A phantasmagoric descent into Freudian nightmare that introduced
David Lynch's uniquely perverse sensibility to the world. Over four
years in the making, this wildly dystopic and individual vision of
Henry Spencer and his horrifically realised progeny is dark, bleak,
esoteric and difficult, yet transcends all conventional
expectations to tap into an undeniably primeval masculine angst. The
black and white photography - and the 'heavy emptiness' of Alan Spett's
soundtrack - hide a rich palette of metaphor and trope unrivalled even
by Lynch himself. Not necessarily his best film, but certainly his most
emblematic.
