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Mulholland Drive

Directed by David Lynch

USA, 2001

HOME, 27 April 2017

 Mulholland Drive

If I had world enough and time, I would make a concerted effort to make head and/or tail of David Lynch’s film, which some consider (and, who knows, perhaps given enough time I will join their number) to be a classic.

Last August I sat through an excellent paper about Mulholland Drive at the Wittgenstein conference in Kirchberg, so felt, if not honour bound, then motivated to see this new release. My impressions: it is noir and creepy, it displays a relish for Americana and lesbian sex (are these separate categories or is the latter a subcategory of the former?), it has a fragmentary, lacunae-riddled structure (Lynch’s trademark, you could say); and there is a fracture maybe two thirds of the way through, from which point on it becomes a different film – or maybe it is two films, disjointedly stitched together.

Take a Klein Bottle: it has an intriguing structure but it is not very useful if you want something to serve beer in. That’s David Lynch.

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