Match Point (2005)

Zest, the spice of the lemon, so alluring in its sensuality. Such is life for the passionate man. He longs to bite into the carnal flesh of the world. He sucks in each minute.

Yet he is also like an infant; dependent and vulnerable. Each passing fantasy grips him with such a fever; he is incapable of taking any measure of his predicament let alone understanding himself. He is thus the eternal fool-child, blundering from sweet shop to sweet shop.

He is the cannonball that blasts holes in the hearts of men, impressive, yet the source of deep misery.

Ossessione (1942)

The life of the vagabond is one of immense deprivation. But also one of ecstasy: the freedom of the road, of an unburdened back and mind. The extreme freedom of no responsibilities. The highest stage of individualism.

To be confined, defined... is death to the true vagabond. To be bound to land and bricks; worse than a disease. To be bound to flesh; anathema. The vagabond is defiled, he feels it himself. The clearness of vision disappears from his eyes. An insidious parasitic growth in the mind takes place, a growth which imprisons his very spirit.

The warm embrace, alluring at first like some sweet perfume, becomes cloying, odious. Pathetic.

This is not life. This is a slow death. Best to end it all in a flourish and get back on the road.

Pat Garrett And Billy The Kid (1974)

There's something seductive about the Wild West. Those open dusty plains where one's only companion is the sun. The small, secluded towns on the edge of civilisation: flea-bitten, dust-ridden, whisky-licking. Rough and brutal. Flesh, tobacco and booze.

Yet not without charm. Charming like a knife glinting in the dust. An exotic, alluring charm. Enticing but threatening at the same time. The charm of the liminal. The charm of that moment when your little mind caves in and climbing out of the debris emerges the wild one, smouldering, eyes full of a really bad light. The charm of the warm, silky wet embrace of a sweet, dark-eyed girl, while the Devil breathes his smoky breath down your neck.

The dark night is dark, real dark. A tapestry of stars stretches above; a panorama of the cosmos, of the stardust that made us, of our ancestry. Here in this alien land we trudge, leading our horses and determination towards our distant hopes.

Riding the colt, the wind in your face, rifle over your shoulder, girl in your arm, whiskey in your pouch. Freedom? Or are you just playing run and hide? Running from slavery into the arms of abandon. Into the arms of the bouncing-breasted mother-whore of the death-orgasm.

Taare Zameen Par (2007)

Everyone's running now, scuttling left and right, breathless, sweating, eyes panicked. 'So much to do' they repeat. 'So much to do'. Always staring at the ground. At the dust. At the dirt.

Behold the stargazer. HE looks up. HIS attention is elsewhere. HE exists on a higher plane. HIS realm is the SKY.

Crush him! Drag him to the ground! Stamp on him! Stamp out that cloudy mist in his eyes! Stamp out this aberrant plant! This peculiar flower! Snip it!

And so that's what you've done. Well done. Go and applause your mediocrity. When you go to bed exhausted, empty, full of bile - congratulate yourself on your tenacious banality.

No more flowers in the dust now...

Teorema (1968)

I am standing in blackness. A cold wind blows. This wind hits me and as it enfolds me in its emptiness I am convulsed by shudders of pure despair. 'WHY!' I scream. No answer. 'WHY!', again, I scream. No answer.

The rats are circling now. Eyeing me with flashing eyes. Eyes of delight. Eyes of disgust. Eyes of fear. Around and around their swirl like a great thrashing tide. The noise fills the void: scuttling, scuffling, scuttling, scuffling.

So I am back. Back in the world. Back with myself. My hands, my legs, my knees. My photo albums. My trinkets. My tinsel.

I sit here smiling contentedly like an idiot, splattered with the birdshit of belonging.

Soldier Blue (1970)

A great plain stretches out before me, exotic, mysterious, brimming with promise. Crowned by an azure sky of celestial brilliance, this land tempts me, it calls out to me, it begs for me to commune with it, to make love to it. It is raw, virgen, sweet and innocent. Unblemished, smooth, inviting...and warm.

I take my bayonet and plunge it deep into its flesh. I delight as the hot red blood gushes forth. I jump in the puddles: splish, splash, splish, splash. The very noise fills me with ecstasy.

Then the night falls. The wise old moon serenely gazes down on me and I realise I have sinned. I cry. Racked with anguish I seek solace in the shadows.

Five Easy Pieces (1970)

Sometimes in life you just have to run. The world becomes stuffy, claustrophobic. It clings to you like a tawdry barnacle, sapping vitality, virility. You crave the cold breeze on your face in the night, the whip of the wind, the cool taste of freedom, sweet like some fantastic nectar. Your heart explodes as the road markings fly by, the world blurring into absurdity as you leap out of your old, dry, cracked skin.

The breeze comes from nowhere, just like everything else.

Take me nowhere. Take me into the heart of nowhere. Let me drown there. Let me disappear.