I think about a world to come where the books were found by the golden ones, written in pain, written in awe by a puzzled man who questioned, "What are we here for?" All the strangers came today and it looks as though they're here to stay.

-David Bowie "Oh! You Pretty Things"

Friday, July 15, 2011

Lost Highway (1997)

I was prepared, at least as much as anyone can say he or she was prepared, to watch Lost Highway. I had a philosophy degree. I had pondered over the meaning of Mulholland Drive for years. (Why else would someone watch and re-watch that film? Winking emoticon.) I had recently haunted myself by watching Twin Peaks...

As a result, I think I have an elementary understanding of Lost Highway.

I suppose my description of the complexity of Lost Highway has scared away the readers whose favorite film is Old School. (Why they would be reading this blog in the first place, I'll never know...) Those of you who remain are open to the fact that David Lynch is a fine filmmaker, one whose logic mirrors that of dreams, whose visuals are magnificent, and whose dramas are terrifying on the level of being, identity and self.

Lost Highway is classic Lynch. I expect to rewatch it now and again. Like a folk tale, I suppose repetition of this story may plant a truth in me.

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