Surreal,
evocative short film depicting the home of the great guitarist and songwriter
John Frusciante in the period shortly after his departure from the Red Hot
Chili Peppers. Although the film is as
much “about” Frusciante as a straight documentary would be, he is only seen briefly, lying on a couch. (Timothy
Leary, in an inexplicable cameo, actually has more screen time.) Nor does Frusciante speak; the soundtrack is
comprised of fragmented and experimental music tracks and poetry by him. The camera drifts at knee-level through the
house, revealing one debris-ridden room and passageway after the next. The floors are strewn with junk; clothes,
bottles, books, electronic equipment, guitars.
The walls are covered with inelegant graffiti, bearing all manner of
disturbing observations, only some of them decipherable, such as the simple
phrase, “my eye hurts.” Though plotless
and seemingly motiveless, except inasmuch as the situation was striking enough
to the filmmakers to cause them to want to document it, the film has an odd
power. The feeling it generates is that
of a haunting by someone still alive; ghosts linger in almost every frame and the
slight figure of Frusciante himself is one of them. This home belongs to a dead man, and
Frusciante looks on the verge of death, and was in fact close to death
frequently during this time, as he described himself proudly as a heroin addict
with no intention of cleaning up. The
scratches and scribbles on the walls are the cries of the mentally ill that are
usually found posthumously in the homes of spree killers. Fortunately, in real life Frusciante
recovered and has prospered with a prolific catalog of music both with bands
and solo.
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