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They do even more than that. Two of the most moving moments in the film--the lip-synced "Crying" performance and Betty's audition--are shown be essentially contrived. In the first, a mechanical reproduction replaces an authentic human voice. In the second, Betty and her leathery potential co-star conjure an incredibly intense performance out of the least compelling setting possible: a drab casting room full of snarky Hollywood hacks. The scene's artificiality is laid bare--it is a meaningless audition, a scene-within-a-scene from a movie that we know will probably never be made.

Lynch has declared many times that the initial stages of the creative process are essentially passive. One simply waits, he says, for an idea to arrive, as if from outside of oneself. This is more like a vision (or a dream) than an expressive welling up of one's inner world. Once it does arrive, what remains is the sometimes tedious, often joyous practicality of recreating and communicating that vision. The artist is first a medium and then a technician. (I must apologize to Lynch here for attempting to re-translate his film back into language. Sorry.)

Nevertheless, successful works of art belie the artificiality of their creation; they induce intense emotions, they enfold us, trance-like, into an authentic, sensible world. And this, I think, is one of Mulholland Drive's important themes: the roots of artistic expression are impersonal and contrived, but this contrivance does not make art any less expressive. It is an illusion; it is magic in the best sense of the word.