David Lynch was a master of the surreal, the macabre, the hallucinogenic — and the very ordinary
David Lynch, the visionary filmmaker who died Thursday at 78, months after revealing he had been diagnosed with emphysema as a lifetime smoker, was such an essential figure in the history of cinema that he had his own adjective: Lynchian. The term describes works that share characteristics with some of his most memorable creations.
Lynch’s work was unmistakable. “I loved David’s films. Blue Velvet, Mulholland Drive, and Elephant Man defined him as a singular, visionary dreamer who directed films that felt handmade,” Steven Spielberg, who cast Lynch to play John Ford in The Fabelmans, said in the aftermath of his friend’s death. It’s a sentiment shared widely on social media over the last several hours.
More from GoldDerby
In movies like 1986’s Blue Velvet, 1997’s Lost Highway, and 2001’s Mulholland Drive — not to mention the 1990s ABC TV drama Twin Peaks — Lynch portrayed a mundane America of seemingly pastoral splendor undercut by stupefaction and terror. At their best, his projects teemed with Kafka-esque imagery, film noir, psychosexuality, grotesquerie, and deadpan humor. His first feature, 1977’s Eraserhead, was one such project, instantly putting Lynch on the map of outlandish auteurs.
Never one to seek mainstream attention, however, the man whom critic Pauline Kael dubbed “the first populist surrealist” created unforgettable projects that could be disturbing and mesmerizing. He also had in his bag of considerable tricks the 1980 feature The Elephant Man, which told the true story of Joseph (named John for the film) Merrick, a 19th-century freak show performer with a short and tragic (yet undeniably fascinating) life. The film proved incredibly moving and broke through to the mainstream: It earned eight Oscar nominations, including two for Lynch (for directing and adapted screenplay). It remains one of the most heartbreaking films ever made.
Lynch also transformed television prime time with Twin Peaks, a series he created with Mark Frost that ostensibly told the story of a high school homecoming queen’s murder in a small Washington town. The offbeat show was like nothing the small screen had ever seen, a horror-mystery/soap opera parody starring Kyle MacLachlan that proved more riveting and unsettling than anything that had passed through the medium before. It featured unsettling photography and a haunting Angelo Badalamenti score, sparking a nationwide sensation with its whodunit guessing game.
Moreover, Twin Peaks showcased Lynch’s allowing his tastes to emerge. He had lived part of his youth in the Pacific Northwest, where the show was set. The constant allusions to coffee, cherry pie, donuts, and cigarettes reflect his personal obsessions.
However, perhaps Lynch’s most significant contribution to popular culture was mainstreaming eccentricity, making the idiosyncratic cool. He was a proud oddball who fairly reveled in the kitsch of Smalltown America. He was a dreamer, an illusionist, an obsessive who loved to yank everyone’s chain with his art. He had no interest in straightforward explanations for his films, which were often dense with psycho-social subtexts that required repeated viewing to comprehend (if ever) fully. Indeed, even the snobbiest of movie snobs could explore the themes in a Lynch movie like Mulholland Drive for months and never get to the bottom.
Then again, Lynch could also play things straight, as with The Straight Story in 1999, which told the utterly simple tale of a man (Richard Farnsworth) riding 300 miles on a lawn mower to visit his critically ill brother (Harry Dean Stanton). It’s a lovely little film with no tricks up its sleeve. That, too, seemed to be a way for him to screw with our collective heads. He seemed to savor never losing the ability to surprise us.
There will also never be a greater appreciation for non-sequitur. In particular, there was a scene in Twin Peaks in a morgue where an extra was present. MacLachlan’s character asked the man if he could leave. “Jim,” the extra replied, apropos of nothing. Apparently, “Jim” misheard the request and instead gave his name. Lynch loved the blooper so much that he left it in.
Lynch was a stylist of the highest order and was every ounce his own man. He wasn’t a director so much as a Salvador Dali painting with a bullhorn. Enigma coursed through his veins like fire through a cheese grater. He had little patience for those trying to find straightforward explanations and meaning in his work because the mysteries of life seemed to captivate him. That alone colored him as a singularly fascinating character and an irreplaceable filmmaker.
Best of GoldDerby
Sign up for Gold Derby's Newsletter. For the latest news, follow us on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.
Solve the daily Crossword
