The brilliance of David Lynch's Inland Empire is found in its unveiling the maggot life of movie stardom.
The Hollywood gloss--tummy tucked, muscle molded, Versace clad icons pouring out of stretch limos for red carpet premiers--becomes indistinguishable from the Hollywood real--sidewalks puddled with urine and laden with cardboard blankets.
When a small intestine ripped from an old man's stomach with a pitchfork in The Hills Have Eyes 3 evokes roaring laughter, we know the viciousness of our city's attack on residents of L.A.'s contemporary Hooverville--skid row.
This viciousness reflects the sentiment of tourists and Angelenos alike scurrying past lepers of The Boulevard with fear of long grime filled fingernails gripping styrofoam coffee cups.
As the 217 pulls up to the corner of Hollywood and Highland, frustrated by a 20 minute wait, a mass of some 30 bodies rush the door. By the time I get on, the bus is packed with standing riders all the way back, but one seat in the second row rests empty.
She has her head slumped completely forward and mumbles softly as I sit down. The kids behind me laugh. The object of aversion is a tree of lightening reds--from maroon skirt, to pink Victoria Secret sweatshirt to ruddy salmon face topped by tangled blonde hair.
Passenger dread no doubt comes less from her appearance than her swaying and strange voicings--she must be ill. I feel unease myself until the bus comes to a sudden stop and her head slams hard against the seat in front. Startled, she quickly sits up straight.
Some of us get nightmares when we go to sleep, others when we wake up.
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