The blood-stained, desert-town robbery-dog skipping away with banker’s hand, amputated by a shotgun blast-that constitutes Wild at Heart’s sort-of conclusion is rendered almost insignificant by a title card that announces a leap forward in years of diegetic action. By this point, the dimestore paperback plot, along with the coterie of bullish antagonists and crack-pot bit players, have been enveloped by the swirl of Sailor and Lula’s (Laura Dern) wild affair.
Only in Lynch’s very romantic Palme d’Or winner do the shifts between and coalesces of plastic (the stage) and interior life (the love affair) lead to a union of any kind when Sailor (Nicolas Cage) mounts the hood of his sweetheart’s Cadillac and serenades her with “Love Me Tender,” the superficiality of the reference to badboy Elvis Presley movies achieves a sort of extradimensional poignancy: the characters live in a plastic world, of Wizard of Oz witches, barroom brawls, lipstick-smeared killer moms, Texas hitmen, and middle of nowhere, beer-supping hillbillies, so it’s suitable that their reunion and redemption might too be plastic. Amour fou, in Lynch’s Wild at Heart, Rivette’s L’amour fou, is a pretext for the theatrical.
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