Electric guitar, gasoline, cigarettes, milk, lamps, ceiling fan: Lynch scavenges the detritus of suburbia, refiguring an entropic dreamscape that obliterates your sensory guardrails in order to deliver some of the most unrestrained emotions ever put to film.
Sheryl Lee’s performance is a miraculous high-wire act, focalizing the disparate parts of a young girl self combusting in world that cannot recognize her as a full person, yet somehow feeling so fully embodied I imagined I could reach across the screen and touch Laura Palmer.
Angelo Badalamenti is on a movie long heat check. Simply the greatest.
