Mulholland Drive

Mulholland Drive ★★★★★

CW: Memory loss, blondes, cowboys, crying, movies (fk 'em), arousing sex, ugly sex, ugly masturbation, Billy Ray Cyrus, the supple side boob of Naomi Watts.

*hair flick*

Find me a better mystery box film that involves a *literal* box of mystery.
Go on.
I'll wait.

And I'll keep waiting, because you'll never find something as distinctly punching as "Mulholland Drive", the peak of lucid nightmare cinema. David Lynch doesn't throw everything he has at the wall. He devours his audience whole, basking them in the internal dark matter of his tortured dream infested brain. This film one of absurdity, both in horror and black comedy, deliberate in every step in takes to spark emotion in the gut. Mulholland Drive appreciates pace, allowing the audience to lull into a unique state of mind: the anxious in between of reality and fantasy. Trudging through every detail like a combat soldier. The senses heightened. Demanding your attention, whether it be at a twisted, creepy strum of music that echoes behind a light hearted song, or the slow creeping walk to see what terror lays behind a particular iconic wall. Lynch values this time, allowing every second to compell you to think and analyse. Never dictating the overarching and intricate reasons it's existance is so important.

Speaking for myself, Mulholland Drive rang the bells of jealousy and regret. Small girls from small towns hoping to make it big in Hollywood, all because some guy named Chad in the food court said "Camilla Rhodes, you're fucking hot"... and, as we all know, they're fine... and nothing compared to their rivals. The contrast so unbearable, their success so desirable, we jerk off crying to idea of being them. This is just the surface level themes. The rabbit hole only goes deeper.

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