Lynch’s fragmented imagery, this "Rubber Head" is an industrial lullaby about broken dreams and a harbinger of many of his subsequent creativity.
All fears are used to castrate dreams. As far as I can remember, the one dream that dreads me the most is that some shapeless babies are stuck between the black parts. Those black parts are running like gears, but they are related to the babies. No shape is no different. Those stuck babies made my scalp numb, and when I woke up, the sheets were wet, and I was soaked in sweat by evil for a long night.
Therefore, I cannot even boast of my love for this movie against my will, even if you have already named it a masterpiece. To be honest, this is a frightening work, vaguely made by Lynch to make fun of the world. This black-and-white nightmare woven or outlined by Lynch with plasma, carries the unique coldness of industrial society, runs through the harsh noises and weird sounds, and builds an inner complex of grotesque hints and symbolic objects. It's just that this complex of buildings collapsed with the freak being dissected.
The cruelest way to treat a bull is to smash his testicles in front of him. This symbolic rubber head seems to have similar powerful effects. On the sultry summer night, with a weak body and barely moving forward in the image, with the goodwill and enthusiasm for Lynch’s winning elsewhere, he entered this rugged play with difficulty, like entering the one you hate in a hospital bed. Female body, you bear and are grateful for this depressing pleasure, as if only a trace of extra wind can blow away your despicable thoughts of acting on the spot, dark and damp.
Of course, this dark until decay film has an experimental attitude from beginning to end, and the atmosphere of rock and roll has never stopped. Multiple oppressive symbols surged from everywhere, as if they were there: freaks, noise, crisis, fruitless sex, ruined worms, desire under pressure, peeping in the dark. Pressure is everywhere, and for irrelevant audiences, it is at best a kind of torture.
This is not a dream chant, nor a weird pastoral song. In front of Lynch’s hammer, the bull on his knees is grazing gracefully. It is tantamount to a mockery that your moldy hair seems to have to wait. Distorted fate.
When you lie down, the road roller will rumbling over, reluctant to leave the same destination.
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