In Memoriam - How David Lynch Gets Under Your Skin

David Lynch defies convention in every sense. Mulholland Drive - perhaps the most approachable screenplay in his eclectic and celebrated body of work - came to life through the most unconventional means. Brimming with surrealist allure, dreamlike narratives, and a healthy dose of ambiguity, the term Lynchian will undoubtedly endure in the lexicon of screenwriting for generations.

Unlike the fractured narratives of Lost Highway or Eraserhead, Lynch maintains that Mulholland Drive presents a singular, coherent story. Take that with a grain of salt! True to form, he refuses to disclose its true meaning or his intentions, leaving the audience with a cinematic Rorschach test. It is a rare challenge (or privilege!) to piece a narrative together using only your own interpretation.

One of the screenplay's many idiosyncrasies is its origin: Lynch initially wrote it for television, crafting a 95-page script for ABC in the wake of Twin Peaks' success. A pilot was filmed, but the story goes that an unimpressed network executive viewed a rough cut at six o’clock in the morning, and promptly cancelled it. After a year of negotiations in Paris to transform the project into a feature-length film, Canal+ coughed up an additional $7m and Lynch added 18 new pages, equating to 45 minutes of additional footage. 

When examining the original screenplay as it was shot, we’re confronted with the unmistakable texture of Lynch’s unique writing style - prickling with unease and brimming with ambiguity. In this analysis, we forgo forcing Mulholland Drive into a traditional screenplay structure; it transcends such conventions and defies categorization. 

We open on the titular Mulholland Drive by night, where a limousine ferries a young woman (soon to be known as Rita). The car halts abruptly, revealing the driver’s intent to kill Rita on the shadowy roadside. Immediately, Lynch strips characters of names or introductions, offering the characters an obscurity or anonymity that will be integral to the plot’s intrigue. 

When it seems like Rita is doomed, her would-be assassins are obliterated by racing teenage drunk drivers. Left as the sole survivor, Rita stumbles away from the wreckage, clutching her bag and nursing a head injury. In her disoriented state, she fends off a coyote and eventually arrives at an apartment complex on Sunset Boulevard. Spotting a door left ajar, she slips inside unnoticed. Finally safe, exhaustion overtakes her, and she collapses in the kitchen.

Lynch here waives punchy, exciting action lines in favor of clinical prose. Emphasis is applied to the unsettling tone rather than the spectacle of the action. There’s an eerie stillness in the matter-of-fact direction, the deserted city streets, and the glaring absence of any context.

Detectives Domgaard and McKnight arrive to survey the wreckage, their investigation yielding a single clue: a lone pearl earring. Great, I hear you think, a lead for law enforcement to pursue! No. These detectives only appear once more after this scene and the pearl earring is never mentioned again. Whether we realize it or not, we’re fluent in the language of cinema. When plot threads like this are introduced and abandoned, a quiet unease takes root, signaling to us that something is amiss.

At a Denny’s diner, Herb and Dan share breakfast, though Dan is preoccupied by a recurring nightmare: a vision of a terrifying figure lurking in the alley out back. Hoping to ease Dan’s growing anxiety, they decide to investigate. As they near the spot from his dream, Dan begins sweating profusely, his fear palpable. Though initially dismissive, Herb begins to experience an ominous feeling. Then, Dan sees what’s described as ‘a face dark and bum-like’, a sight so horrifying it triggers a fatal heart attack. Herb doesn’t see the figure, leaving us to speculate if Dan really saw anything - or if the terror was all in his mind.

Notice how Lynch weaves Dan’s personality seamlessly into his dialogue—marked by expressive pauses, hesitations, and a tendency to ramble. Even within a surrealist world, these traits ground the character in authenticity. We relate to Dan’s very human fears and anxieties, a reminder that realistic characters are our anchor in even the most bizarre narratives.

At this early juncture, we’re already confronted with a revelation: not everything we witness can be trusted. This destabilization forces us to consider - how can we discern what’s real?

We’re introduced to Betty as she arrives at LAX, a fresh-faced, aspiring actress chasing her dreams in the footsteps of her Aunt Ruth. Wide-eyed and eager, she absorbs the dazzling allure of the City of Angels. It feels as though she’s stepped out of Kansas and into this half-lucid projection of Oz. At Ruth’s apartment - the very one where Rita is secretly hiding - Betty meets Coco Lanois, the charismatic complex manager. Betty is captivated by the building’s old-Hollywood charm and its residents, relics of a fading golden age.

At odds with the romantic, fairytale setting, Coco is blunt and vulgar - an unfiltered presence that anchors Betty, offering a semblance of stability amidst the dreamy chaos. 

As Rita regains her senses, she takes a shower in the empty apartment. Betty lets herself in with Aunt Ruth’s spare keys. She encounters the stranger in the shower and assumes Rita is staying as a guest of her aunt. Rita, however, speaks in brief, hesitant sentences, struggling to recall her identity - vaguely mentioning a car accident. Lynch writes in such a way that we feel as though we, too, suffer from amnesia - lacking history and context. Her tentative adoption of the name ‘Rita’ stems from a Gilda film poster on Ruth’s wall. With a visible scalp wound, Betty suggests a visit to a doctor, yet Rita’s panic causes her to mistrust others.

Rita is a blank slate without a past - but so is Betty - we know next to nothing about her or her life before her arrival. They are inventing themselves as they go, prompting us to question if we should be concerned for Betty’s safety or for Rita’s wellbeing. 

At a seedy sixth floor downtown office, a man named Joe is fixated on Ed’s black notebook, filled with the phone numbers of famous people. He shoots Ed in the head with a silenced pistol to acquire it, framing it as a suicide. His hastily executed plan backfires - he accidentally fires a second shot, drawing the attention of others in the office. As the situation spirals, bodies pile up as Joe has to shoot more and more people to avoid detection. Finally, he grabs the black notebook and descends a fire escape.

Lynch is not afraid to fill half a page with a single paragraph or monologue. This is the tonal equivalent of whiplash - unlike the murky mystery of the car accident and the sinister mystery behind the Denny’s - this plays almost like a slapstick black comedy. We aren’t invited to feel sympathy for these victims, Joe is our POV and we’re more concerned about his botched theft. Another plot thread left dangling - who is Joe trying to contact? We never find out. 

Next, we find ourselves in a conference room, where a film meeting is underway. Present are Ray Hott, head of production, Robert Smith, talent manager and Adam Kesher, a promising young director. We ascertain that the executives are preparing him for bad news.

The meeting deteriorates when the Castigliane brothers, a pair of influential mobsters, crash the gathering, insisting that their woman - Camilla Rhodes - must be cast for the lead of Kesher’s project. 

Resolute in his decision, Kesher refuses, knowing that six of the most prominent movie stars are vying for the role. Luigi Castigliane makes it clear that creative control is no longer in Kesher’s hands. Enraged, Kesher takes a golf club to their limo, shattering the windows and lights in an act of defiance.

While discussing an upcoming audition, Betty casually mentions Rita to her Aunt Ruth on the phone. Ruth’s panicked reaction reveals she has no knowledge of a house guest. Concerned that this might jeopardize Rita’s stay, Betty tries to soothe her aunt, assuring her she’ll handle the situation without involving the police. Rita awakens, distraught that rest has not restored her memories. She confesses that Rita is not her real name, and she has no recollection of her past. Together, they discover $125,000 in cash and a blue key hidden in her handbag.

Next, we’re transported to a bizarre, windowless office. For those familiar only with the film, its presence is already well-established - interspersed throughout Act One with various shots that suggest someone is listening in on the unfolding scenes. 

In the script, this is Roque’s first and only appearance. Ray the producer inquires if the sibylline Mr. Roque wants Kesher replaced as director. Without hesitation, Ray agrees to shut the film down. Mr. Roque makes a call to a stranger, informing them ‘She is still missing.’ We see a chain of anonymous figures calling one another to pass this information on and on and on. 

At Ruth’s apartment, Betty and Rita work tirelessly to piece together both her identity and the origin of the money. Despite their best efforts, Rita remains unable to recall anything beyond her destination: Mulholland Drive. She mirrors our experience as readers - yearning for clarity in the haze of uncertainty surrounding her past. At this juncture in the screenplay, the futility of her quest becomes stark. We start to suspect that the answers we seek may remain elusive.

Adam Kesher calls Cynthia - the casting director on their film - as he drives his Porsche through LA. She informs him that Ray has shut it all down. Upon arriving home, he finds his wife, Lorraine, cheating on him with Gene the pool guy. Angered and humiliated, Kesher dumps pink paint over Lorrain’s jewellery. He emerges from the confrontation bloody and embarrassed, coated with pink paint that clings to him for the rest of the screenplay. 

Rita follows Betty to a payphone where they anonymously inquire with traffic police about the Mulholland Drive accident. They stop at a familiar Denny’s where their waitress, Diane, triggers Rita’s memory of the name Diane Selwyn. Returning to the apartment, they search the phonebook and locate Diane Selwyn. Rita tentatively makes a call, half-expecting to hear her own voice on the answering machine. No dice. She isn’t Diane, but she’s certain that she knew Diane at some point in her prior life.

Betty and Rita’s plot to track down Diane is disrupted by Louise Bonner, a drunken, senile former star of a neighbor, who demands to know who Betty is and what she has done with Ruth. Coco intervenes to calm the situation, leaving Rita shaken - still suspecting someone is pursuing her with malicious intent. 

Checking into the Beverly Hills Hotel, Kesher is informed that his credit cards have been declined. He calls Cynthia, who reveals he’s broke. Additionally, he learns that someone named ‘the Cowboy’ wants to meet him at the top of Beachwood Canyon. Cynthia strongly believes this ties into the Castiglianes’ takeover of their film. Driving up to the canyon in his Porsche, he meets the seemingly omniscient Cowboy, who seems to know every detail of his life. It could be interpreted that the Cowboy addresses the audience rather than Kesher. 

After recounting every detail of Kesher’s bizarre day, the Cowboy delivers an ultimatum: return to work the next day… or else. If he agrees to cast Camilla - the Castiglianes’ desired actress for the lead - they will meet once more. If he rejects the actress, they will meet again twice.

The uncanny prescience that the Cowboy displays compounds the feeling that the characters are pawns on a global chessboard, moved as desired by shadowy figures. This could be a comment on characters as tools for a writer to deploy. Regardless, it projects a feeling of vulnerability onto Kesher and casts Rita as a character gone rogue. 

Betty and Rita rehearse a scene for an upcoming audition. Rita is deeply impressed by Betty’s talent and dedication. Coco receives a call from Ruth, questioning what Rita is doing in her apartment. Coco decides to investigate, summoning Betty. Under pressure, Betty fabricates a story about Rita being an old school friend to placate Coco’s concerns. Though Coco sees through the lie, she trusts Betty to handle the situation on her own. This is, in effect, the real audition. She can’t act convincingly when it’s important. 

Betty leaves Rita behind to attend her audition at the Paramount lot. She requests Wally Brown by name—an industry veteran and close friend of Aunt Ruth. Wally introduces Betty to the cast and crew for the picture, including Jimmy, who has been cast as the male lead. Betty channels her discomfort with the creepy older actor, transforming it into a powerful performance. Their captivating performance leaves the crew in awe.

As Betty is escorted off the Paramount lot, casting director Sarah James mocks Wally and Jimmy, asserting that the picture will never see the light of day. The comment devastates Betty, shattering her hopes. They instead take her to the set of Adam Kesher’s film, which is casting in preparation for filming to resume. We get our first real cross-pollination of subplots here as Betty and Kesher interact. 

Kesher is dismissing actresses as instructed. When presented with Camilla Rhodes - forced upon him by the Castiglianes - he begrudgingly agrees ‘that's the girl’ under duress. Across the set, he catches sight of Betty. Intrigued by her presence, he finds himself drawn to her.

At the apartments, Betty and Rita notice a neighbor named Cornell playing the saxophone on his balcony. He recognizes Rita, but frustratingly doesn’t remember her name. Instead of pursuing this delicious lead dropped into their laps, Rita feels a deep sense of dread and decides to follow the Diane Selwyn lead instead.

They take a cab to the Sierra Bonita address they believe Diane to live at, but spot two men watching the apartment from a distance. Carefully sneaking in through the back, they approach the home, only to find it abandoned. As they break in, a terrible stench fills the air. Investigating further, they discover a body rotting on a mattress, riddled with shotgun blasts. Overcome with horror, Betty has to cover Rita’s mouth to stifle her scream - was this meant to be her? Did she shoot Diane? 

There’s a pervasive sense that none of this makes sense. Every moment seems carefully orchestrated to keep Rita from uncovering her true identity, with their misfortunes feeling more like manipulation than happenstance. Remembering that Betty and Rita aren’t clued in on Mr. Roque and Jay’s manipulation of events - imagine how frustrated and concerned they must be.

Back at Ruth’s apartment, a frightened Rita cuts and dyes her hair blonde in a desperate attempt to disguise herself and maintain some level of anonymity. Meanwhile, in a nearby apartment, an elderly screenwriter named Wilkins receives a call from Kesher. After hearing about Kesher’s troubling home life, Wilkins offers the director a place to sleep on his couch, providing a temporary refuge from the chaos.

Rita takes the money she found and offers it to Betty, suspecting she’s in serious trouble. Betty refuses payment and tells Rita to begin living a new life as a new Rita. They go up to the apartment rooftop to announce themselves to Hollywood. We return behind the Denny’s and close on a shot of the mysterious ‘bum-like’ figure whose eyes glow red.

CONCLUSION

We may never know the answers to several plot threads established with intention to explore in subsequent episodes. What was the fate of Kesher’s film? Who was Rita really? Why didn’t we see the Cowboy once OR twice? What is the purpose of the blue key? What is the labyrinthine Mr. Roque’s part in all of this? 

What we’re left with is a uniquely Lynchian creation - a dead pilot that has been resurrected Frankenstein-style as a film, defying both the conventions of traditional theatrical storytelling and the pacing of episodic television. It’s perfectly representative of Lynch’s auteur filmmaking to be presented with $7m and the opportunity to resolve the questions you raised… and using it to introduce further complications and dead ends.

But what does it all MEAN? Is it an exploration of the seedy underbelly beneath Hollywood’s glossy exterior? A commentary on the parallels of filmmaking and reinvention? An audition within a fantasy? An attempt to channel dream logic through film? Lynch contends that following the emotional journey is more important than following the narrative. 

The film provides additional fragments of context - the blue key signaling a successful assassination and revealing Diane’s identity - yet it purposefully dismantles and contradicts the continuity built by the screenplay. Does Lynch know what all this means? Maybe. Probably. Doubtful. Just like his enigmatic writing, all these answers could be true and false at the same time. 

Despite breaking just about every convention in the book, the writing is strong enough to maintain interest, intrigue, and propulsion. This illustrates how ‘rules’ are there to be broken - and when done with purpose you can captivate readers by defying expectation. 

Lynch will be immortalised for his ability to engage brain-tickling mysteries and bringing surrealist art cinema to the mainstream. You can theorise all day, watch a thousand video essays, or discuss it over a campfire until the sun comes up - you won’t come any closer to untangling its layers of intrigue. Thus is the power of Mulholland Drive - the film that never stops entertaining. 

5/5. RIP David Lynch.