Mulholland Drivel.

Rating: 1/10 (18 February 2016)

I would love to write an intelligent, detailed analysis of Mulholland Drive, I really would, but since I haven't got the slightest idea of director David Lynch's intent (other than to completely confound the viewer), I'm going to have to pass. Instead, let me tell you how my week has been so far
Monday: Work as usual. Was involved in an RTA on the way home (not my fault—an old lady drove into the side of my car). Rang insurance company. Started to watch Mulholland Drive—fell asleep not long after.
Tuesday: Dog ate a packet of ibuprofen and had to be rushed to the vets (no idea how he got them—suspect the cats were involved). Went to work. Came home. Visited the in-laws. Resumed watching Mulholland Drive—fell asleep not long after.
Wednesday: After the two previous days, this one was fairly uneventful. Dog came home, hopefully without any lasting problems. Ended the day by watching a bit more of Mulholland Drive. Perked up for the lesbian sex scene between Naomi Watts and Laura Harring, but fell asleep soon after.
Thursday: Car collected by body shop. Went to work in wife's car (being extra careful to avoid elderly drivers). Watched the rest of Mulholland Drive (managed to stay awake, largely in hope that Watts might indulge in some more sapphic shenanigans, but she doesn't).
4/10 for the sexy scene, reduced to 1/10 for the self-indulgent, pretentious, and utterly pointless surreality of the whole thing, especially the opening dance number, the incomprehensible club scene in which a woman mimes a Spanish version of Roy Orbison's classic 'Crying' before fainting (???), the weird hobo with the strange box, and the bit where two miniature people crawl out of a handbag and sneak under a door.