#21 | November 6-19, 1997  

It's not often that movie-going eXholes have a virtual jackpot on their hands, but now is one of those times. To start with, there's variety like never before, with all the big theaters showing three or more flicks. Could a Moscow multiplex be far behind? What about Ernest Does Moscow? All in good time.

Even better news is that two of these flicks are actually worth forking out $8 to see. The first, Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery, was already here for a brief engagement at the Rossiya, but since most folks probably missed it, now hear this. Quite simply, it's the second funniest film I've seen in a long time (B&B Do America being the funniest). Mike Meyers is a very silly individual, and he has made a movie spoof the only way it should be made--that is, ecstatically. Never mind the painfully unfunny misses; these are all part of the program (you gotta hit some lows to understand the highest highs, after all). Great writing, appropriately inane cameos, perfectly chosen music. (If for some reason you need further prompting, please see the Dr. Evil inset below. But that's all I'm gonna say about it.)

The other not-to-be-missed spectacle this weekend is David Lynch's latest, Lost Highway. Technically, this one has already made it to Moscow, too. It was one of the better offerings during this summer's International Film Festival, but unfortunately it came saddled with one of those genius simultaneous dub jobs in which the translation is always about 30 seconds behind, half the lines are flubbed anyway, and even the words in the background music are translated. (Who can forget Lou Reed's cover of "This Magic Moment" being oh-so-helpfully glossed as "Etot chudesny moment"? Not me.) Thankfully, victims of this atrocity will now be able to enjoy the movie under more appropriate conditions.

There's been a lot of talk (maybe too much talk) about the Trent Reznor-compiled soundtrack for this one, but if anything Mr. Nails' contributions are fairly unimaginative and clash with the original music provided by Lynch regular Angelo Badalamenti. No real harm done, however--just as Trent's musical production didn't help to make Oliver Stone watchable, it doesn't make David Lynch unwatchable. At any rate, the Lou Reed track and David Bowie's title song are cool.

Musical choices aside, it's nice to see Lynch returning (at least in part) to the silence and background noise that made Eraserhead so irresistibly oppressive. Few directors can match Lynch when it comes to making the ambient noise of 20th century life seem like the walls of a constantly contracting prison cell.

Lost Highway is also notable for its change of scene--the director's trademark weirdness has been transplanted from small-town America to Los Angeles. Whether this move was motivated by a desire for some variation or by the ho-hum results of his last couple entries in the seedy-underbelly genre, the Hollywood backdrop turns out to be remarkably well-suited to Lynch's style. With Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me, his signature dark rural setting seemed in danger of becoming just another cliche, moreover, one he had to try too hard to maintain. In Lost Highway, it seems that LA does most of the work for him, providing him with all the oddness he needs, which subsequently frees him up to explore other areas.

Not that Lynch strays too far his usual themes--obsession, dual natures, and the like. The main difference here is in approach. For some time, his directorial viewpoint has been hyper-detached. This style may have been extremely effective in Blue Velvet, but in Wild at Heart it lent the film a certain flatness. With this latest movie, Lynch allows his own point of view to become irrevocably intertwined with that of his characters, which ultimately draws the viewer in to a much greater degree. Again, Eraserhead is an apt comparison, with similarly effective results. I'm almost tempted to accuse Lynch of succumbing to the latest movie fad--the overlapping, spiralling plotline does bear something of a resemblance to the disordered structure of Pulp Fiction, which would appear to be one of the prerequisites for getting a movie made these days. But Lost Highway is enjoyable enough that I won't hold it against him. Hell, at least you can't quite figure out what's supposed to be happening in Lynch's film, always a plus in my book.

Perhaps the oddest thing about this movie is the choice of actors. When I saw Bill Pullman playing the Kyle MacLachlan role (goofy hairdo, Chess King wardrobe in black and shades of gray--albeit updated ever so slightly for the 90s) my first instinct was to groan. Give Bill time, though. I don't know whether Lynch and MacLachlan have had a falling out or what, but it is unlikely that Kyle could have pulled off the tortured jazz saxman act as well as Pullman does. Still, he does remind me of that geeky plastic surgeon from Singles from time to time. Too much of this could have been fatal.

Beretta (Robert Blake) proves to be infinitely qualified to play the creep albino mystery man upon whom the film's twists and turns would appear to hinge. Not that I'm terribly pleased with the kitschy hipster implications of using a washed up star from a 70s TV show, mind you.

One casting choice I won't complain about at all is Patricia Arquette as the focus of the most of the male characters' obsessions. Lynch seems to be one of the few folks who realizes that (not unlike David Bowie) she is much more of a physical presence than a gifted actress, and he exploits her unique talents correspondingly. As a result, she is able to achieve the kind of range that might have made her scenes in True Romance (as just one example) seem not quite so moronic. And it's amazing what a dark red wig will do.

The best thing about Lost Highway is that nothing I can say quite captures its feel. It's moody and disorienting--so if that sort of thing appeals to you (and I don't see why it shouldn't) get out there and see it.

Dr. Evil Speaks...

"The details of my life are inconsequential... My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low-grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a 15-year-old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink, he would make outrageous claims, like he invented the question mark. Sometimes, he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy--the sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical: summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring, we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent, I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds. Pretty standard, really."