the-bees intro… and god no… not the stuff you see in your average-joe midnight flicks… but downright bizarre… boy do I love bizarre… by way of illustration –  a giant sperm goes on to fly in the air and boom! – it splashes down into a whirlpool… oh, how I like the smell of fresh bizarre in the morning!

So, if this is what surrealist sex would look like:

“… My wife with the sex of a mining-placer and of a platypus
My wife with a sex of seaweed and ancient sweetmeat
My wife with a sex of mirror
My wife with eyes full of tears
With eyes of purple panoply and of a magnetic needle
My wife with savanna eyes
My wife with eyes of water to he drunk in prison
My wife with eyes of wood always under the axe
My wife with eyes of water-level of level of air earth and fire” – “Freedom Of Love” by Mr. Andre Breton, Father of Surrealism

Now try and replace every “wife” occurrence with “yeast infection” and there you have it.

2. Oh, Mr. Meeseeks, I wish for at least one possible way to do subconsciousness just without the characters actually saying it like I’m some kind of a slack moneygrabber.

Bingo! It was the scenography all along: industrial zone, urban dystopia, sludge, and filth… a climate of machinery sounding as my background noise.

3. Long, awkward silences in conversations. Let’s just make our audience feel as awkward as we can. The characters’ behavior must at all times be described as “man, like what the…” and the characters are required to accept their disturbing surroundings as no less than real life.

4. And since all of the above is just not the right amount of unpleasant and just for the sake of it, I’m planning to add: one extra man with a real graphic skin disease; one woman with some morbidly swollen pair of cheeks; a couple of teeny tiny roasted chickens that dissolve into dark goo the minute you shove your fork and now you have to eat it.

5. What this movie needs is this somewhat exotic prop, the likes of this key thing of a suspicious legal nature … Not a chance, no, it has got to be a living thing so that it captures nicely the living spirit of my fine feature.

6. A movie my kids probably won’t like. Oh, no reason. Why? What do you know?

7. I will never ever say a word about my initial point behind this NON-STORY because how else would I keep them talking forever.
And also, what if it’s too shallow or anything…

What? What’s inspired me? First of all, standing out of the crowd by any means available. Second: Kafka. Kafka is my tribe. Kafka and his story of a man who turned into a cockroach overnight and after a series of “well, this sucks” his family finally got fed up and let it slip how “that cockroach had ruined their lives” and then he died of depression. Also, Gogol. The nose story. Brilliant!

In terms of cinematography, though, I would have to say black-and-white Fellini.
Speaking of, I just got the idea that I’ll go with black and white.



Yet another still frame from the film “Eraserhead” by David Lynch

So he said and so he did.

The camera box has very claustrophobically enframed the peculiar composition of “Eraserhead”. It dives miles beyond the subconscious and into the nightmare his lead – Henry Spencer (Jack Nance) passively endures until just before the very ending of the movie.

But, to explain the “Eraserhead” would be like cutting a tiny roasted chicken open to see what makes up the goo: you may get your answer, but you tend to ruin the creepsperience in the process. You get the memo. Did Lynch, tho?

While it’s up for debate with today’s film-school youth whether it is “with it”, “quite the thing”, or “happening” enough to be into Lynch right now, it’s a non-negotiable that this is your major cinema experience, one that has sent shivers down Kubrick’s and Coppola’s spine, and has also got musician Trent Reznor’s pulse racing, so now he’d rather die than give this living exotic prop control over his life.

So, our point being – this is no rainbow-monkey flick, but there appears to be something about the bold, raw surrealism and exposed, bare-naked taboos that keeps turning heads over the years, and one thing it will surely do is broaden your horizons. Now, go on, give it a shot and write an eraserhead scene into a best-selling fan fiction short story, we double dare you, nice person.

Johnny Boogieman

About Johnny Boogieman (né Johnathan Boogiemanovich Goode) is an American comedy reviewer and a self-proclaimed cinema connoisseur, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist. … Johnny grew up on a farm in Louisiana, as the only child of a Louisiana-based field worker, dressmaker, dog hairstylist, dog collar jewelry designer, dog walker for the elderly (dogs and owners), disabled and elderly dog walking aids creator-in-attempt, and homemaker, Dutch single mother. As large a clientele as dogs were for the barely-gasping-for-air family business, they were the proud owners of a single tabby cat alone, a streetwise and self-dependent hunter known by either of the street names Stringer Bell and El Capo (sometimes referred to as El Cato). … Having been amazed by the crazy wild early readings of Jules Verne, Johnny’s school days were spent dreaming he’d someday make for a good storyteller. Hence, as early as fourth grade, eager to prove himself to the world, he went for it and constructed a well-balanced heartbeat-skipping thrilling essay, pointing out to some well-reasoned critique of society and solid character arcs, committing to his talents to the fullest and diving right into that pool of majestic phrasing and complexity of thought, confident he’d soon get bejeweled with a spotless A and a pretty clap by the teacher, with gradually having the whole class join in looking up to him as he emerges from his seat to receive his essay evaluation. When results day came, though, little Johnny not only got a D, but he was mocked by the teacher and class for the gullible overexposure of his fragile overambitious mutating childish writing skills of questionable taste and poor poor quality. It was the “you’re tearing me apart, Lisa” equivalent of a child’s essay. He was rather massacred. He never got that brave ever again. … Anyway, Johnny mainly spent his summers field-working on a sunflower field with his uncle Berry under the widespread wings of the storks and the chesty white doves and clever black crows who all flew right under the neighbor’s umbrella caps patio ceiling installation thingy as soon as the first raindrop was godshed over the one-eyed monsters battalion that the sunflower sea was to Johnny. It drove the unwilling bird host nuts, and he’d storm right out yelling and cursing at the birds, “we’re going, we’re going” they went, and flew a semi-circle over the umbrella caps as to fool him and came right back the other way around pretending to be some fresh arrivals of clueless law-abiding American birds not yet acquainted with the police system of the patio. The guy wouldn’t take it out as it took ages to plant and he and his wife thought it made them look like fancy DIY people who had some ideas worthy of admiration. Oh, the bird manure, though, oh the bird manure. “Work your time, boy” – staring Johnny’s uncle frowned, his eye twinkled. … Cinema was to Johnny what he made plans for, what he made time for, what he looked up to all his life, and as he became a young adult, what he fancied himself to have a special talent to understand. It was the sort of a sixth sense, an intuition, a gut sense. He was the squad movie buff and a film whisperer. “No”, it whispered, “Fight Club ain’t no bueno. Mark my words and don’t ask why ‘cos you ain’t schooled enough to know why, boy.” He tried, though, he debated and disputed over a glass of scotch-on-the-rocks and under the jibe of a saxophone jazz, but it was as fruitless and dull as the poetry he wrote - unclean, uneven, and too abstract - as if he hadn’t found a voice to speak in yet. He did his part for years to come, reading as all writers ought to, writing and not publishing until he found out what he had to say with the peculiar piece of work. As for cinema, it happened one evening as he discussed legs-up-a-recliner their plans for the future with his lover-cum-best friend in their rented one-bedroom living space in New Jersey, that his lover casually contributed: “And then I thought we could start a film blog and you could do the content writing” – words that sunflower field Johnny with his gangster cat and his dewy eyes staring at the rainy-day con birds thought he’d never hear.

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