If Twin Peaks brought David Lynch into America’s living rooms, then Lost Highway put him on America’s car stereos. The film itself is a heady mindfuck of a neo-noir tale structured around the idea of a Möbius strip, a reassurance that network TV had not impeded Lynch’s ability to dive into the deeper, darker waters of his subconscious. Save for The Straight Story, none of Lynch’s films can be called “heartwarming,” but the tone of Lost Highway is especially chilling, eschewing tongue-in-cheek Americana for snuff films, graphic head wounds, and a sinister Mystery Man pale as death itself. Like its predecessors Wild At Heart—which debuted to mixed reception at Cannes, despite winning the Palme D’Or—and Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me, critics and audiences didn’t seem to know what to make of the film, and it left theaters after a modest three-week ...
