Yeah, Ruby In Paradise is a really good film. I wish Ashley Judd would make more films like that. I actually wondered if Ashley thought I was stalking her at one time, because I seemed to always see her in public. Both her and her mom. I never talked to them though.
Yeah, Ruby In Paradise is a really good film. I wish Ashley Judd would make more films like that. I actually wondered if Ashley thought I was stalking her at one time, because I seemed to always see her in public. Both her and her mom. I never talked to them though.
I did have a crush on Ashley in the 90's. But the biggest crush I had on anyone was Jenny Mccarthy. Now, that crush did start to scare people.
Leaving Lynch's stuff out, well...
I'd choose something I can never be tired of: A Clockwork Orange, dir. Stanley Kubrick, if it'd be a drama, Le fabuleux Destin d'Amélie Poulain, dir. Jean-Pierre Jeunet, if it'd be a comedy. But there's more....
"Did they scoff the whole damn Smörgåsbord?" (Audrey)
"Gimme a donut!" (Coop)
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
Ben: "We've laid in a gala reception for your fair-haired boys tonight. All of Twin Peaks' best and brightest."
Jerry: "We're holding it in a phone booth?"
Please don't hate me, or laugh at me, for this but i truly cannot choose between The Big Lebowski and Spirited Away. I know.....
Are you fucking this up???
You mean coitus?
I used to say Rushmore, and my love of that movie didn't deminish even after a solid year of looking at it for my thesis. But you know what, fuck it, I think mine might be Lebowski too. Nothing makes me feel as good as watching or talking Lebowski.
Rashomen - Kurosawa.
If series count: Band of Brothers.
Beauty is momentary in the mind -
The fitful tracing of a portal;
But in the flesh it is immortal.
The body dies; the body's beauty lives.
So evenings die, in their green going,
A wave, interminably flowing.
So gardens die, their meek breath scenting
the cowl of winter, done repenting.
So maidens die, to the auroral
Celebration of a maiden's choral.
Susanna's music touched the bawdy strings
Of those white elders; but, escaping,
Left only Death's ironic scraping.
Now in its immortality, it plays
On the clear viol of her memory,
And makes a constant sacrement of praise.
('Peter Quince at the Clavier' by Wallace Stevens)
Requiem For A dream