Lynch is at his best when his brand of weird bleeds in naturally (Blue Velvet, Twin Peaks) or when each moment feeds into an unknowable, unfathomable terror (Mulholland Dr., Lost Highway), less so when the strangeness invades in fits and starts like it does here. There's also the Eraserhead route of opting for total abstraction, an approach I'd like to see applied to Wild at Heart. As it stands, the pregnant runtime lets your attention flag whenever the vivid highs recede. But there's always something to say of how untouched Lynch's style feels, completely removed from mainstream expectations and aesthetics. Similar to how Mulholland's would-be ABC pilot gives off a 90's sheen, Heart has late 70's, early 80's written all over it. (Twiddle the knobs a bit and Demme could knock this out of the park.) And of course, it's ineffably primal, containing currents of unnerving imagery and sounds that we can't articulate why they're scary. We just know that they are.