Tay’s review published on Letterboxd:
you best believe i have 7+ tabs open already to go deep sea diving into whatever theories or explanations or conspiracies i can find about this film
because jesus fucking christ. i don't know whether i was more frightened or heartbroken. maybe i'm a bit of both, tinged with being completely & totally unnerved.
the first and only thing i'd seen by Lynch for a long, long time was Blue Velvet. i watched it a few years ago & i thought it was all right. i don't know if there's a "good" place to start with Lynch, but i suppose Blue Velvet is as good as any... i just don't know if i was in a good "place" to really appreciate it, or to really want to work to appreciate it. i'll have to revisit it now that i have some idea of what kind of reward can be paid for wrestling with whatever obscurities & peculiarities shroud Lynch's world.
and that's what i think Blue Velvet has, what Twin Peaks has, what Fire Walk With Me has, and now too what Mulholland Drive has: these films occupy a different world than our own, one that Lynch somehow mutated and molded and perfected and destroyed. his world looks like our own, and that's what is so terrifying to me. whatever shiny, silver sliver of control we tell ourselves we have over reality gets unraveled by Lynch, again and again, and what horrors unfold don't seem all that unreal.
i adore Lynch's style, polarizing as it may be. i was completely blown away by Watts in this. the work she did in here... good god. i was gutted, i was intrigued, i was confused, i was proud. i'd like Angelo Badalamenti's score to carry me into the afterlife. i'm just so floored that all these pieces exist, but also that they come together so awfully & so wonderfully.
i'm itching to start reading up on whatever theories i can find, but i just want to say i am devastated. i wasn't expecting to be so fucking heartbroken.
there are two ineffable moments that come with sleep: the moment just before you fall asleep, and the moment just as you're waking up. sometimes those moments, precious and unspeakable as they may be, are beautiful. they're soft, sweet, hazy. but other times... other times they're so gut-wrenching, so awful, so terrible, that all they do is make you feel hollow. somehow Mulholland Drive feels like both those things, like everything: this film is dozing off into a dream, this film is being jolted awake crudely, this film is warm but also so miserable, this film is hopeless but so determined. good god. what have we done?