One of the things I like about David Lynch movies is that he takes the film as dream — cinema as delirium, as hallucination, as reverie — and says, “Let’s really dream, then.”

And then he throws narrative in the trash. Discards plausibility for impression, much as life itself does. Refutes causality with the very human quotidian perspective of what seems to be is all there is, all we can really know.

Identities blur. Thoughts and actions coalesce into nothing sensible, only something sensed.

And then there is no dénouement. Not really. Only further delusion, or illusion, in some universe that if not Lovecraftian-hostile is at least inimical to human striving for happiness.

Lynch’s surrealism and phantasmagoria makes his films the most realistic of all the movies I’ve seen.