I felt a curiously powerful synchronicity the first time I saw Wim Wenders‘ The American Friend at the 1977 NY Film Festival). I’m not fatally ill and I’ve never performed a contract killing, but otherwise I’ve long felt a kind of dark harmony between that Hamburg waterfront, cowboy-hatted, existential noir vibe and my own moods, fears and free-floating anxieties. You know…that more-corrupted-than-you-realize Highsmith thing.

“I know less and less about who I am, or who anyone else is” (a great line spoken by costar Dennis Hopper in the role of Tom Ripley) used to be my mantra. I actually laid down on a pool table once and shot several Polaroids of myself. I even once got hold of an American Friend one-sheet and pasted a photo of my own mug on top of Bruno Ganz‘s. (I think I’m going to try and do that again, I’ve just decided, only digitally this time.)

Which is why not attending Sunday night’s 7 pm showing at the Aero is out of the question.

Update: Not attending is actually a fait accimpli as Sunday night’s showing has been cancelled. Terrific.