Flanked by a handful of former Rikers Island inmates, John Cannizzo gleefully surveys a tangled mass of stems, branches and leaves protruding from the back of an overloaded truck outside the Martin Luther King Housing Project in Harlem. Just look at this one, a real beauty, he says, caressing a sickly-looking three-foot shrub. It even has a bud for next spring.
A David Lynch “celebrity memoir” would be a blasphemous contradiction in terms. How could a filmmaker build a career on disturbingly irreducible abstractions and succeed—in Hollywood, no less—then turn around and buy into such a decadent genre?
Strange as it sounds, sitting in Carnegie Hall listening to a virtuoso string quartet play some of Beethovens most sublime compositions, I kept thinking about Stanley Kubricks A Clockwork Orange.