Lost Girl

inland_empire_dern.jpgSaw Inland Empire by David Lynch yesterday. I loved it. Probably my favourite since Blue Velvet (no shit). A sprawling spectacle stretching over three hours, and not letting up for a second, it is so loaded with bewildering imagery and ambiguous motifs that one might initially feel distracted from its deceptive simplicity. In a way, it is Lynch’s clearest resounding work since, well, Blue Velvet. Sure, it has all the mindfuck we have come to expect of him post-Lost Highway in spades: analog circularity, dissolution and transformation of identity, ontological sundering of veils, time out of joint, plenty of scotophobic appeal, a Polish Bob, and, uh, rabbits in suits, but at its heart it is a straightforward film about living with the unknown.

While it is obviously carefully structured and surely rewards repeated viewings, I ultimately think it would be a misunderstanding to treat it like a puzzle to solve. Part of the point is that the pieces seem to, but do not quite fit, leaving our imagination to deal with whatever it is that lurks in those incessant murky doorways or beyond the insistent close-ups that fill so many of the frames. The formidable, and puzzlingly underused, Laura Dern acts as our proxy on the prolonged journey into fear that is the heart of the film. If there is one weakness in all of this, it is that she is such a cipher that you are not as invested in her emotions as you perhaps should be for the terror to become fully internalized, but individualising her more than is done would be besides the point: she is us. And in any case, the moment of catharsis, when it occurs, packs a punch.

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