No director ever interpreted the American Dream with more artless innocence than David Lynch. It could be the title of any of his films. Lynch saw that if the US dreamed of safety and prosperity and the suburban drive and the picket fence, it also dreamed of the opposite: of escape, danger, adventure, sex and death. And the two collided and opened up chasms and sinkholes in the lost highway to happiness.
Lynch was a film-maker who found portals to alternative existences and truffled in them like they were erogenous zones, moist orifices of existential possibility. He was the great American surrealist, but his vision was so distinctive that he became something other than that: a great fabulist, a great anti-narrative dissenter, his storylines splitting and swirling in non sequiturs and Escher loops. Lynch was unique, in that he took a tradition of experimentalism in movies such as Maya Deren and Alexander Hammid’s Meshes of the Afternoon and brought it into the commercial mainstream, mixing it with pulp noir, soap opera, camp comedy, erotic thriller and supernatural horror.
Who did Lynch most resemble? Maybe Luis Buñuel from the pioneering 1920s, Douglas Sirk from the Hollywood 1940s, Alejandro Jodorowsky from the counterculture 1970s. Or maybe Edward Hopper (whose painting Office at Night has something Lynchian to it) or Andrew Wyeth and his mysterious midwest tableau Christina’s World. But “Lynchian” could as well mean mainstream or even conservative. Lynch himself was not joking when he talked about his pride at being an Eagle scout in his boyhood.
And he could direct conventionally plotted (if generically freaky) films such as The Elephant Man, with John Hurt as the exploited Victorian fairground attraction, and his adaptation of Frank Herbert’s SF standard Dune – and even the emotional and gentle The Straight Story (whose title concedes its outlying quality), based on the true story of an old man who drove his lawn tractor from Iowa to Wisconsin to visit his estranged brother. Lynch was always passionate about Americana, and Steven Spielberg shrewdly cast Lynch as the western movie legend John Ford in his film The Fabelmans.
Yet with films such as his disturbing, sepulchral debut Eraserhead and (what for me is his masterpiece) Mulholland Drive, a dark fantasia of Hollywood despair, he showed that the challenge to normality was itself erotic. He underlined it with the throbbing and groaning sound design and inspired musical scores from his longtime collaborator, composer Angelo Badalamenti. I will always remember milling around with everyone at the Cannes film festival after the first showing of Mulholland Drive in 2001, all of us dizzy and jittery with how very sensual and strange it had been, how witty and how erotic.
Perhaps most remarkably of all, Lynch’s ongoing smallscreen project Twin Peaks anticipated by decades today’s cultural prestige of streaming longform television. And in fact none of today’s Sopranos and Mad Men match Twin Peaks for auteur television. Watch the first two seasons of Twin Peaks from the 90s, the story of a straight-arrow FBI man (played by Kyle MacLachlan) investigating the metaphysical mystery of a violent murder, and see how the second ends with a promise to pick up the story in 25 years’ time – and it actually did. The brightly lit, theatrically soapy look of 90s TV drama was replaced in the third season by the darker, gloomier look of 21st-century high-class TV production. But it was Lynch, through and through.
“This whole world’s wild at heart and weird on top!” wails Laura Dern’s distraught Lula in Lynch’s Wild at Heart, anguished in her wretched motel bedroom, pregnant with her lover’s child – that is, the convicted killer Sailor, a Presleyesque figure played by Nicolas Cage. It’s actually not quite a description of the world as Lynch sees it. In the macabre Blue Velvet from 1986, the world is normal on top, weird underneath, but these layers can’t exist without each other. A clean-cut guy played by MacLachlan, walking home in a suburban American utopia, finds a severed ear on the ground: a symbol, perhaps, of the director’s own hypersensitive perception of underground stirrings and the hidden America. Soon this man is to conceive an obsession with a nightclub singer: part of Lynch’s own longstanding obsession with secret cabarets and occult theatrical rituals, and his particular rapture for the red curtain, rippling and stirring with the mystery it conceals. A Freudian image, yes, but maybe Lynchian is the superseding adjective.
Lost Highway, in 1997, was one of his doppelganger hallucinations, in which Bill Pullman’s troubled sax player and his wife (Patricia Arquette) are terrified by an anonymous tormentor who leaves video cassettes on their doorstep with footage of the outside of their house – an idea later borrowed by Michael Haneke in his movie Hidden.
But for me Mulholland Drive is his masterpiece of eroticism and despair, a brilliant riff on how in Hollywood disillusion is a toxic-waste byproduct of the dream factory. The relationship of Naomi Watts’s saucer-eyed ingénue and Laura Harring’s enigmatic troubled woman is one of the great fraught friendships of modern American cinema.
I myself met Lynch only once, and that was online: a video-linked Q&A for the unveiling of his photographs at the Photographers’ Gallery in London. One of the questioners was someone who had been a walk-on in The Elephant Man and Lynch was instantly hugely excited and insisted on her being brought up to the platform so that he could see her face; he could hardly be persuaded not to simply make the rest of the evening his reminiscences with her. Lynch was always plotting ways to smuggle his audience into new territories of fear, desire and pleasure.
