My kind of black humour. If I thought for a second that Ariane killed herself over this guy at the end, I would be rating this significantly lower. But there is no fucking way. If she drowned, it was entirely by accident. More likely she lied to Simon (she’s good at that) and escaped to her girlfriend’s place.

Edmonton loves David Lynch. You could probably count on one hand the places in the world where you’d get to experience this movie surrounded by fellow movie fans, in a near-sold-out theatre, twenty some years after its release. No special guests in attendance. Only our collective appreciation for one of film’s great artists.

Rewatched for the umpteenth time, Lynch’s ode to the Boulevard of Broken Dreams still retains its ability to surprise me. Like Betty in Club Silencio, it doesn’t matter how familiar the dream feels, each time the men drag the singer off the stage, it shakes me to the core.

Trying to follow the plot was like playing a game where the rules simply read: “you lose.” I’m convinced no one--past, present or future--knows what’s going on here.