D: David Lynch
S: Bill Pullman, Patricia Arquette, Balthazar Getty
David Lynch responds to Pulp Fiction with a determined attempt to
regain his throne as cult king of American independent cinema. His revisiting
of old Hollywood clichés treads the same ground as Tarantino, but
with very different shoes. The result is all Lynch, reminding us that he's
never really gone away: he's just been lurking on the dark side of the ironic
postmodern Hollywood which he helped to create.
The story is a relatively simple amalgam of two basic film noir plots.
In the first, a saxophone player (Bill Pullman) suspects his wife (Patricia
Arquette) of having an affair and is later charged with her brutal murder
(a plot ellipsis withholds the full facts of the case until the end of the
movie). In the second, a young mechanic (Balthazar Getty) is lured by a
gangster's moll (Patricia Arquette) into murdering her lover for money.
Both are fairly standard scenarios, familiar to moviegoers from all walks
of life and easy to latch onto.
But Lynch is not content merely to render them with a trendy postmodern
overlay as Tarantino did in Pulp Fiction. Instead he delves into
the dark metaphysical underpinnings and finds the link between them: a man
taken for a dupe by a beautiful woman. This spiritual connection between
the two characters forms the bridge between the stories, and Lynch and co-writer
Barry Gifford (of Wild at Heart fame) then add a touch of supernatural
horror by making the spiritual connection a material one. It emerges (eventually)
that Pullman has taken possession of Getty's body with the aid of a mysterious
white-faced man (Robert Blake), and the process of his revenge on his unfaithful
wife, her lover and her pimp is seen through the experiences of the younger
man (reverting back to the original plot only in the concluding few minutes).
The most telling moment in the script comes early on when Pullman explains
why he does not own a video camera. He says that he wants the world to be
the way he remembers it, not the way it really was. This is the key to understanding
the film. The second plot eventually becomes a sort of dislocated psychotic
fantasy, the rationale of a disordered mind justifying murder. But, of course,
in the great tradition of Luis Buñuel and Salvador Dali's Un Chien
Andalou, (which Buñuel once referred to as 'a passionate call
to murder', a phrase which can be equally applied to Lost Highway),
the rational processes are not so much being rendered literally, as they
are explored on a surreal, symbolic level. It's not meant to add up to a
neat, pat Psycho type psychoanalytical explanation which allows the
audience to feel comfortable. The film is specifically designed to create
and explore a sense of mania, a phase shift in the subconscious which results
in horrific, violent crimes.
The pace is deliberately slow, as Lynch carefully details beautifully photographed
landscapes and interiors and the stylised costume design and make-up enveloping
his cast. Its hypnotic protraction of everyday details then allows terrific
leeway as Lynch later piles on the repulsive imagery and characteristic
grotesqueries. It all seems to happen in the same dream-state which defines
the inner life of its central character, and though it remains unsettling,
it is never quite 'real' in the sense that the world seen on screen is not
things the way they are, but the way Pullman remembers them.
The script itself is relatively uncomplicated despite the various stray
characters and the central conceit (seen ten years before in Angel Heart).
It is Lynch's direction which makes the film complex, deliberately confounding
the plup fiction clichés by all but ignoring them. It doesn't so
much tell a story as convey a series of moods and moments which describe
the sprit of the events on screen. The result is likely to confuse and alienate
the vast majority of film audiences, but if you are willing to lay aside
narrative concerns in favour of this kind of impressionism, you may find
it easier to watch.
Of course the pervasive misogyny and the graphic images of sex and violence
will doubtless offend and outrage those prone to offence and outrage. But
the film's main weapons of shock and horror are aural, with a variety of
weird and disturbing sound effects and musical stylings by Angelo Badalamenti
(plus some soundtrack-selling song tracks by the likes of David Bowie, Brian
Eno and Nine Inch Nails). These do eventually become tiresome, but for at
least an hour or so they add an eerie dimension to the on-screen events
(which are often quite innocent on the surface).
The cast are uniformly in tune with the film's particular vibe. Pullman
returns to off-beat cinema following his uncomfortable stint in the mainstream
in Independence Day and While You Were Sleeping
with a good line in quiet insanity, and Arquette plays her over the top
femme fatale with the necessary sexual gusto. Getty is sympathetic
as the young mechanic, providing an important anchor in a world of very
unpleasant people and events. They are ably supported by a stellar cast
including a menacing Robert Loggia, Gary Busey, Richard Pryor and the inevitable
Jack Nance (with cameos by hip musicians Marilyn Manson and Henry Rollins).
It is likely that if you pay in to see Lost Highway, you have half
an idea what to expect. You don't go to a film by the director of Eraserhead
and Blue Velvet expecting The Elephant Man or Dune.
Sometimes you get them, of course, but Lost Highway is a professedly
non-mainstream film, financed largely in France and most definitely aimed
at an art house audience. But it is not a trendy film and its weirdness
is not a result of pretension. Lynch has genuine vision as a cineaste and
his voice is a sharp, clear and original as it has ever been. This is a
skilfully crafted and affecting film which easily puts the plethora of wise-cracking
gangster films which have won plaudits as the produce of independent cinema
in the past few years in their place. Welcome back, David. Please don't
make any more TV shows.
Review by Harvey O'Brien copyright
1997.