These mysteries become not fascinating but maddening, a Rubik’s Cube that’s metastasized into 256 sides. Yes, yes, ““lost highway’’ is the highway we’re all on, careering to nowhere. Oui, oui, identity has lost its solidity in the postmod world of image scrimmage. Da, da, violence lurks in every human heart. Lynch has become the Heisenberg of cinema, telling us that the uncertainty principle rules our lives. Sex is either frantic (Pete with Alice) or failed (Fred with Renee). Murder is the true orgasmic activity of millennial man. Lynch tells us this with the most dazzling style of any filmmaker. (The soundtrack is a tone poem that fuses ’90s nihilism from Nine Inch Nails to Marilyn Manson with the neo-noir dronescapes of Angelo Badamenti and Barry Adamson.) But ““Lost Highway’’ takes us on a joyride to emptiness. It’s a dead end.
