In Inland Empire, David Lynch tells a story of “a woman in trouble,” and the production of a cursed movie script. However like of all of David Lynch's work, figuring out what Inland Empire is about doesn't even begin to scratch the surface of what this dense piece of cinema has to offer. One could also state that Mulholland Dr. is about the dreams of a starlet lost in the city of dreams, or that Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me is a story about the abuse and murder of a high school sweetheart, or that Eraserhead is a study of a man's anxiety towards becoming a father. Lynch's narratives are typically simple, and can easily be detailed within a few short descriptive sentences. What is complex though, and often confounding, is the way his narratives unfold, and the meaning behind the characters and the scenarios.
In Inland Empire, bad sitcoms star, and multiply like, rabbits, and the infernal engine called Hollywood, chews up, swallows, and spits out actresses like cheap whores. Laura Dern plays Nikki Grace, one such actress, who is in a Hollywood remake of a problematic Polish film. The film is called “On High in Blue Tomorrows,” and this title becomes a catalyst for Inland Empire's thematic elements. Dern also plays a woman named Susan Blue in some kind of alternate universe where the lines between reality and fantasy barely exist at all. I also got the feeling that at certain points, Laura Dern was playing herself, or perhaps the physical manifestation of all actresses. She is the “every-actress,” and her trip into madness, confusion, and self discovery is a common problem, or at least a problem that Lynch likes to explore. As Grace (or is it Blue, or Dern?) looses herself in the phantasmagoria of the film's universe and narrative, it was all I could do to keep from getting completely lost myself. Lynch's films have a way of enrapturing me, and Inland Empire's power to captivate, trick, and confound is a force to be reckoned with.
In Inland Empire, an image can be both beautiful and unsettling, and what we see is rarely what we get. Is that a real door, one that leads to the room its frame is hung on, or does it connect by means of a wormhole to a different room in an altogether different house? Much has been made about Lynch's choice to shoot this film with a cheap, consumer level, digital video camera, and most of what has been said is that the film is “ugly.” I couldn't disagree more. I find it fascinating that Lynch chose to shoot a film about a film on a medium that does not hide blemishes, and makes things look more real, and immediate than actual film, and yes, a bit worse even. Film itself makes things look better - it removes images a few steps from how we actually perceive them - it filters out the undesirable and romanticizes things. The imagery in Inland Empire looks raw and full of texture, like you could reach out and feel the flesh of its characters, while the use of space and composition creates a sense that everything is happening right in front of your eyes and not up on a screen. Visually, Inland Empire is Lynch's most striking film yet, and the way he plays with the sets, the lighting, the close ups, and the negative space within the frame creates a haunting atmosphere.
In Inland Empire, the din of a ringing telephone can cause a dimensional shift, and can open portals to alternate realities. While Lynch's films have always been visually alluring, he is equally concerned with their audio cues as well. If Inland Empire is comprised of multiple layers of visual clues, and sights both beautiful and terrifying, so too does the audio enchant and lead us down a twisted labyrinth as sounds and music echo to create a visceral atmosphere. Inland Empire opens with the blaring noise of a record player, yelling at its audience with piercing calamity, and in an imperative declaration it clamors, “Pay attention!” “What you hear is important!” it cries out. Each soundscape used is a minor symphony that strengthens the visuals and yanks our attention down corridors brimming with lust, fear, and earnest yearning as we strive to find the truth along side Lynch's characters; we know what they know, for we have seen and heard what they have. Each word uttered by each character is yet another twist, another turn, another verbal puzzle to ponder.
In Inland Empire, we are at the mercy of a man barely contained by this world. I feel as if my measly five human senses are not enough to truly experience what David Lynch has to offer. Inland Empire is like three hours of super-concentrated Lynch, blasted from a double-barreled shotgun straight through my skull. Here, Lynch has somehow figured out how to fold his paper more than seven times - he folds it in on itself, again and again, working like some mad artist who paints with Mobius Strips and puzzles that contain the secrets of life and death. I don't think I will ever forget exactly how I felt the moment Inland Empire ended and the lights came on. I felt as if I had just witnessed something truly powerful - like I had been offered a glance into another dimension full of possibilities and dreams, terror and happiness, loneliness and lost. Inland Empire made me feel happy to be alive and happy to be in this world, and not a character in a Lynch film - I don't know if there is a man or woman alive who could survive a day, or even an hour, in the Inland Empire unscathed: it is a harsh land, ruled over by a madman drunk with creative ferocity.
