Inland Empire

It seems as if two separate reviews should accompany Inland Empire; one for the well-seasoned David Lynch connoisseur and another for the more ignorant filmgoer. A fan of this director’s work will be familiar with his complex repertoire; from his sketchy beginnings with Erasurehead, through his more commercial and mainstreams efforts (Elephant Man and, later, Twin Peaks,), all culminating in cinema cult-classics like Blue Velvet and Mullholand Drive. This fan will not be surprised by Lynch’s exploration of blurred subconscious (collective and individual) and so find pleasure in Inland Empire’s gradual slide away from coherent narrative and towards less literal representations of more visceral sentiments. This viewer will applaud the eccentricities that lace this movie, like the inclusion of a nonsensical sitcom about stilted conversation in a house of anthropomorphic rabbits or the arbitrary scenes from an unrelated storyline taking place in Poland. This audience member will be moved by the strong performances of the film, in particular Laura Dern’s ability to slip seamlessly through a whole of personas, and applaud the film’s haunting soundtrack and Lynch’s powerful use of Beck’s “Black Tambourine” (the subversive use of songs being one of the director’s distinct auteur trademarks).

An ordinary filmgoer will have far more difficulty here. They will be frustrated by Lynch’s initial attempt to lull the viewer into a false sense of security, by providing a vague semblance of a narrative before ruthlessly snatching it away. As the original narrative, which sees two upcoming film stars (played by Laura Dern and Justin Theroux) begin work on a new film, disintegrates into detached narrative fragments and morphing personas, this viewer will grow increasingly resentful of Lynch’s failure to cast any shadow of meaning over his work. Attempts to uncover literal or even symbolic sense in the garble of images and sounds will inevitably prove futile, as Lynch weaves a collage that is not only non-linear, but also non-circular, and rather a collection of various jagged edges, heaped together with the appearance of a disaster aftermath. Indeed, this film will test the patience of even the most devoted Lynch fan, as he pushes the surreal envelope further than ever before, offering no respite through length (dragging this torture on for over three hours) or through aesthetics (using digital filmmaking techniques to carve ugly, unappealing images of dull colours and confusing blurs). Unless you have enjoyed every single piece of cinema that Lynch has ever touched, this one is to be approached only with sever caution.

Rating: 2.0