Remembering David Lynch: why the surreal master will live on forever
I remember the first David Lynch movie I ever watched being Blue Velvet, I was a teenager getting into film, rattling through Breathless, Betty Blue, A Clockwork Orange, you name it, and browsing Netflix one day, I saw the luxurious blue poster with Kyle MacLachlan holding Isabella Rossellini in his arms. It looked seductive, mysterious, and when I asked my dad about it, he told me, “Oh, that’s a good one, but strange.”
I clicked play, feeling like I was watching something I shouldn’t, and I had no idea quite what I was getting myself into: the image of red roses lined up against a white picket fence, framed by a beautifully blue sky, was immediately contrasted by a close-up of beetles crawling over soil, with MacLachlan’s Jeffrey soon finding a severed ear among the dirt, and just like that I was captivated, marking the beginning of an obsession with Lynch’s creations.
Mulholland Drive became one of my all time favourite movies – the tragically glamorous and seedy image of Hollywood appealing to me perhaps more than it should have – and Twin Peaks my bible, a small picture of Agent Cooper and Audrey in the Double R Diner pinned to my bedroom wall. The soundtrack played on repeat, the sheer transcendence of the theme song akin to a sniff of lavender before dropping into a hazy, dream-filled sleep.
Throughout university and beyond, I made various connections with people because of our shared love for Lynch’s work, from boyfriends to best friends, and this is a testament to Lynch’s ability to craft atmospheres that totally envelope, pulling you into a cinematic world that you’ll never be able to leave. You soon become a part of it, desperately searching for others who have the same fascination. For many of us, it’s this co-existence of humour and darkness, tied together by an innate strangeness, that attracts us – backwards speech, harrowing subject matter, unforgettable characters, and all.
Lynch was in no way an obscure figure, but movies like Eraserhead and Inland Empire aren’t exactly casual Sunday night watching that you can put on for all the family to enjoy. If you like Lynch’s work, there’s a big chance you really like it, admiring his ethos as an artist who was intent on catching the big fish, keeping his eye on the donut, and not the hole.
Why, then, does he have such a dedicated following? You don’t get people worshipping at the altar of filmmakers like Steven Spielberg or Christopher Nolan in this way – even if they are some of the most popular directors in Hollywood. What makes Lynch so appealing as a figure to latch onto, however, is his unashamed oddness, and his total and utter dedication to his craft, which never saw an idea appear too challenging or too out-there.
He made music, industrial and strange, he painted Bacon-esque artworks, and sculpted some pretty horrifying creations (including that Eraserhead baby, which remains a mystery). Lynch wrote books about transcendental meditation – a practice he swore by – and his artistic process, and best of all, he wrote and directed movies that challenged the very notion of what cinema could be.
He never stopped creating, and his preoccupation with that fine distinction between reality and fantasy/nightmare was the throughline that constantly pulsed through his work, which, above all, was laden with empathy. Many tragic figures appear in his art, from Joseph Merrick to Laura Palmer, but Lynch never turns them into spectacles of suffering. Laura was arguably his most special creation, a character who transcends life and death, and you can tell just how much she meant to him.
She is a profound encapsulation of the intersection between good and evil in this world, and it would’ve been so easy to use her as a mere plot device to propel the narrative, but instead, Lynch gives us this complex and troubled character who many have come to relate to – her presence practically haunting us.
You might not relate to all of the themes that permeate Lynch’s work, but to be invested in his world is to have an understanding of the innate darkness that engulfs the human condition, yet also a sense of knowing that, really, art and empathy are the main roads through. For every terrifying character, like Bob, Frank Booth, or Bobby Peru, Lynch crafts truly angelic souls who restore a little bit of your faith in the world, and Lynch’s innate appreciation for the power of an individual to bring good becomes clear.
Producer Sabrina S Sutherland, who worked on various Lynch projects, including Twin Peaks, told Far Out last year, “He was just so very kind to people. He was so very comfortable in his skin and comfortable with people, and I think he just genuinely loved people. He was just a very kind person. And I think he is the best example to me as the best human being. He was so confident in his vision. He’d have an idea, and that was it. He knew that that was the idea he wanted to do no matter what.”
It’s this dedication to finding beauty among suffering and revelling in the most absurd elements of living that cemented Lynch’s place in cinema as a figure to adore. There is hope among the darkest cloud – as demonstrated by his most tender film, The Straight Story – even if he doesn’t shy away from depicting the cruellest evils that exist.
It’s been one year since he died, and like many, the news affected me a lot more than I expected, and I shed a tear for the director, who changed my life in so many ways, not only by shaping my appreciation for truly bizarre and surreal art and teaching me how we can use this to understand and navigate life, but also through allowing me to connect with so many other like-minded friends.
Lynch will live on because his films are timeless, you can come back to his work countless times and find a new interpretation or a new perspective, and there’s really not much more you can ask for from an artist.
