David Lynch. In so many ways, perhaps it’s wrong to discuss a David Lynch film, and I (now, quite hypocritically) advise people to steer clear of reviews and associated material. So many people have so very many different views on good old Davey; arthouse critics and mainstream reviewers, alike, don’t simply divide on their opinions of each work, but splinter into various mindsets of appreciation and condemnation (not so different from the films, themselves). Inland Empire has divided them, quite like no other, with its epic ambition, hyper-surrealist nature, and the sheer distance Lynch this time takes us, into the realm of the subconscious. Despite those critics who insist on their own almighty objectivity, to the point of being able to write off the work after one viewing, or, being fair, those adoring analysts and kings of deconstruction who claim to have figured it all out, it’s almost impossible to offer anything, after a single screening. I am left with as much as I feel I can be; disjointed impressions that have vague - perhaps, conflicting - pockets of rationale, caught prematurely before they’re realistically going to translate into the articulation of anything concrete or conclusive. I’m not about to explain every mystery of Inland Empire to you – nor should I, nor can I – and neither will I be able to construct a fluid response that, I dare say, I will 100% agree with, several viewings (probably more) later. I loved it. But, my concluding analysis is still a sense very much in motion, and I'm still not quite sure where it's taking me. How very Lynchian of me!