"Inland Empire"

David Lynch’s "Inland Empire," much like his previous "Mulholland Dr." (2001), will be heralded by some as a complex, mind-numbing film that is layered with innumerable bravura moments of filmic genius. Others will argue that he presents a compellingly original film about a troubled woman and her entrapment within a suffocating industry, highlighted by the blurred distinction between reality and illusion, which are deftly handled by the incomparable Lynch. Don’t believe the hype, and consider yourself warned: "Inland Empire": is an egregious vanity project—trapped in its own smoke and mirrors of ambiguities and abstractions— that leaves the audience to feverishly burrow out of the suffocating rabbit hole called a movie.

With respect to Mr. Lynch, there is also a concurrent trend in film criticism—or maybe it has always been the case—of confusing ambiguity with complexity. As semiotics has given way to human consciousness, symbols have become signposts for filmic meaning and deep understanding, while intricate character studies are becoming increasingly overlooked or completely ignored because of perceived simplicity. In this vain, "Inland Empire" and "Mulholland Dr." are quintessential puzzle films because they force the audience to relive their experiences through cunning detective work, which only ends in empty, speculative theories about what the blue box, red lamp, or what other symbols represent. Lynch’s films are a perfect fit in what Henry Jenkins has coined ‘convergence culture,’ in which viewers partake in an increased participatory network by collectively polling their resources to discern a film’s meaning, but their current place within popular culture does not promote deeper understanding as much as it validates their ambiguity. Lynch is fully aware of this of course, self-reflexively teasing the audience by having characters look into the camera, asking “Who is this woman,” or having Laura Dern’s Nikki admitting her confusion over where to begin her story while talking to the puzzling man with glasses above the equally perplexing theater.

Like "Mulholland Dr.," "Inland Empire" falls into the academic trap of taking surface realities and making them more complex through vague language and symbolic interpretation. The problem with this approach—and the film itself for that matter— is that it obscures, or rather ignores, the complexity of the lives in which we live. Instead of enlightening and illuminating the mysteriousness of life itself, Lynch’s “Empire” takes human complexity and feeling, and confounds them through the disorienting use of style and form. Instead of exploring the world of female identity, Lynch launches it into a world of distorted close-ups, the sardonic use of distance within sequence shots (read: "Citizen Kane"), and elaborate time shifts, augmented by a heavy-handed dissonant soundtrack that is supposed to add more fervor to the nightmarish dreamscape. His use of inexpensive DV technology will most certainly be a point of interest for many, but Lynch tends to ignore the flexibility it affords actors because of the amount of footage that can be shot compared to film. Instead, he uses the technology to increase his ability to visualize the ‘complexity’ of female identity and stardom with varying hues and cinematic spaces, while subjugating his actors to the role of caricatured mimes.

From the very start, there is literally a blurred since of reality as an unidentified man and a prostitute engage in the obligatory pre-sex transaction while Lynch blurs their faces as if candidly caught on a discriminatory security camera. After, the distraught prostitute watches (or imagines) a Rabbit show on television. In the film, Laura Dern plays Nikki Grace, an aspiring actress who has just received a role in the film, “On High in Blue Tomorrow’s,” directed by Kingsley Stewart (Jeremy Irons). An ominous neighbor (Grace Zabruski) with a curious eastern European accent warns Nikki of impending doom, questions her about the role she is playing, and tells an allegorical story about female identity. During preproduction, it is revealed that the film was actually a remake of an uncompleted Polish film that ended in a tragic double murder. Her relationship with her conspicuous husband is called into question by his apparent (or is it?) infidelity and her adulterous relationship with Devon Berk/Billy Side (Justin Theroux) in “On High.” As her private thoughts are projected into her role as Susan Blue, the imagery and structure of the film mimetically become increasingly surreal.

What do the different rooms represent? Are they the subconscious of Nikki Grace? Is Lynch trying to make an insightful comment on femininity and female stardom? In the film, Lynch does take self-reflexivity to new and daring levels by methodically presenting a film within the film within the film. The seamless transitions from the ‘real’ film to “On High in Blue Tomorrows” are at first disrupted by the presence of film cameras or made obvious by Grace’s southern accent and wardrobe. Soon, the distinction withers away in Bunuelian fashion, and the ‘reel’ and ‘real’ become indiscernible. Lynch thus forces the audience to constantly reinterpret images and settings through the use of doubling and repetition—the red lamp, the man with glasses above the theater—while highlighting Nikki’s perpetual cycle of self-damnation. But the constant game of interpretive cat and mouse is met with endless dead ends, as the film gets lost in its own abstractions.

As Lynch delves further into Grace’s subconscious, form completely replaces content. Of course, this is exactly the point of the film, but a more pertinent question is why is it necessary to project the complexity of the female persona as a divided self? Lynch’s film takes its place amongst heralded films such as Bergman’s "Persona," Altman’s "Three Women," and Kieslowski’s "The Double Life of Veronique," all of which deal with split identities through the use of mesmerizing visual constructions and inventive, atypical narrative structures. Despite their creativeness, these films substitute thought provoking representations of women with experimental form. On the other hand, Cassavetes’ "A Woman Under the Influence," Von Trier’s "Breaking the Waves," and Barbara Loden’s "Wanda" present courageous depictions of troubled women without the visual ambiguities. In comparison to “Inland,” their complexities lie in the often contradictory actions, constant flux of emotions, and impulsive reactions of Mable, Bessie, and Wanda—not the illusionary depictions of duality and identity.

Finally, Lynch’s fault is not merely his devotion to stylistic excess, but his refusal to infuse the film with meaningful content by placing all the unanswerable questions in the form, resulting in a myriad of meaningless interpretations of its abstract symbols. “Inland’ is purely indulgent style over misconceived content, or in other words: ambiguity confused with complexity.