Mulholland Drive puts you in a maze while you’re in it and leaves you in a drunken haze afterwards. Although I have knowledge beforehand that David Lynch’s works were weirdly unsettling, nothing had really prepared me what to expect on Mulholland Drive.
Expecting that the plot would be a tad too easy to follow would be a delusional and futile attempt. On the opening scene, one would have been encouraged to instantly draw up and guess the narrative up to the end just like someone who intelligently drafts his own March Madness bracket because it seems destined for that old got-into-accident-and-now-this-amnesia plot.
There are a lot of characters who appears to be out of synch in connection to the story causing you try to find where they fit exactly-which probably would continue long after the wee hours of every night you remember the film. You have this greased up monster of a man, this mafia boss who disturbingly spits out a sip of coffee into a pristine piece of table cloth, a cowboy who speaks rather in a threateningly prophetic manner and an old couple running out of a tin can.
Even the texture of the film is a dilemma. While watching it, I have this feeling that this was originally shot with the intention to be a TV movie (after a few research, it turned out that my gut feel was right.)
Mulholland Drive took all standard concepts of storytelling and just re-arranged it in the same manner an earthquake would do in a village full of mud-hats leaving the audience in total disarray yet determined to pick up the pieces to rebuild the thought only to be stonewalled by the disconcerting structure of the story.
David Lynch’s Mulholland Drive is a hauntingly weird film with no spectacular acting and a narrative that just completely destroys all hope of unlocking it but sure is a work of genius operating in a universe of his own.
Mulholland is just one plain complete package of bafflement but I am a hundred and ten percent sure that you don’t need to be a Sigmund Freud to appreciate the lesbo play.
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