Mulholland Drive

David Lynch’s darkly comic noir mystery is trademark Lynch: strange, seductive, erotic, perverse, cryptic, disturbing, violent, wacky and impervious to mainstream demands. The story, or at least what first feels like a story, begins as a voluptuous amnesia victim (Laura Elena Harring) and a perky, naïve wannabe actress (Naomi Watts) try to uncover the nameless femme fatale’s true identity. The film later veers into an alternate world as cast members become new characters or establish new relationships with each other. Several roles (The Cowboy, a partially paralyzed dwarf, a psychic, a bungling hit man) are merely thin sketches, numerous scenes feel padded and ponderous, and several meticulously engineered jokes fall flat. This enigmatic maze about female exploitation, innocence, sexual awakening, paranoia, peril, contagious emotions and the illusions of cinema is intriguing at first but ultimately should have felt fresher and been more fun.