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Lynch needs to renew himself with an influx of the deep feeling he has for people, for outcasts, and lay off the cretins and hobgoblins and zombies for a while.
One of the very few movies in which the pieces not only add up to much more than the whole, but also supersede it with a series of (for the most part) fascinating fragments.
Like Twin Peaks, it keeps spooling out more narrative twists until the ingenious maze turns into an oppressive tangle.
Lynch challenges our expectations of narrative and credibility by luxuriating in something else -- the unexplained, the making of no-sense that (he says) underlies life.
Mulholland Drive makes movies feel alive again.
Fascinating movie for adults only.
Billy Ray Cyrus as an amorous poolman punched by a mobster? David Lynch's commentary on independent filmmaking? Lesbian erotica as sad as it is exaggeratedly hot? Lynch's greatest puzzle box snaps together in sparse, bold, sexy and thrilling fashion.
As moviemaking -- as pure abstract art writ large -- this is a classic, a thing of dark mystifying beauty.
although Lynch puts in more than one appearance in the extras on disc two, he remains true to past form, speaking only in infuriatingly vague abstractions.
A summation work at midpoint career, this visually menacing horror picture, which deconstructs Hollywood as the dream factory, continues to explore such Lynchian obsessions as good vs. evil and dreams vs. nightmares.
The Hollywood Dream Factory reimagined as Nightmarish Torture Chamber. Naomi Watts is phenomenol.
As art, Drive is extraordinary. As a film for general audiences, it's bound to be misunderstood, condemned as pornographic, or exploited for cheap thrills.
As the camera lingers over objects, bathing them with faux-significance, Lynch ends up selling more red herrings than a fishmarket
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