David Lynch’s ‘The Lost Highway’ falls into familiar love or loathe territory. On board for a second outing is writer Barry Gifford who scripted Lynch’s ‘Wild At Heart’, and it is clear that the two of them work exceptionally well together. Giffords books explore the minutia of every characters existence, they are all given equal weight and suitably bizarre idiosyncrasies, nothing is extraneous. Similarly Lynch’s films enjoy exploring the surreal details of everyday life and extending them to absurdity. They also share a similar love of macabre humour and the joy of coincidence.

In ‘The Lost Highway’ the main protagonist is accused of the brutal murder of his wife, this is following the appearance of voyeuristic videotapes that have brought him to the brink of paranoia. But this is no Hitchcockian innocent man on the run film. Lynch brings on his cast like a ringmaster – Eddy the rich pornographer with a novel way of reinforcing the necessity to abide by the Highway Code, the mysterious albino with a schizophrenic mobile ‘phone, Eddy’s girlfriend (complete with slow-mo diffusion and hug-me-tight fetishistic sweater) and so on. All these characters have a comfortingly familiar air, Lynch relaxes with them and eases their situations out deliberately and thoughtfully. Where this differs from his previous oeuvre is the total denial of structural realism and the replacement of said with mental realism – in this case the mental realism of a man beyond the edge. While this could be argued as a viable outlook on his previous films here it is the only world view we receive, and jolly strange it is too. (insert hero name) is confused, persecuted and watched, he is placed in prison for the murder of his wife (evidence supports his guilt but we hang on to his innocence because we are him, we are deranged, not necessarily innocent of the fact) and there he becomes his younger self, or someone else, or mad. Changing a main character half way through a film is an audacious step, to not even be aware how much this new character is even new stretches audience acceptance – as normal Lynch does not compromise to win over new friends. From here things get really strange – the (relatively few) deaths become more surreal and, perversely, more believable. The final truths are hard to cope with, like ‘Walking On Glass’ meets ‘Justine’, obtuse and repellent. Perhaps its nearest cinematic relative is Maya Derens ‘Meshes Of The Afternoon’ (195?), an avant garde classic exploring similar notions of personal identity, madness, obscurity and magic (in Maya’s case Voodooism – elements of which spring occasionally into Lynch’s work).

In terms of cinematography the film excels – hyperfast blurry roads, effortless cranes, gorgeous close-up focusing and macabre lighting. Here, unfortunately, lies the rub. ‘The Lost Highway’ is essentially a cinematic experience, the contrast at times is very low with dark reds dripping against blacks on a wide screen. On video it could well look like a blank screen but ultimately this should not prevent it being a rewarding experience.

Also of note is the astonishing soundtrack, Badlemento (Lynch’s regular composer) delivers some of his sleaziest, laid back jazz/easy yet and this perfectly counterpoints the more driving industrial/metal on offer, here mixed by Trent Raznor of Nine Inch Nails fame.

As much as I would whole heatedly recommend ‘The Lost Highway’ to all and sundry it should be apparent that this is clearly a matter of taste. Bright or Shite? The choice is yours…