Lynch's grotesque vision of a jitterbugging America mistakes frantic movement for depth, a shallow performance echoing the empty energy of a talent show. His invocation of pop tunes, culminating in the nauseating 'Sixteen Reasons,' becomes a Pavlovian trigger for supposed epiphany, not genuine feeling. That stupid line, 'Okay, Irene!' isn’t wit, it's a ham-fisted attempt to signal subversion, as predictable as the cowboy’s vacant stare. A mere paper napkin becomes an over-stuffed, pseudo-symbolic prop in a theatricalized nightmare of repetition and escape that only fools mistake for genius. The blue box, less an existential portal than a gaudy rabbit hole, cheapens the existential questions by turning them into visual gimmicks.