David Lynch doesn’t just tell stories; he dreams them, leaving us to stumble through the haze of meaning. Mulholland Drive is a triumph of contradictions—Hollywood glamour and noir grit, dream logic and cold reality, plot threads abandoned like pearls in a car crash. Lynch insists it’s a coherent tale, but let’s face it: it’s more fun as a cinematic Rorschach test. You don’t solve Mulholland Drive; you surrender to it.