V. Lepistö 🏳️🌈’s review published on Letterboxd:
I haven't had this refreshing film after a film since I rewatched Inherent Vice last year when news where showing nothing but shit. It's like feeling cold or otherwise dirty and going to warm sauna after a hard day and then coming out, taking something to drink and feel like world makes sense even if it is only for few seconds until it starts to wear off. This is for me the only way to describe Wild at Heart - it's my sauna and the feeling after it is perfect internalization of world where nothing makes sense therefore everything makes sense. Certain feelings can only be felt through art in a form that ultimately makes very much sense even if only on the level of images it doesn't.
There are two key scenes for me with which I can somewhat define what I feel. First being the one where radio only tells bad news to the point it becomes absurd, the head explodes without us seeing it and suddenly both are out of the care, caressing to the sounds of Strauss. Another is Sheryl Lee appearing as a Good Fairy to somewhat deus ex machina ending: at first it seems just about the silliest thing I've seen but slowly it seems to brighten up in my mind as if the whole of my heart is suddenly flying to the sunrise. Perhaps some of the charm of this scene comes to the fact that Wild at Heart and Twin Peaks are made pretty much at the same time: in a way it is Laura Palmer that we see, all the good that we wanted to see in her and all the good that she was suddenly reflects to this character. Lynch's worlds are one.
Also, I'd be fool not to mention that this film has the most beautiful portrait of broken family that I've ever seen, partly fairy-tale, partly true. When Cage as Sailor decides to leave, we never feel that he is neglecting the woman he loves and most of all, the boy that never really met him. I couldn't imagine the boy becoming bitter even if that could be one of the scenarios. Of course it doesn't end here but for a moment, in the bottom of my heart I feel that all is well.
John Alexander has written about the relationship between Lynch's films and the cliches he cultivates; it all feels terribly similar (not only because we've all seen Oz) - it's easy to understand that this is the most traditional Hollywood love story (at least that it consists of similar elements that are somewhat hidden behind the curtain, partly of the film's, partly because of how we process the world) but we never see it because of the beautiful operation that Lynch masters with the cliches. Umberto Eco concludes with his Casablanca essay:
"Two cliches make us laugh. A hundred cliches move us. For we sense dimly that the cliches are talking among themselves, and celebrating a reunion. Just as the height of pain may encounter sensual pleasure, and the height of perversion border on mystical energy, so too the height of banality allows us to catch a glimpse of the sublime. Something has spoken in place of the director. If nothing else, it is a phenomenon worthy of awe."