This is the second movie on the list from this century; since you’ve only had 15 years to catch it instead of 85, I’ll warn you upfront that I’m going to spoil the shit out of it. Although honestly, it’s not clear that it’s really possible to spoil it, so.

Anyway. What this movie is about is: Nothing. It has no meaning whatsoever, and none of the events have any significance, because there is no story and there are no characters. It’s all just a dream, except that even the dream isn’t real. Nothing is real or makes a lick of sense. As Ebert says in his inexplicably positive review,

“Mulholland Drive” isn’t like “Memento,” where if you watch it closely enough, you can hope to explain the mystery. There is no explanation. There may not even be a mystery. … The way you know the movie is over is that it ends. And then you tell a friend, “I saw the weirdest movie last night.” Just like you tell them you had the weirdest dream.

He goes on to explain why it nevertheless works, but he’s wrong. It doesn’t work, and is literally as boring and pointless as a friend telling you about their incomprehensible dream. For a movie to mean anything, it has to mean something and this one doesn’t.

The thing is, I’m more annoyed by it than I am with other dream-logic movies like Tarkovsky’s Mirror or Bergman’s Persona, because even if those movies didn’t have a fully explicable plot, at least they were about something — about the characters or the place or a mood or whatever — but Lynch structures this movie as a puzzlebox (there’s a reason Ebert mentions Memento), so the focus of the movie (until it falls apart) is on the plot and its mysteries to the exclusion of all else. And setting up a (literal and figurative) puzzlebox and then revealing that it’s empty and it’s all just meaningless… well, it’s avant-garde and artsy, I’m sure, but it’s also a dick move. So fuck you, David Lynch, and fuck this movie.

On the plus side, I guess if you want a movie that’s made up of all that distinctive cool Lynchian aesthetic that suffused Twin Peaks, minus whatever sense and actual narrative Twin Peaks possessed, plus boobs, well, here you are.