Torn Ears, Glazed Eyes, Stinking Mouths

Of bodily parts, ears are handier trophies or gifts than noses, tongues, penises, clitorises or, God forbid, eyes! Compared to fingers, ears are much prettier. Jack the Ripper agreed. On September 29th, 1888, London’s cops received this taunt from the never identified terror of White Chapel, “The next job I do I shall clip the ladys ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn’t you.”

Matadors are awarded one or two ears from a vanquished bull. Upset over his brother’s marriage and Gauguin’s departure, absinthe swilling van Gogh cut off a portion of his left ear, which he gave to Rachel, a whore frequented by both Vincent and Paul.

With everyone going on about a certain ear, I’d like to draw your attention to my favorite. David Lynch’s noir classic begins with a clipped, gray one crawling with ants. It ends with Jeffrey’s whole, pink one as he lounges in a wholesome, suburban neighborhood. Jeffrey’s left ear, though, sports a faint ring, a detail likely missed by you and your mama. I certainly didn’t catch it in Philly’s Theater of the Living Arts in 1986. Above all else, this movie is about how deceptive reality is. We’re fooled and tricked by everyone, especially ourselves.

Its most famous scene is of Dennis Hopper as an enraged Frank Booth whimpering before Isabella Rosellini’s pussy. Before striking Dorothy’s face, Frank calls her mommy repeatedly and sobs, “Baby wants to fuck!” Though common enough in real life, such sexual misery had never been depicted in films. Shocked by our common squalor, we nearly always turn away. Fully clothed and posturing, we do allow ourselves bits of gossip. Language itself is a fig leaf jungle.

What do you think Donald Trump, Bill Clinton, Noam Chomsky, Prince Andrew and all the rest were doing on Jeffrey Epstein’s child sex island? Why were Epstein and the DC Madame killed? Our genocidal megalomaniacs aren’t just kinky.

Ashamed at being exposed as a terrified child, Frank would scream at Dorothy, “Don’t look at me!” A naked Dorothy does the same to Jeffrey. As for clean-cut and soft spoken Jeffrey, he can’t help but fuck Dorothy even as he courts Sandy (Laura Dern). His high school chick isn’t ready to put out. Just about everyone is a horny and frightened beast, so rightly ashamed. Even vicious Frank knows how to sob. To mask so much misery and grief, men turn violent. Just to last a few seconds inside Dorothy, Frank needs a double shot of bourbon and constant hits of poppers, as inhaled through a gas mask. Genitally uncertain if not crippled, Frank mostly uses his hand. Fingers don’t go limp. Afterwards, he stares at them in astonishment, shame and horror.

“Don’t you look at me!” He smacks her face. “Don’t you fuckin’ look at me!”

With jizz, anxiety and rage momentarily jettisoned, Frank can cloak himself in some culture. Standing over his humiliated prey, he’s inspired to say, “You stay alive, baby. Do it for van Gogh.” Few lives have such transcendental moments.

Lynch spent enough time in Philly to absorb its sick humor. It’s the home of Uncle Eddie, Gary Heidnik, Ira Einhorn, Kermit Gosnel and, of course, Eraserhead. Inside his condo on Rittenhouse Square, Philly’s best real estate, Uncle Eddie had Irish Catholic boys from Grey Ferry shit into his mouth. Among neighbors in the elevator, he seemed normal, though with a slightly odd smell that couldn’t be pinned on him. Perhaps it’s just some old man’s diaper or a drunk’s vomit not thoroughly cleaned.

Shots of Dorothy’s apartment often show her uncovered toilet, half lit and at the far end. Like skulls or clocks in still lives, no object in Lynch’s film is accidental. He was trained as a painter. Excellent Frederick Elmes was his cinematographer. Together, they created many moody or menacing shots. Jeffrey climbing stairs is shown from above, so he’s dwarfed, then too tightly from below, as if he’s being followed. There’s an echo here of Norman Bates in Psycho.

There’s a clip of Homer Simpson watching alone David Lynch’s Twin Peaks. We hear, “There’s damned fine coffee you have here in Twin Peaks, and damned good cherry pie.” On TV is a man dancing with a horse. Behind them is a crescent moon and a traffic light on red, dangling from a tree. Homer chuckles, “Brilliant! I have absolutely no idea what’s going on.”

Blue Velvet, too, has ambiguities and loose ends, but it’s clear its point about personal and societal corruptions beneath any Norman Rockwell veneer. A police detective, the “Yellow Man,” is an accomplice of Frank, the drug dealing sadist. Sandy’s own father, another detective, may also be in on the illicit trade, or at least paid off. Though devastated by Jeffrey’s duplicity, Sandy forgives him, at least on the surface, so they keep smiling and embracing. Who knows when she’ll get her revenge.

The more realistic a scene, the more astounding its fakeness. Surely they’re not making love? It’s amazing to just see Jeffrey and Sandy walking down a darkened sidewalk, their bodies almost touching nearly always. What are they really thinking? Desperate to be interesting while masking his desire, he performs a chicken walk. It’s not prompted by anything. Needing to appear responsive or vivacious, she laughs, “That’s kind of interesting!” Seeing an opening, he lightly puts one arm around her, but just for a second. Though it’s extremely hard work to appear natural, we somehow manage it, sort of, minute by minute each day. Each tilt of the head, voice inflection or hand flourish has gone through a lifetime of comic if not pathetic rehearsals.

Some scenes are nakedly theatrical, as when an ultra gay Dean Stockwell, with his powdered face and long cigarette holder, lip-syncs Roy Orbison’s “In Dreams.” Instead of a microphone, he holds a work lamp that further blanches his face.

A candy-colored clown they call the sandman
Tiptoes to my room every night,
Just to sprinkle stardust and to whisper,
“Go to sleep, everything is alright.”

Though knowing it’s entirely fake, Frank nearly cries. This killer’s lips quiver. There are many real life performers even better, especially in politics. Cheap green curtains frame this magnificently campy shot.

With 9/11, War on Terror, airport security shenanigans, Bin Laden assassination, Covid lockdowns and social distancing, Jewjab genocide, Joe and Jill jokathon, Zelensky clown show and Gaza ethnic cleansing, we’ve been subjected to an endless farce that has already wrecked millions of lives. Now comes a clumsily staged assassination that results in a fist pumping Trump looking fearless and heroic. Those who wish him dead can only rue that dork’s missed opportunity. Since American goons have taken out many leaders, it’s hard to believe they could have been this openly inept. Kimberly Cheatle’s sloping roof babble adds to the sick joke.

Let’s step back to acknowledge that Jew backed and Jew pandering Trump didn’t make America great again the first time. He armed Ukraine, kissed Israel’s ass, launched Jewjabs and murdered Iran’s top general. As for the border wall that wasn’t built, Trump could have solved illegal immigration by penalizing employers and landlords of illegals, but he didn’t, and won’t. What Trump will do is increase hostility towards Iran and China, but whoever’s selected, war is coming. A cornered and bankrupt nation filled with slogan suckling fools needs to be culled.

I must say, though, that Trump with a bandaged ear is no less fetching than van Gogh with his. Only one, though, is a madman.