...and David Lynch furrowed his brow...

Rating: Null/10 (7 July 2002)

You know, I'm fairly certain David Lynch didn't exert as many brain cells developing this film as the audience has trying to decipher it. I'm among the guilty who constantly over-analyze this man's work. I love him, love what he does, thank goodness he's around to stir things up. But sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. I have to accept that. Almost every image, every line of dialogue, in "Mulholland Dr." is beautifully, devilishly open to symbolic interpretation. And these interpretations are, unfortunately (or gleefully?), as unique as the audience members forming them, and probably based more on their own life experiences and filtered more through their own perceptions than any David Lynch may have intended. In that regard, "Mulholland Dr." can be equated with a dream.
I enjoyed the parallels drawn between the Hollywood system and the mob. The relationship between Betty/Diane and Rita/Camilla was deep, believable. The score (as expected) was right on target. And then there were those gorgeous colors and sumptuous fabrics and eccentric peripheral characters. Yes, a blue box, that one girl had; a blue key the other girl had. Death in the guise of a dark, disfigured, and hirsute man living out behind the Winkie's Cafe ("Winkie's", get it?). Pillows and bed sheets and only a slight bump in the chronological order of things there towards the end. But follow a few clues, like "okay, she just came to get the ashtray, but in the next scene it's still on the table"... and you'll be just fine.

Not rocket science here. Just art. Mull all, and drive.