Lost Highway 4K 1997 Ultra HD 2160p

Story Movie

Fred Madison is accused of murdering his wife Renee and sentenced to death row. Shortly before his sentence is carried out, he mysteriously disappears from death row, and in his place is a confused and unaware Pete Dayton. How did he end up on death row? Where had the killer disappeared to?

Released to freedom, Pete tries to return to everyday normal life, but instead an inexplicable, mind-boggling nightmare awaits him...

Review 4K Movie

There is a man in solitary confinement, a death row inmate. His name is Fred, Fred Madison. He killed his wife, I think. At least that's what he was told. Memory has played a cruel trick on him: he doesn't know how he committed the brutal murder, he can only guess at the reasons for his deed, but that won't save him. A hellish headache cannot chase away the ghosts of the past. The condemned man's last plea will never be heard - time is up, the lights are out. Sitting in his cell, the condemned man mentally presses the gas of an imaginary car and rushes along a nonexistent highway, a highway to nowhere. With no right to stop and no hope of forgiveness.

I'll tell you a secret, in fact Fred, unlike us viewers, understands exactly what he's done, how he's done it, and why he's done it. He's just afraid to admit it to himself. He also knows that he will have to pay for his actions, which is why his reality is slowly unravelling into threads and shreds, which only a very attentive viewer can put together. Someday we will all have to answer for our mistakes. Maybe right now, at this very moment, some of us are in the midst of redemption. There are no sinless ones, they would become angels, and angels cannot endure a minute on this earth. So it remains to hide one's conscience away and just live, clinging to the scraps of reality, drowning in the ephemerality of one's own existence. Until the phone rings, until you find a videotape on the doorstep of your own house and realize: you are being watched. Paranoia is the first step toward salvation. At any rate, you will become more attentive, although this is unlikely to help - once in the world of Lynch's nightmare, you should forget traditional rationalism and just watch.

On the black sheets is a girl with dead-pale skin. Call her Renee, call her Alice-she doesn't care anymore. Someone wiped the smile off her face. There is a man nearby: a loving husband, a passionate musician, a would-be murderer. The happy marriage is bursting at the seams: soul-consuming suspicions are replaced by fits of boundless love and tenderness - voyeurs who love to watch the passionate embrace of others will be satisfied. The family boat is about to hit the rocks despite the calm. The undercurrent is too strong; the human psyche is too fragile. Meanwhile, the mysterious watcher leaves tapes of his exploits on the doorstep: here he is watching their house, here he is already inside, walking down dark, narrow corridors, sneaking into their bedroom. On one of the tapes, the girl will be particularly pale--the silent nightmare that began with the first shots will reach its equally silent climax. The shaky reality is about to disappear, giving way to an imagination-drawn world - bright and action-packed.

By replacing the smooth, monotonous narrative of the first part of the film with the "non-stop action" of the second, building them in contrast but populating them with the same doppelganger characters, Lynch again and again lets us know that human nature, this insignificant king of all things, is simple and surprisingly predictable. But there is always a little "but. How much in this world depends directly on man, his choices and his desires? What is the cause-and-effect relationship of actions? Can the circular composition of our lives fail, and what happens then? The circle will not close, the order of actions will be broken.

And there is no one in the flaming house somewhere in the desert. The mysterious man with the camera is always by your side. A man with a thousand faces and names, none of which you'd better say out loud.

We are all condemned, waiting for our fate on death row to the music of light madness from Maestro Badalamenti. This waiting is maddening. This waiting is our life. We sit in a tiny cage, reflecting on our own mortal existence, acting out real plays, playing several roles at once. "Life is a dream," according to Calderon. Sleep is a little death according to Schopenhauer. As a result of analogies and a slight substitution of concepts we get almost their identity. It frightens, it protests, it fascinates. So is Lynch's painting.

Sometimes the subconscious tries to play a cruel joke on us, forcing us to perceive and feel everything differently. It is as if in revenge for the fact that throughout our lives we are trying to escape from ourselves, trying to silence our deepest desires. At such moments, I want to put my arms around my head and scream, scream as hard as I can. We want to turn back time, we want to delete from memory all unwanted thoughts and deeds, and, finally, we want to become something else: younger, more innocent. Or just to get in a car, an old convertible, an antique Cadillac, to press all the gas pedal and rush along the highway under the heavy and beautiful in its animal aggression music of brutal Germans. To nowhere.