I have a very close relationship with the late Harry Dean Stanton. He speaks to me in various ways: his loneliness, his nihilist zen buddhism, his musicianship and his face, that seems to understand in a non-judging way. He had the same face as Kaija, the bag lady who was watching over me as a kid. Always smelling of cigarettes and sweat, with her black greasy hair and raisin wine bubbling in the corner. I loved her so much and I love him so much, they are and were the definition of the Everyman and at the same time the enlightened ones, the beat-up and the persistent, tought, almost stringy.
This was not a very good biography, but not very bad either. It was focused on films, telling some anecdotes about Stanton, going through his history. At times trying to blow life with scenes that seemed alive, but showing it's method. I especially enjoyed the chapter about my favourite film Paris, Texas. I loved the depictions of Harry at his humble home on Mulholland Drive, between mansions, feeding coyotes and hosting parties. He was nothing and everything.