David Lynch delivers his most bizarre slice of brain-wrong since Eraserhead -and clocks in at twice the length.

Taking his lead from the success of Mulholland Drive, Lynch continues his exploration into the dangers of losing yourself to another character, but after an hour this drops any residual interest in making sense and bombards the audience with a string of unsettling, baffling set-pieces.

Not that the first hour is easy. Laura Dern is Nikki, the actress wanting to get back on top with her part in the improbably titled On High in Blue Tomorrows.

She barely gets past the first rehearsal with co-star Devon (Theroux) and a sickly sweet director (Irons) when things go pear-shaped.

Hubby Piotrek (Lucas) warns Devon to keep his sticky mitts of his wife, but predictably Nikki and Devon soon are bumping pelvises and then she is instructed to look through burnt silk folded back on itself.

Since Lost Highway chances of David Lynch characters making it to the end credits as the same person are remote, and in a story that ricochets through different time zones, Dern seems to be a wealthy actress, a blue collar housewife, a prostitute hanging out with other Devon cast-offs turned hookers, and the Polish version of the same.

Or maybe Inland Empire (a real place in LA incidentally) is merely TV escapism being watched by an abused Polish call-gir...or is the call-girl the first actress from that ill-fated original stab at the story?

And are the rabbits just an easy Alice in Wonderland nod? By the time Dern is vomiting blood on the Hollywood Walk of Fame casual viewers will be long gone.

Lynch spent two and a half years filming, endlessly experimenting with DV technology and bashing out scenes moments before shooting them.

There was never a completed script, and it shows; the overall effect is similar to hitting "Play All" on a DVD’s Deleted Scenes. And at least an hour here should have hit the cutting room floor.

But stretches of Inland Empire remind you that Lynch was the brains behind such classics as Blue Velvet and Lost Highway: the man can generate sweaty palmed terror out of faulty lighting alone, and brilliant menacing sequences and sudden shocks are studded throughout.

Ultimately, Lynch has been here before with Lost Highway, Eraserhead and Mulholland Drive. The billowing red curtains, the trivial non-sequitur ridden dialogue, and dark sexuality are all present and correct.

But, he’s best when working within the confines of a story that has to make some sense, and is a snake contentedly swallowing its own tail when allowed to wander off.

Rob Daniel