Mulholland Drive

Mulholland Drive

"Hey, pretty girl. Time to wake up."

I'm sure this film has been equated to a dream for 16 years, but I found it works like one in reverse – where dreams make less sense the more you think about them, Mulholland Drive crystallises upon further reflection and reading. It seems comprised of jumbled flickers on first viewing; absurd (and seemingly irrelevant) scenes play out alongside a delicious Hollywood mystery. I don't know if any of it added up the way I anticipated. David Lynch is always steps ahead, finding different ways to experiment with the film's form, to keep fuelling the illusion. The most tangible thing to grasp amidst the confusion was Betty and Rita's incredible chemistry. Naomi Watts and Laura Harring toy with their relationship, lingering on each other in an idyllic fantasy, aching with potential. It took me a while to realise that I wanted nothing more than for them to realise their feelings and admit them to each other – and more importantly, have those feelings culminate. And it was so satisfying to see it actually happen (I feared it wouldn't), but I'd be lying if I said I didn't want more. So, in reply, Lynch, Watts and Harring tear their relationship to shreds, unveiling the heartbreaking – and initially mystifying – reality. I'm struggling to find a way to unpack this that isn't trite or scrappy, and I imagine this is partly due to my lack of experience with this kind of filmmaking. This was my first Lynch. It won't be my last.

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