There could be a whole genre of films where characters suddenly shed their identities and take on new ones without warning. And David Lynch would have several titles in that list’s top five. While Laura Dern changes personas like socks in Inland Empire, Lynch remains predictably unpredictable with his latest release.

The first surprise: it’s actually a lot more watchable and much less impenetrable than most critics claim. While I believe Lynch’s signature skill is to make any of his movies seem three times as long as they really are,  Inland’s daunting three hour run time feels quite manageable. The visual quality is also a pleasant relief. Months ago when fans were hungry for any scraps about his secret project, Lynch released a scene on a promotional DVD for Avid, the video equipment company. It was generally considered awful, and brought down expectations for both the film and Lynch’s move to digital cinema. Fortunately the scene never made the final cut, and his garish hand-held camera work seems appropriate. It magnifies the freakish flaws and distorted reality of the settings and actors, mainly an increasingly unhinged Dern.

Laura Dern has always been somewhat unsettling to me, and here she becomes a haggard and terrifying monster. There are few elaborate props or effects. Much of the anxiety and horror is delivered strictly through Dern’s twisted expressions. Lynch gets right in the grills of his actors, filling the screen with ghastly, claustrophobic faces. Definitely not one to watch at IMAX.

Made over several years without a script, the stream-of-conscious story is a gallery of Lynchian themes. Bits and pieces of Twin Peaks, Blue Velvet, and Mulholland Drive are recognized. The Rabbits even make several extended appearances. Rather than simply repeating himself, Lynch uses these touchstones as shortcuts for his audience, adding familiar comedy and dread to abstract scenes. Veteran actors return in parts similar to past roles, seeming both familiar and strangely foreign. It’s like a recurring nightmare that gets weirder with every iteration.

David Lynch is loathe to discuss the meanings of his surreal films, and his fans don’t go into them expecting easy narratives. His work speaks for itself, often commenting candidly on the process behind it. He treats film as a character much like the actors it captures, forcing viewers to consider manipulations of time and space as both possible and acceptable. People in Lynch’s stories are often confused and trapped by their situations and surroundings. Laura Dern’s character panics, unable to distinguish herself from her meta actress role. At times she even seems to question whether she’s actually real or in a film. Perhaps a poke at critics and viewers who demand reality from an artificial medium?

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