It's been a while since I saw a David Lynch film; I'd forgotten what a beguiling experience it could be. I saw
Mulholland Drive when it was first out in cinemas, and that first time, it felt exactly the way it was supposed to - like a shadowy, spirallingly dream-like descent into the unconscious, disorienting and oddly familiar in equal measures (ie, '
Unheimlich'). This time, knowing in advance how the pieces would fit together in terms of the film's structuring conceit, I was most struck by its formal perfection - the craft with which it sets up and then detonates the late-act identity/reality blur and shift while swathing the whole thing in that unmistakeable Lynch/Badalamenti mood.