Friday, March 29, 2013
This is some spooky shit we got here. The first 45 minutes of the film are great - pure Lynch, with a creepy, dreamlike quality. Then it seems like co-author Barry Gifford takes over and turns it into a clunky film noir fantasy, with Arquette as a femme fatale and a porn film subplot. But the dream logic is gone, and none of the different pieces really fit together. Getty is a less talented Charlie Sheen, putting Marilyn Manson in the film dates it pretty badly - maybe not as much as putting Frankie Goes to Hollywood in Body Double, but still - and worst of all, Lynch himself seems to go missing, only turning up occasionally, like in the coffee table scene. Some ideas in the film reappear in Mulholland Drive, with a much better result.