Infamy, insecurity and the incessant need to medicate – from Vicodin, to Valentino – haunts this movie.

Let’s face it.

Mulholland Drive needed a sequel; an epilogue to the shadowy side of the silver screen. From Fatty Arbuckle to Lilo’s latest drugs rap – Hollywood scandal is the greatest picture of all.

‘A lot of it is family drama,’ says Cronenberg. ‘It’s not just about celebrities, it’s a universal story that can be translated to any intense field.’ Whatever. The specifics of Hollywood are central to this picture. Agathe’s bloodline is loyal to fame, not family. LA is the perfect location for Maps to interrogate the worship of false idols. Projections, cinematic and psychological, are a portrayal of contemporary non-reality. ‘It’s not enough to actually physically exist or emotionally exist,’ explains Cronenberg, ‘you have to have some kind of celebrity to really feel that you exist.’

Maps To The Stars

Collagen, lipgloss and Tom Ford – the Hollywood trinity.

Nietzsche said God is dead, Maps goes even further to assert that, Celebrity is dead. Celebrity eclipsed God in the West way back in the sixties. A black hole in collective consciousness has been gathering momentum ever since. Celebrity, of course, is just a symptom. Money is the root cause. Worship of Money has created record world debt and emotional disillusionment (London Riots, Occupy etc), money disappoints, it is not perfect, it is not faithful and it is finite.

The beautiful refrain of Paul Eluard’s Liberty belies an ugly truth, Liberty is a choice between the worship of Money, or suicide. Agathe and Benji choose suicide, knowing first hand that the worship of Money is fucking bankrupt.

LIBERTY

On my schoolboys notebook

On  my desk and on the trees

On the sand and on the snow

I write your name

 

On all the pages read

On all the blank pages

Stone blood paper ash

I write your name

 

On the gilded images

On warriors’ weapons

On gthe crown of the kings

I write your name

 

On the jungle of the desert

On nests on reeds

On the echo of my childhood

I write your name

 

On the night’s wondered

The white bread of days

On the linked seasons

I write your name

 

On each blue scrap of noon

On the pond moldy sun

On the lake living moon

I write your name

 

On every piece of dawn

On the sea on the ships

On the demented mountain

I write your name

 

On the foam of the clouds

On the swear of the storm

On the rain thick and bleak

I write your name

 

On every shining form

On the Bells of the colours

On physical truth

I write your name

 

On the paths awakening

On the roads unwinding

On the crowded places

I write your name

 

On the lamp that is bright

On the lamp that goes dark

On my united houses

I write your name

 

On the fruit cut in two

Of my mirror and chamber

On my bed’s hollow shell

I write your name

 

On my fond greedy dog

On his pricked ears his paws

As clumsy as thumbs

I write your name

 

On my doorway’s springboard

On the familiar objects

On the blest hearthfire

I write your name

 

On all flesh yielded

On the foreheads of friends

On each hand that extends

I write your name

 

On the pane of surprise

On the lips that listen

Well above the silence

I write your name

 

On my refuge that crumbles

My beacon-tower that falls

On ennui’s walls

I write your name

 

On absence on nude

Solitude on each tread

On the stair of the dead

I write your name

 

And on health rekindling

On danger dwindling

On hope without remembrance

I write your name

 

And by the power of a word

My life returns to me

And I am born again to know you

And to name you

LIBERTY


-Paul Eluard

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