La Danza de la Realidad

Alejandro Jodorowsky revisits his childhood in La Danza de la Realidad, where the imagination selectively sways and protectively converges, inconclusive conflict coordinating innocent essentials, a Stalinesque father (Brontis Jodorowsky) bringing the pain, familial embarrassment and shame aggrandizing his persecution, little Alejandro (Jeremias Herskovits) responding with ardour, confusing projections of the masculine violently suppressing his sense of wonder, various community members avuncularly interacting, his poetic mother (Pamela Flores), nurturing his ability to relate.

Like weirdsville on steroids, the poetic and pugilistic merge to forge one of the greatest filmmakers of all time, as he crafts his first film in over two decades, fantasy fascinatingly swathing, the concrete, cruel, and confiscated.

His mother only sings.

Communism is comedically yet fatalistically skewered.

Superpowers are enlisted to fight fascism.

Between these extremes, individuality speaks up, as the feminine attempts to nest her husband's flight from himself.

Natal helpless inquisitive comedic old-world zealous tragedy permeates the film's practical ideology, as politics and religion challenge a commitment to child-rearing, the application of a big picture cause to a singular immigrant family entices, its contradictions featuring its humanism, creativity conversed as its fulcrum.

Difficult times at points for young Alejandro.

What a survivor.

Jodorowsky's Dune

A filmmaker possessing the highest possible artistic intentions, for whom film is a sub/conscious pyrotechnic visceral emulsion, wildly jettisoning extracted reified ideological peaks, capable of concretely delineating multilaterally deconstructive minutia, their testaments clasping your hands and mine, distinct explosive intraoperative trysts, persuasive incipient confounding strips, Alejandro Jodorowsky almost made Dune, and his crushing curtailment still resonates to this day.

The cast and crew he assembled would have possibly been the coolest ever.

That voice which obsesses about disabling degrees of practicality was non-existent, pure unabashed committed expansive insurgence, unconcerned with what actually takes place in the novel which he hadn't even read before embracing it as his next project, motivated by perceived interpretive fortuitous pacts, the universe having opened-up and provided him with chance integral reprieved constituents, like an intergalactic curvaceous onslaught, or the ultimate Proustian daydream.

The Blueberry.

Not that his dreams weren't practical, if anything, they represented the apotheosis of practicality, a spiritual conception of teamwork seeking superlative aesthetic collegial partnerships who were to be given hands-off inspirational direction, united in their pursuit of memorializing a trance, abstraction, attraction, refraction.

Jodorowsky's son Brontis trained intensively for 2 years with a martial arts master to prepare to play Paul Atreides.

Salvadore Dalí may have made 100,000 a minute to play Shaddam Corrino IV.

Orson Welles could have gorged himself ad infinitum.

I don't want to say too much about the film, it's better if you see Jodorowsky and companions explain it themselves, the Dan O'Bannon recording fitting perfectly.

Possibly the most influential film never made, transisting semantic transcendence.

Jodorowsky envisioned a groundbreaking universal consciousness expanding waking delirium.

Too much for one film alone, its manifold parts have arguably become greater than those initially conceived.

Still like aspects of David Lynch's version.