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July 2005

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07/21/2005: "Mulholland Drive"

music: atonal jazz
mood: confused

I saw David Lynch in a bloody heap on the floor, paper strewn all around his twitching body. "Is this the rest of the script, fool?" I asked, kicking him in the head for dramatic emphasis. I picked up some of the paper, and saw they were blank. Rage contorted my features, and I kicked him again. "Damn you!"
Little old people came running out of his nostrils, along with his blood, but I squashed them beneath my feet as I would a couple of ants. "You know, Lynch, a thriller is supposed to have a coherent plot, and answers that match the questions posed."
He looked up at me, drooling. Obviously, he was suffering from syphilitic insanity, which would explain the gratuitous lesbian love scenes and the fact that his movie was missing at least an hour of footage.
"I should kill you for misusing an actor of Robert Forster's skill, you bastard. Did he solve the mystery?
Did he? DID HE!!??!?" More drool and inaudible grunting was the only reply, so I picked him up and tossed him across the room in disgust. The answers I sought were not to be found here.
Maybe the Frenchman had some answers. He produced the movie: maybe he was holding the rest of the movie in a vault somewhere, waiting for a chance to make a director's cut edition and rake in more bucks from Lynch's easily fooled devotees. I went to the offices of a local free newspaper to ask questions.
"I'm looking for the Frenchman," I said. The receptionist looked at me blankly, but before she could say anything, I spotted the office of the rag's film critic, little Rob Nelson. He had gushed about this film
so ecstatically that I figured it had to be a good movie, but he left out any mention of it being incoherent, exploitive and maddening. I ran down to his office and burst in. "Where's the Frenchman?"
He looked up, drooling, much like his hero, David Lynch. I smacked him in the head before he could say anything and yelled, "Next time a movie doesn't make sense, tell the people, you ass."

I started to throw things across the room, and he looked up, startled. "Why didn't you tell your readers that Mulholland Drive was an incoherent mess? Jesus Christ, the lesbians couldn't even kiss good. How crappy can a director get?"
"You just didn't get it," he said, so I smacked him. He went flying out of his chair across the room, and his head banged against the wall. He wasn't dead, so I left him drooling where he laid, not even bothering to crush the little old people who came running out of his mouth. I cursed myself for knocking him out before I could ask any questions, but I figured it made no difference. The Frenchman used fools like this to help sell his incomprehensible trash, and wasn't about to tell the little twerp anything I could use.
I was about to leave, when I noticed the little old people had now become normal sized, just like in the movie. They laughed, until I smacked them too, then they cried. "You don't have to hurt us," the old man said. "It was just a movie," the old lady said. Just then the Frenchman walked into the office.
"It's not nice what you did to David," he said. I sneered. "Damn your dreamworld," I said, and I shoved
a large envelope at him. "Here's my screenplay. Try to produce that." He dissolved into vapor, and I was alone with the old people. My screenplay laid on the floor, so I picked it up and left. I no longer cared about where the extra 1 to 3 hours of unused footage to Lynch's film was, for the old people put it well: it was just a movie, a brain-dead, obsessive, illogical mess of a movie. My screenplay was of such quality that it killed the Frenchman just to touch it, yet it somehow brought me no joy. I'd have to find that satchel of money from the movie that no one bothered to explain, in order to put my dream up there for all to see, and be amazed.

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