Lynch’s Mulholland Drive kicks into gear with a mysterious accident: a car crash on a darkened Mulholland Drive late at night. Where a woman survives but has lost her memory. Which will turn out to have been part of another woman’s dream.  

 

My Mulholland Drive, also opens with an accident. That is not a dream. Nine days after moving into our new house, a tree came crashing through the window, landing across the kitchen table, grazing our five-year old son, and knocking him to the floor. I had just been returning home from work at 7 p.m. on a dark rainy January night, when from the garage, I heard this loud crash coming from the house.

 

The culprit? A ditsy blonde housewife right out of a 50’s sitcom (“I Married Joan”?). She had failed to put the parking brake on in her SUV, leaving it on the steep wet hill of their driveway, which was adjacent to our house. Rolling down the incline, it knocked over a small tree. That caused large damage.

 

In hysterics, and comforted by her housemaid, ditsy wife paged her neurosurgeon husband who hadn’t gotten home yet. (Yes, just your typical compatible couple). And when he did arrive, he was accompanied by the top neurosurgeon at UCLA. So, in an era when doctors had long ceased to make house calls, a brace of neurosurgeons were now on the premises within the hour. They determined that our son was unharmed. Save for those few scratches on his face.

 

Next scene.

 

In Lynch’s Mulholland, a perky-blonde aspiring actress, a cut out of an old Hollywood mold, comes to stay at an aunt’s apartment. An aunt we never see, who’s off making a film. Or,  given that we’re talking Lynch, may or may not even exist?

 

In my Mulholland, we were told upon moving in that the area was very quiet. “The guy who lives next door is hardly ever home.” It turned out that he was never home. He lived in Kuwait.

 

When the house was taken over by squatters—who had trashed the place— I had called the police. It eventually led to our tracing, contacting and informing the Kuwaiti of this unfortunate circumstance. When he arrived back, he arrogantly exclaimed (in lieu of a “thank you”), “What’s all the fuss about?” He put the house up for sale, went back to Kuwait, and as if imagined in the first place, was never heard from again.

 

Symbolism.

 

In Lynch’s movie, there is a mysterious Blue Key. In my “movie,” there is the eerie sight of a White Chihuahua standing, unmoving, in the middle of Beverly Glen; a road leading up to our house. Miraculously, it is unhit despite cars speeding up and down this two-lane passageway, that leads into a mainstream of life. We take the elfin animal into our home for its safety.

 

What did it symbolize? Hardly that of Lynch’s Blue Key in his film. Which is eventually tossed across a table as a cue that a murder for hire had now been carried out.

 

A White Chihuahua on Beverly Glen? La-la Land lackadaisy? Or just an irresponsible pet owner.  Who would drop by at one-thirty in the morning to reclaim his dog, offering  cash in hand of $300 for our good deed (which we declined). He was bordering on tears in the recounting how much this dog has meant in his life—cut!

 

Mise-en-scène. 

  

I am awakened one night at 3 a.m., by an indeterminable sound outside our bedroom window. I go out to inspect, and my latest new neighbor, is standing beside his sports car which is turned upside-down outside of his garage. Apparently stoned out of his mind and uninjured, he is clueless as to how this happened. He has no explanation.