Inland Empire retains its low-res, subterranean power on Criterion’s Blu-ray release.
The Inside remake is at best competently mounted and at worst a case study in watering down chaos for an American market.
Daniel Y-Li Grove would rather get a rise out of his audience than craft interesting characters or a coherent cultural milieu.
The work must be partially faulted for being almost completely irrespective of cinema as a medium-specific mode of expression.
Brightly colored and dreadfully overacted, Nancy Kissam’s Drool is the worst kind of gay cinema.
David Lynch is a filmmaker who has haunted my mind since the first moment I saw one of his films.
The idea of bringing together Frank Langella and Elliott Gould in a movie sounds utterly delicious with possibility.
Eric Valette’s even lousier American remake is something like the next generation of suck.
What Mike Newells film lacks in brio it makes up for in reverence.
Inland Empire is another excuse for Lynch heads not to leave their house.
Reflections and rhymes abound in David Lynch’s Inland Empire.
Where to begin? At the end, perhaps, with the word sweet, the film’s answer to Mulholland Drive’s silencio.
It chooses an undemanding route to condemnation, bypassing consequential nuance and rationality in censuring Bible Belt zealots for their cruel, selfish hypocrisies.
The Punisher may actually be bad for your health.
Mulholland Drive is a haunting, selfish masterpiece that literalizes the theory of surrealism as perpetual dream state.