On January 16th, a friend who lives in Hollywood within sight of David Lynch’s house said the house was considered at risk due to the wildfires sweeping through Los Angeles. Lynch had been suffering from emphysema, a chronic disease affecting the airways to the lungs, the effects of his being a life-time smoker. He was quoted as saying that he struggled to cross the room, that it was like living with a plastic bag over his head. On the morning of the 16th, Lynch was evacuated from his house. His housekeeper allegedly reported that he was safe. He died a few hours later. One of the most radical and iconoclastic American filmmakers of recent times, and a master surrealist, was dead.
I first encountered the world according to David Lynch when I saw a midnight screening of Eraserhead, Lynch’s first feature-length film, at the Rio in Hackney in 1980. Afterwards, at four o’clock in the morning I caught what was then still referred to as the milk train back home from Victoria. It took me a while to process what I had experienced.
In many ways Eraserhead was the film I had spent many years waiting for. Having lived just off the King’s Road in London between 1968-1972, I was lucky enough to see many of the films made during the golden years of the New Hollywood – a period, roughly speaking, between Arthur Penn’s Bonnie and Clyde (1967) and Steven Spielberg’s Jaws (1975), or George Lucas’s Star Wars (1997), depending on your viewpoint. This was a time when films that might now be considered ‘difficult’ brought arthouse into the mainstream. Works by Martin Scorsese, Francis Ford Coppola, Robert Altman, Lindsay Anderson, Alan Pakula, Stanley Kubrick, William Friedkin, Sidney Lumet, Don Siegel, Sidney Pollack, Nicolas Roeg, John Boorman and countless others brought cinema as art into the multiplexes, holding their own against the mainstream schlock that had seen the old Hollywood struggling to stay relevant during a time when morals were changing. Throughout the arts, the 1960s had seen much of the puritanism of the old guard flushed away. The Hays code (the rules by which film directors were obliged to keep their content unchallenging to the petty bourgeois mind – for instance, a man could only enjoy sexual contact with a woman if he kept his clothes on and had one foot on the floor) had all but been lifted by 1968, having been effectively a censorship code since 1934. Almost overnight challenging narratives, explicit sex, violence and language were in, and a new regime had taken the reins, bringing its own stars, producers and directors – the era of the auteur was born. Sadly, this world was mostly dominated still by white males, but the New Hollywood banished stifling conformity, and opportunities for women and people of colour would come, given time. And then, again almost overnight, the era of the New Hollywood was gone. Everything changed with the arrival of Jaws and Star Wars, films which made so much money that arthouse was once again banished to the fringes and the day of the popcorn blockbuster was born. Audiences preferred to leave their brains at the door, and witness spectaculars ever more grandiose, vacuous and pointless – endless sequels, remakes and turgid brain rot like Transformers and Harry Potter.
Eraserhead was released to critical and popular indifference in 1976, Lynch having endured the hostility of the studios and distributors to get it made. Too surreal by far for mainstream audiences, it bombed at the few theatrical releases it gained, and film festivals largely ignored it. Despite this it slowly became a cult classic, shown at midnight screenings such as the one I attended at the Hackney Rio. It also came to the attention of Mel Brooks, who, as producer, hired Lynch to direct The Elephant Man (1980), the story of
John Merrick, who suffered Proteus Syndrome, a condition resulting in often severe physical disfigurement. The movie starred Anthony Hopkins, with John Hurt as Merrick. (Brooks’ name was removed from advance publicity to prevent audiences assuming the film was a comedy). Lynch became overnight a household name, with the film gaining eight Oscar nominations, though winning none.
Following this, a disastrous attempt at filming Frank Herbert’s Dune (1984) saw Lynch plummet back down the ratings, where he languished in relative obscurity until Blue Velvet, released in 1986, brought him back into the limelight and earned him a second Oscar nomination for Best Director which, again, he failed to win. An unapologetically dark psychological noir, it established an important motif in Lynch’s work – the notion that the white picket fence view of America, all cheery howdy-neighbour and kids frolicking in the sun under garden sprinklers, hid much darker truths – a view now come to its time thanks to the re-election of Donald Trump: W B Yeats’ ‘rough beast…slouching towards Jerusalem, its time come at last’. This notion carried over into Twin Peaks, the TV series that would bring Lynch into American living rooms and mass acclaim in the early 1990s. It made a star of Blue Velvet’s male lead, Kyle McLachlan, lasting an initial two seasons. By turns comedic, surreal and nail-bitingly horrific, it was quintessential Lynch: a complex riddle leading nowhere, no conclusion proferred, no questions answered. Audiences lost interest and season two fizzled out in a manner similar to Patrick McGooohan’s The Prisoner – with no-one any longer invested in a clear denouement all that remained was for all involved to pack it in and walk away. For my money, however, I’d have the final two episodes of The Prisoner over Twin Peaks season two any day.
Not everything David Lynch touched turned to gold. There was to be nothing like a second Elephant Man, although The Straight Story (1999) was as its title suggests – a warm-hearted feel-good drama, which featured a wonderful performance from an ageing Richard Farnsworth. Fire Walk With Me, released in 1992 – a ‘sequel’ to Twin Peaks – and 1997’s Lost Highway were ok and are probably essential viewing for completists but arguably prone to self indulgence to a debilitating degree. It was Mulholland Drive, released in 2002, that brought all that Lynch had worked towards into stunning focus, a marvel of a film whose power only increases with each viewing. Voted best movie of the 21st century by a BBC Culture poll of film critics from 36 countries, it remains Lynch’s crowning achievement. Inevitably perhaps, much was made of the fact that it was difficult to figure out what it all meant. Who cares? Sit back and enjoy the ride – that’s all you need do. (For what it’s worth, Sunset Boulevard was Lynch’s favourite movie; Mullholland Drive is his take on the damage done by an unforgiving industry to those not sufficiently psychologically robust to withstand its horrors). Sadly, following this, there would be only Inland Empire (2006), shot on video and largely ignored; and Twin Peaks Season 3 (2017), something to be grateful for as it would be Lynch’s final hurrah, but once again compromised to some extent by self indulgence. Or, to put it another way, lacking compromise – the virtue that led to Lynch’s work being so entirely idiosyncratic, his voice so distinctive, in the first place – and so therefore probably a good thing. (If you only watch one episode, make it episode 8). The ‘star system’ is a meat grinder, ideal for your everyday narcissist assuming you can take the pace. Lynch was having none of it, and he didn’t care who knew. If it meant his ‘career’ suffered as a result, then so be it.
During his career Lynch made 10 feature films, 46 shorts and recorded 3 albums of original music. This article deals only with Lynch the filmmaker, but he was also a musician and painter. All his work in any medium comes highly recommended.
RIP David Lynch, and thank you.
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Keith Rodway
Good article !!
Comment by SUSHANT THAPA on 18 January, 2025 at 6:55 amYes Eraserhead! I remember seeing that around 1980. Loved it. Art student at the time, so the surrealist feel of it was bang on for me. Loved Blue Velvet. And yes, I would agree with you that Mullholland Drive was a surreal homage to Sunset Boulevard. Considered article.
Comment by Mark Anthony Carr on 18 January, 2025 at 5:57 pm