Mulholland Drive Review
by Jeremiah Kipp (kipp AT filmcritic DOT com)September 27th, 2001
MULHOLLAND DRIVE
A film review by Jeremiah Kipp
Copyright 2001 filmcritic.com
The dream resembles a TV-movie, and reality itself is fragmented and
torn. David Lynch's Mulholland Drive is more than just a curiosity
piece expanded from a scrapped TV-pilot, though it uses the forms and
conventions of television to explore the increasingly addled fantasies
of a would-be starlet. Those who found Lost Highway an audacious stunt,
transforming its protagonist into someone else at the midway point, will
be flummoxed by Lynch's askew storytelling methods here. Not only do
the characters morph into deeper representations of their secret selves,
the entire schematic approach to the mini-series dissipates into an
altered state.
To the tune of composer Angelo Badalamenti's wine-dark funereal
melodies, Lynch forages his way into the nocturnal avenues and
expressways of Los Angeles. On Mulholland Drive, a beautiful,
raven-haired amnesiac (Laura Harring) staggers from the twisted wreckage
of a black limosine and makes her way through the night-shadowed
Hollywood Hills toward the beckoning city lights. The sound of her high
heels is preternaturally loud as she evades impending pursuers, hiding
away in the tangled bushes surrounding a residential apartment complex.
The clear light of day brings no comfort. Two men (Patrick Fischler and
Michael Cooke) in a coffee shop recount a nightmare about some strange,
shadowy figure that peers through walls and lurks behind the diner, a
controlling force that brings death. To prove there's no such thing as
phantoms, the men investigate the neighboring alleyway and make a
startling discovery.
Arriving in L.A. for the first time is a bright-eyed innocent named
Betty (Naomi Watts), filled with naïve dreams of becoming a movie star.
Temporarily staying at her aunt's opulent home at 1612 Havenhurst (a
Lynch preoccupation: showing us Where We Are), her first brush with
Hollywood may shatter those illusions. Before this fledgling has a
chance to spread her wings, she finds a newfound friend and roommate in
the helpless amnesiac. Drawn into the mystery of "Rita's" identity, the
two women attempt to uncover the truth. Along the way, a savage
attraction blooms between them that could be the start of something
exquisite and hazardous.
To delve further into this labyrinth would be a disservice to any
audience open to forming their own subjective connections and analysis.
Suffice to say, these subplots merge together, involving gangsters and
studio moguls, magicians and chanteuses, detectives and assassins, red
curtains and pinheaded villains, spare hotel rooms with hissing
radiators. There are spontaneous bursts of violence (like when a film
director, played by intense, bespectacled Jason Theroux, smashes the
windows and headlights of a posh limo with his trusty golf club) and
sexual forays that might be described as subterranean. Lynch's
preoccupations with noir's form and graphic design prove an ideal match
for the impassive, sparse cityscapes of the west coast. "Welcome To Los
Angeles" is one of the first signs glimpsed in transit; it has rarely
felt so foreboding.
Presuming that Mulholland Drive takes us deeper into fantasy is more
than shortsighted; it's a misnomer. Inner feelings of sentiment and
dread directly affect the external images, remaining truthful to Lynch's
heartfelt observation of the world. Setting aside logic, it's better to
consider the Lynchian mold as an emotional, musical tapestry, one that
filters into collective anxieties. There's nothing obscure about the
question of self, an obstacle Betty and Rita both must confront.
Romance and betrayal morph them into new roles. Lingering underneath
the starlet might be a calculating rube, under the seemingly timid
amnesiac stirs an ever-ripening sensuality.
Sketched in muted colors and pervasive darkness by superb
cinematographer Peter Deming (who also lensed Lost Highway), the
standards of television rely on conventional medium-shots and close-ups
to fit the small screen. Lynch makes advantageous use of those
unwritten rules, though he contorts them through his unusual camera
placements and penchant for lingering on obscure beats (who else would
linger on a cup of espresso during a confrontation scene, thereby making
the cup of espresso into a menacing artifact?) As the characters merge
into something Other (or, alternately, become fully realized versions of
themselves), Deming's photography becomes more ragged and hyperreal,
accompanied by Mary Sweeney's serrated knife-edge editing technique of
shock cuts.
Holding this bundle of nerve ends together are remarkable ensemble
performances from startling newcomers and established veterans:
legendary Amy Miller as a freakishly maternal hotel caretaker; Dan
Hedaya as a volcanic movie financier; Lafayette Montgomery as a
soft-spoken cowboy with murder in his eyes ("You'll see me one more time
if you're good. You'll see me two more times if you're bad."). The
real finds are Naomi Watts and Laura Harring, whose balancing act
recalls Shelley Duvall and Sissy Spacek in Robert Altman's Two Women.
They're the lifeblood of Mulholland Drive, offering richly calibrated
incarnations of womanhood. Watts and Haring are poised for triumphant
careers, two more reasons why Lynch and his collaborators have created a
masterpiece. As they say in show business, this is where the magic
happens.
RATING: *****
|------------------------------|
\ ***** Perfection \
\ **** Good, memorable film \
\ *** Average, hits and misses \
\ ** Sub-par on many levels \
\ * Unquestionably awful \
|------------------------------|
MPAA Rating: R
Director: David Lynch
Producer: Neal Edelstein, Joyce Eliason, Tony Krantz, Michael Polaire,
Alain Sarde, Mary Sweeney
Writer: David Lynch
Starring: Justin Theroux, Naomi Watts, Laura Harring, Ann Miller, Dan
Hedaya, Mark Pellegrino, Brian Beacock, Robert Forster
http://www.bacfilms.com/mulholland/
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