Under the Silver Lake ★★★½

He Follows.

I wrote it between a blowjob and an omelette.

No bread crumbs for the feverish state of mind. Gazing through the cracks to decrypt whatever lurks underneath the zany patterns. David Robert Mitchell’s toxic mixture is less woozy than Inherent Vice, ice-blended with an illusory shade of Mulholland Drive. The voyeuristic obsession for the undecipherable puzzle makes up for some paranoia-tangled thrills that spin this tale into a kooky bad-acid dream. Surreal imagery, obnoxious characters and the cartoonish exuberance of events lead the story to a hazy maze of impenetrable L.A, one that is shambolically woven within the fabric of conspiracies. Behind every message, every sign is something obscurely absurd. Misshapen forms lying on the pavement, shapeless crowds, tenuous relationships, alienation and purposeless meanderings give way to hallucinations. Under the Silver Lake drills inside a wanderer’s fantasy - An ambitious realm where anyone can be anything. Dogs get brutalized, owl-masked lady, music myths uncovered with a head bashed in and women who are being treated like "things" rather than real human beings. These fantastical ingredients might go overboard and float like sawdust into nothingness. Still I think the self-absorbed journey to the unknown is often too hypnotic to forget.

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