MAGNET contributing writer Jud Cost is sharing some of the wealth of classic films he’s been lucky enough to see over the past 40 years. Trolling the backwaters of cinema, he has worked up a list of more than 500 titles—from the silent era through the ’90s—that you may have missed. A new selection, all currently available on DVD, appears every week.
Lost Highway (1997, 135 minutes)
Between Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me, the critically panned film version of David Lynch’s cult-hit TV series Twin Peaks, and his Oscar-nominated Mulholland Drive, there was Lost Highway, a movie that’s slipped through the cracks. It too visits that fuzzy world between dream and nightmare that indelibly stamps Lynch’s best work, something that seems so difficult for some people to swallow. You have to wonder: Do these nay-sayers have their own agenda, those who enjoy imposing their will on the artist? The only way to get the full impact of the genius of David Lynch is to lie back and let him drive the bus wherever he likes.
Awakened from a trance by the buzz of his front-door intercom, Fred Morrison (Bill Pullman) swims to the surface of the murky lagoon he’s been wallowing in for some time. He staggers to the speaker and pushes the button. “Dick Laurent is dead,” says the hollow voice on the other end. Nothing else. Morrison looks out the window of his place, then opens the front door. There is no one there.
About to shove off that night for his gig at an L.A. nightclub, Morrison carefully places his tenor sax in its carrying case. “You don’t mind me not coming by the club tonight,” says his wife Renee (Patricia Arquette). “What are ya gonna do?” asks Morrison. “Stay home, read,” says Renee. “Read … read. Read what?” replies Morrison incredulously, looking directly into her face. “It’s nice to know I can still make you laugh,” he says to her barely audible chuckle. “I like to laugh,” she says. “That’s why I married you,” he says. “You can wake me up when you get home if you want to,” says Renee.
Morrison bends back and forth on the stage of the Luna Lounge, conjuring up the sanctified Albert Ayler/Pharoah Sanders-like free-jazz skronk from his tenor as he is strafed by laser-strobe light. It’s a sound that somehow approximates the squeal of a pack of rats being torched in a barn fire. After his last set, Morrison jogs to the pay phone to give Renee a call. He lets it ring for more than a minute before giving up, a disappointed, suspicions-confirmed look creeping into his face.
Next morning, Renee walks onto the front porch to retrieve the newspaper and finds a bulky manila envelope under it. “What’s that?” asks Morrison as she opens the package. “It’s a videotape. I found it outside on the steps,” she says. “Who’s it from?” “I don’t know. There’s isn’t anything on the envelope.” “Let’s see what’s on it,” he says placing the tape into the player. The grainy, black and white image shows about 10 seconds of the camera approaching their front steps. “Must be from a real estate agent,” Renee says. Morrison replies, “Maybe.”
