Review of Lost Highway (1997) by Kevin M — 14 Dec 2008

It's two noirs in one! It's a commentary on dual identity crises and LA by extension! It's a doomed love story and a schizophrenic pulp crime duology rolled into one! It's both David Lynch's most accessible and most esoteric work! It wouldn't be Lynchian without any of these wonderful schizoid qualities. "Lost Highway" is a Chinese puzzle of dementia, both literally and metaphorically, with just enough ins and outs and what-have-yous to provide many possible interpretations. Is there an ultimate destination, a solution, an end to the titular Highway? If there was, the journey would be complete, and the film would not have its delicious cyclical nature that doubles back upon itself, revealing new and more twisted depths on each viewing, but no respite from its haunting mysteries. Structurally, this story is like some fractal curve resolving briefly outward only to spiral inwards ad infinitum.

The bookended imagery of black asphalt and yellow median line speeding forever into the horizon/receding in your direction (and the strains of David Bowie) are enough to induce hypnosis. It's a hyperkinetic, undercranked image that also happens to be forever frozen in a permanent state of stasis. As the intertwining noir tales unfold, anachronisms and dual identities begin to surface and reference each other. The central conceit of bodily metamorphosis is never explained, yet is instrumental in whatever story Lynch is trying to get across here. That would probably be the first tip-off that "Lost Highway" does not take place in Los Angeles, or indeed even in the physical world as we know it, yet the story could not take place anywhere else.

As our dual-identitied hero, Fred/Pete, chases after a similarly dualized Patricia Arquette, we enter a melange of scummy Mob types, porn producers, clueless cops, and other Raymond Chandler staples. Yet (I'm using that word a lot) the metaphysical and unexplained evil under the surface issues to the surface, much like Frank Booth from the depths of Lumberton, OR, in the form of a positively DEMONIC Robert Blake (a very short time before he may or may not have actually murdered his real-life wife, either directly or indirectly). There is no doubt that he's orchestrating a great deal of surreal torment with his gigantic cell phone and nifty astral-projection abilities. What a great job. Sign me up please.

Blake's presence is a relevation. The distracting stunt casting of actual neurologically damaged actors Gary Busey and Richard Pryor might be just a bit too self-conscious of a way to let the mooks in the audience know that Something is Wrong after our brain-damaged protagonist returns home after a "fever" that ended with him sitting in a cell on Death Row.

Say what you will about Mr. Lynch, but his ear for source music rivals Scorsese. A scene with Robert Loggia "auditioning" a girlfriend in a hotel room could have been repulsive and unwatchable if not for the perfect application of a Marilyn Manson cover of a Howlin' Wolf song. Also, I will forever associate Rammstein with unerotic, black and white art porn, and I will forever tread carefully around glass coffee tables.