content: Loved Blue Velvet, hated Lost Highway. What a disappointment. It had a great cast which was largely wasted on David Lynch's personal apprehensions and fetishes. Like Scorsese and Kubrick, Lynch is a painterly director, and has always had great visual and aural sensibilities. But here he is indulging in some sort of dopey Betty Page noir fantasy, where women, in the 90s, wear high heels with their bathrobes, and basically have no personality. The dialogue was awful. I knew it was bad when I was more interested in the color of nail polish Patricia Arquette was wearing than in what she was saying. David Lynch has taken German expressionist angst, kept the anger part for its sensationalist value, and lowered the whole gestalt of German expressionism to suit his own more shallow, banal vision. He has a tiresome need to indulge in some part of his adolescence, from which he, apparently, can not get unstuck.