By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
By Alice Laussade
By Scott Reitz
By Claire Lawton
By Kiernan Maletsky
By Anna Merlan
After Blue Velvet, one of the most critically acclaimed movies of the decade, one might have expected Lynch to have an easier time getting his projects before the camera. But at least two scripts, Ronnie Rocket and One Saliva Bubble (not the world's most commercial title), have been on-again-off-again for years.
While Lynch and television seemed like an unlikely match, it was, of course, Twin Peaks that brought him by far his widest audience--if only for eight months. Despite the show's quick decline and the popular failure of Hotel Room and On the Air (his two subsequent shows), Twin Peaks exerted an impact that outlasted its run: TP begat The X-Files and Northern Exposure, which respectively begat Millennium and Picket Fences, and on and on.
Both Wild at Heart (1990) and Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me (1992) disappointed many of the Lynch faithful. The latter was unavoidably compromised by the problems of reassembling the TV cast; and, for all its wacko elements, the former felt like a potboiler: It had the director's trademark themes and stylistic flash, but it had as much unity as a vaudeville show. Sure, it was funny, it was intriguing; but, like his two other adaptations of pre-existing works, it was Lynch applying his particular style to a story that didn't seem to have sprung from his very soul the way Blue Velvet and Twin Peaks had.
Happily, in Lost Highway, Lynch's first feature in five years, the director seems to be tapping into his twisted subconscious more directly than he has in a decade. His most thoroughly surreal work since Eraserhead, this two-hour-plus fever dream is more of one piece than Fire Walk with Me and less desperate and jokey than Wild at Heart.
A plot synopsis of Lost Highway is particularly difficult because it's not really about plot--it barely has a plot--and it's tough to describe what makes the film such a riveting, baffling experience without giving away all the good parts. But here goes. The movie opens with the flare of a match, followed by headlights speeding down a nocturnal road, an image that is repeated several times. Without much fanfare, we meet Fred Madison (Bill Pullman), a well-to-do sax player who lives in the Hollywood Hills (my guess) with his wife, Renee (Patricia Arquette with red hair). An anonymous message tells Fred someone named Dick Laurent is dead--unfortunately, Fred doesn't know who Dick Laurent is. And he barely cares, since he's more concerned with the possibility that his wife might be having an affair. But it's hard to know if he's a cuckold or a paranoid; frankly, he's already in the grip of some sort of mental or spiritual derangement.
One day, the couple find a videocassette deposited on their doorstep. After a few seconds' footage of the front of their house, it fritzes out to static. The tape has some connection to a bizarre character, referred to in the cast list only as Mystery Man. When Fred meets Mystery Man at a party given by Andy (Michael Massee), a slimy friend of Renee's, he recognizes him from an earlier hallucination or dream. Mystery Man looks like a diminutive Klaus Nomi impersonator or a refugee from Carnival of Souls: demonic, grinning, pasty-faced. (The actor was naggingly familiar, but I had to consult the press kit during the screening to see who it was; and he's so unrecognizable that, when I saw the name Robert Blake, I assumed it was some other Robert Blake. But, no--this is Baretta, looking totally different without his cockatoo.) He is ominously identified as "a friend of Dick Laurent," though we still don't know who Dick Laurent is. Yet M.M. knows things about--and reveals things to--Fred that are impossible to know.
More tapes arrive, each starting the same way but progressing a little further. Two deadpan cops--one fat, one thin--show up to investigate. "Do you own a video camera?" they ask.
"Fred hates video cameras," Renee tells them.
"I like to remember things my own way," Fred reluctantly says.
"The way I remember them," Fred says, "not the way it happened."
Pretty soon, it gets hard to tell which is closer to "the way it happened"--Fred's memory or the videos. Suffice it to say that Fred gets locked up for a crime that seems to exist only on tape: We never see the act or its aftermath directly. His mental condition deteriorates in jail--to the point that one morning he wakes up and he's someone else.
Without any clear internal explanation, Fred Madison transforms into, or is replaced by, Pete Dayton (Balthazar Getty), a young auto mechanic from Van Nuys, California. For the rest of the movie, Lynch drops lots of hints about just what the hell is going on here while refusing to allow one consistent explanation. At first, it seems as though we are starting a new story, but--like the spiders Pete sees crawling all over his bedroom in one scene--little bits of Fred's world begin to infest Pete's reality. A gangster named Mr. Eddie (Robert Loggia, once again delivering in a choice role) may be Dick Laurent; Alice, Mr. Eddie's girlfriend, looks exactly like a blonde Renee.
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