In writing this column, I’ve been interested in films that explore the relationships between the mind, perception and representation: films that challenge the viewer to look at the world in a way that opens up new meaning. When choosing movies and directors to review, I’ve wanted to visit cinematic moments that helped me learn something new about my own psychology. So, it was probably inevitable that before long we’d get onto David Lynch. To make up for the suspense I’ve kept you in by not doing this sooner, we’re going to spend three weeks looking at three of his most radical and challenging films, beginning with Lost Highway (1997) today. I hope you’ll take the opportunity to watch as many of Lynch’s oeuvre as you have yet to see. As usual with Rogue Cinema screenings, make sure you’ve got some quiet time to really immerse yourself in the experience. Large screens and loud volume are preferable, of course. If you own a cinema, you’re at an advantage.
Lost Highway ‘begins’ at the home of jazz saxophonist Fred Madison (Bill Pullman) and his wife Renee (Patricia Arquette). A strange message is left on the intercom on the front door, which is followed the next day by a videotape in an envelope, left on the doorstep. The videotape shows shots of the house, before cutting to noise. Renee passes it off as ‘from a real estate agent’: brushing off the real dynamic of the tape: it’s unknown quantity highlighting the tension and suspicion Bill bears towards his wife. A second tape appears on the doorstep the next day, and Renee seems reluctant to watch it. They both sit down in front of the TV to view this intruding visual object, and see a smooth-panning shot, as if filmed from the ceiling of their house, floating through the corridors towards the bedroom where Fred and Renee are sleeping. They agree to call the police, and a couple of officers arrive who dryly scan the property and ask the usual questions. There is no defence from this strange invader: something is in their home, forcing them to face their alienated domestic situation at such haunting angles.
Let’s skip forwards. Like Mulholland Drive, Lost Highway is a film of two halves. Fred’s character undergoes a strange transformation midway through the film, and finds himself transformed into a younger man called Pete Dayton (Balthazar Getty) who the film follows for much of the rest of the film. Strangely, Pete is revealed to be having an affair with a woman, Alice, who happens to look exactly like Fred’s wife Renee. Out in the desert at a strange cabin, Pete discovers that Alice has been forced to make porno films for Mr Eddy, her big-shot boyfriend. As they make love on the ground, illuminated by the car headlamps, she says to Pete: “you’ll never have me”, before he inexplicably transforms back into Fred. The film ends as it begins: with a temporal loop, and another transformation of identity.
Just as Fred has managed to evade the authorities by a transformation of identity, we are challenged regarding the identities of Renee/Alice, Mr Eddy/Dick Laurent and, of course, ‘the Mystery Man’. Just who are these people? And what might be behind the numbered doors of the ‘Lost Highway Hotel’? What could be the content of the next videotape to arrive on our doorsteps? Videotape embodies this potential for ‘nasties’: recordable by anyone, without censorship or narrative-friendly editing. Discovery of the unconscious mind is an exciting and irresistibly important quest — but it threatens to destabilise. The level of distrust endemic to our postmodern society is proportional to the loss of faith in stable, controlled personal narratives. If we are no longer what society tells us: then who are we? And how can we be trusted?
As men and women ‘on the run’: towards self-realisation, and away from the inauthenticity of externally imposed narratives, we drive on the highway into darkness. Contemporary life makes it possible for us to live several lives in the space of one. The late twentieth century seemed to afford Westerners more options for career changes, dissolving of marriages, or midlife crises. Yet, through transformation, perhaps our discovery will be that we inhabit different facets of a larger sense of our identity. We discover that the depth of our unconscious mind is more than our previously limited sense of ‘self’ can contain. If we can define new narratives in our relationships, then we can embrace a new kind of trust, that is based on who we really are. I’m aware that my rather positive conclusion to this review of a very dark film goes beyond the immediate scope of Lynch’s creation. Yet his long-term interest in and promotion of Transcendental Meditation reveals the director’s commitment to constructive self-realisation, for a better society. Lost Highway is a bipartite Noir mystery that visualises the first, haunting steps into ‘waking up’ from an enclosed, yet uncomfortably alienated social existence, into something as vast and potential as the desert of the night.
NEXT WEEK: David Lynch season continues with his early surrealistic mindbender, Eraserhead (1976). For our schedule, check in here.
I really enjoy the “desert of the night” imagery for that passing beyond of the socially constructed borders for human consciousness. BTW, have you listened to Danger Mouse & Sparklehorse + David Lynch’s Dark Night of the Soul? It has this theme of mind.
The story is ancient. I think it’s the Eve story. An opening of the eyes/mind and subsequent loss of paradise/narrow and simple naiveté. The mind apparently benefits from a garden gate. We’re want to wander through it but suspect we’ll not find our way back. I recently read (over at Penelope Trunk I think) that in order to effectively think outside the box you have to have a total mastery of the box — an intimate familiarity with it’s every detail. Even then you’ll do your best thinking if you think only a short way from the box — because the box is your frame of reference. I think this is a truth of how the human mind works.
For some reason this is what comes to mind when thinking about what you’ve written here. Really enjoyed it and looking forward to more Lynch.
Thanks Matt: I just listened to the track you mentioned: I like it… Lynch’s films are intensely interested in sound and soundtracks, so I’m convinced that his movement into music with this isn’t just an aberrant sidetrack. I’m going to listen to it a few times… it deserves that!
Interesting connection with the ‘Eve’ story. I would love to see a Lynchian rendering of the Genesis account… I think you could go a long way with that, based on the deep psychological foundations of both Lynch’s style and the biblical stories. I wonder how many times our lives can go through the ‘leaving the garden’ narrative? In these terms, Eve’s story would go further than naivety —> wisdom, and be a series of more subtle developments: deeper understanding each time we go from a state of relative comfort to more exposure to the bare face of our unconscious.
Andy, I’ve been trying to think of a more profound way to talk about some of the themes and questions you raised in this post, but I wanted to take a minute to say that this was a beautifully written, really good analysis of Lynch. I’m excited for the other parts of the series.
Thanks Heidi! When I was writing this and thinking about the questions of trust, I was reminded of when we visited over at your place, and we were discussing the question of how you can undergo a development from one narrative that formerly seemed total (ie. the orthodox view of LDS doctrine), and not destabilise other narratives based on trust (relationships, etc). It’s a core question for our generation, I think, and I wondered if you (or anyone else!) had experience or thoughts on this that they would share?
I remember seeing Lost Highway on opening night at the Sunset 5 in Hollywood. As a big fan of Blue Velvet, Wild at Heart, and Twin Peaks, I was very excited. But while I loved the overall mood, the sense of dread, the score/soundtrack (Reznor, Bowie, Badalamenti), and several random scenes, I didn’t feel the overall film quite came together. Subsequent viewings (with lowered expectations) has increased my appreciation of the film. Still, I can’t help but feel that had Lynch reigned himself in a little, adhered to a slightly more conventional narrative, that it would have been a better film.
Nice write up though, especially your thoughts in the last paragraph. Makes me want to see it again.