I loved this movie. From the first opening sequence with a great song by Bowie, which happens to be the ending scene as well, I knew I was going to watch a masterpiece that would hardly make any sense. That was the case. With Lost Highway David Lynch takes the viewer into a story, then another one, then another until you start to wonder whether anything of it was real. ‘Twas, of course – as only a dream can be.
Yeah it’s a bit more complicated than that. Strange things happen to a sax player (Bill Pullman). He has a beautiful wife (Patricia Arquette), but she’s not happy, neither he is. He suspects she’s cheating on him. Something’s freaking wrong. A surreal oddly-clad man appears to him. He ends up in jail charged with the murder of his wife. All of a sudden, he becomes a handsome young guy (B. Getty), who works in a garage and has a lot of sex, especially with a girl who strangely resembles the dead wife of the old guy. One thing leads to another, and next thing we know they are running from an angry crime boss. The young guy has some more sex with the girl, then he transforms back into the sax player, talks some more with the mystery man, who kills the boss, and drives away on a car. That’s about it.
Perchance to dream. Lynch fills his work with loads of details which don’t quite seem to fit. Every inconsistency is a clue, every character has a meaning. We can only try to understand what is real and what not. Having seen Mulholland Drive I somehow knew what to expect and what to look for, but the interpretation is left to everyone. Most of the movie happens to be a dream. We can only grasp some tiny bits of reality, especially on tape: indirectly, on video, reality always appears as it is. On the other hand, smoke is always a sign of dream. The dream seems as a way to see things as the protagonist would like them to be. At first, he pictures the murder (that really happened) as committed by a psycho, a mystery man who is just an impersonification of his guilt and angst. But things go wrong as soon as he remembers he himself is the murderer. Then again, he wipes his bad feelings: he is now a cool, young guy, with cool parents, loved by women (and by what-was-his-wife), no anxiety, no dullness experienced in real life. Until guilt rises again, and in the dream things start to go hellishly bad: a mob boss wants to kill him, and by mistake he kills a man, the one who in reality – uhuh – was the one he thought his wife was cheating with.
Then it’s all a big symbolic mess, until he goes back to the start of his dream. A dream in which he will be trapped forever, a dream perhaps made in those few moments of painful electric execution (see the flashes and shakes at the end) which stretch and expand endlessly.