David Lynch
Mulholland Drive

That Mulholland Drive is a masterpiece is something many have said, yet in front of such beauty, I cannot help but express the same opinion. There's no reason, after all, why one should tire of proclaiming the grandeur of works like Dante's Comedy or the Sistine Chapel. And it doesn't seem an exaggeration to consider MD not only the pinnacle of Lynch's filmography but also one of the most beautiful films of the last twenty years, a true milestone of the new millennium. Here, truly, there are no objections that hold: those who do not appreciate a film of this kind are not because they did not understand it, but because they did not feel it. I will not dwell on how coherent a seemingly incomprehensible plot turns out to be when analyzed in depth and with proper psychoanalytic keys (indeed, compared to films like Eraserhead, Lost Highways or Inland Empire, MD is very understandable), because what really matters, here as always with Lynch, is something else: it's the wonder of delving into the enchanting and frightening territory of dreams and nightmares, whose dark dynamics Lynch like no other manages to translate into images of dazzling splendor. And note that it's not all style (which as far as I'm concerned would be enough and more!), because there isn't a single frame whose meticulous preparation hasn't been studied to enhance the drama of a human story narrated with rare depth. Indeed, overall it seems that one can even extrapolate a disconsolate vision of existence and the world, where only refuge in dreams can redeem from a reality that keeps proving to be increasingly desolate and painful. But thousands of other points for reflection could be found in this labyrinth, from the metacinematic discourse to the one about the relationship between reality and fiction, from the theme of the interchangeable double to the psychoanalytic interpretation of the innumerable dream symbols that the entire film thrives on. Perhaps, however, it is more fruitful to simply let oneself be overwhelmed by the beauty of a continuous sequence of Stendhal syndrome moments, whose density of meaning only enhances the aesthetic enjoyment: in short, from the thrilling opening dance scene to the last whispered syllables that seal a story of shattered hopes with laconic melancholy, MD is a continuous surpassing that borders on perfection (oh the Club Silencio!). With David Lynch, we always soar high, but in my opinion, Mulholland Drive truly represents the peak, even more so than the massive summa of his cinema that is Inland Empire, a splendid inextricable and metamorphic creature, pure anti-narrative oneirism in which, however, the style perhaps ends up prevailing over the substance. MD instead miraculously achieves the perfect balance between anchoring to a solid narrative (albeit metaphorical for the first three quarters, with an unparalleled coup de théâtre) and the marvelous surrealism of the language. And the result is a film that manages to be enigmatic and at the same time tragic and moving, sensual and disturbing at the same time, a film of such beauty as to bring tears.