Mulholland…wait, I’m lost…

I finally saw Mulholland Drive tonight. I did it for 2 reasons:

1. Must keep up on film snobbery to be able to make entirely pointless points at film school.

2. An extremely hot Italian girl recommended it to me, and I am powerless against both hot girls and Italians. The combination could get me to do pretty much anything.

Now, before I get to my conclusion, I must admit that the director, David Lynch, is well known for being a fucknut. A talented fucknut, but a fucknut nonetheless.

Lynch has built a cottage industry out of being inscrutable. Or however you spell it. Basically, he eats because nobody understands what the hell he’s talking about, therefore it is dubbed sheer genius since it’s quite a bit easier to dub someone else a genius than admit your own stupidity.

Me, I’m gonna admit it: I’m too dumb to understand this movie.

I know it’s quite passe to say how unbelievably confusing this movie was, especially since it’s been a few months since Salon published an explanation of a lot of the imagery in the movie (though in my defense, even they admit they have no idea what the blue box is).

I thought I understood it for about the first hour, but then things started getting really weird. I will be the first to admit that I tend to like straightforward plotting, so long as it’s well constructed and scripted. If it’s just “Hey, Halle, show us your tits!” then it tends to piss me off. This thing is so confusing, however, that even film critics need a road map to its plot.

I’ll admit, I found the movie interesting, even though it was quite frustrating. I’m probably going to watch it again, and not just because of the hot Italian. I’ve gotta be able to come up with some good arguments to have with my fellow film snots about what this movie truly represents.

Well, besides hot lesbian sex.

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