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shiny objects

Monday, August 01, 2005


Last night I bit the bullet and watched a David Lynch movie. Discounting the fact that I was bored out of my skull and essentially wasted 2.5 hours of my precious life, it was pretty good. Yeah, yeah, ok, that's a bit harsh. I only wasted 2.4 hours of my life; Mullholand Drive has a few ultra-zesty lesbian sex scenes.

Wow. I mean, wow. A lot of work went into creating the illusion of a plot. I couldn't have written a more inscrutable script on a giant acid blotter, in mescaline ink, while getting drunk and high in the basement of an abandoned papermill with a bum named Yosepi. I mean, GODDAMN!

I know what you're thinking. If the movie was so bad, why did I keep watching, right? Well, it's not entirely my fault. While working out the final draft of the screenplay, Lynch rose to the surface of his self-indulgent pipe dreams just long enough to imbue the film with a few vague motifs and themes. They keep you watching. You want to believe in a grand ending that explains everything and ties it all back together. But it never comes.

At least it had some Hott Chix.


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