the healing power of Lynch
I enjoyed Mulholland Drive in the theatre, but my opinion of it shrank the more I thought about it – it seemed like a retread of the incredible Lost Highway, awkwardly cobbled together from bits of a TV pilot. The seams were too obvious: the first half is all exposition of characters who aren’t developed (but who would be in a series); the second half was a hurried and sleazy attempt to come to a dream-logic sort of resolution.
Cut to me. In DVD aisle. Staring at the fucking thing. Why? I don’t even like you.
Cut to me (of course), sprawled on sofa, feeling under the weather. Full up on George’s chicken. The city is hotter than a Thai lunch. Onset of dusk as the film plays. Hot, sick, and full of chicken, I nod off briefly, during various scenes. And that little devil of a film gets all up in there, right up in my brain, and tweaks everything up. And now I’m a fan. Big, huge. Willing to wrassle to the death if the Drive’s virtue is called into question.
There is something beautiful about a change of opinion.
(Psst: have a look at this MeFi thread for some neat links and chatter.)