David Lynch as John Ford in his last big-screen appearance, in THE FABELMANS (2022).
Somewhere in LA, in the middle of a concrete nowhere, an open door beckons. It tugs, a jerky motion that makes you fly through space, into Club Silencio. The insides are old, the red velvet memory of a place that is no more. And yet, despite the unease, it's time to sit down and attend the MC's lugubrious presentation, a swirl of lies and jest, fakery that denounces itself in a spectacle that's a bit like a threat, a lot like a spell. Blue swaths over red, it glows, and then, at long last, the diva makes her entrance – Rebekah Del Rio will be singing "Llorando." But of course, it's not her voice, for she falls, and the ghostly tune persists. Somehow, that doesn't matter. In a palace of illusions, the false still rings true. And look, truthful tears stream down your face.
Watching this scene in Mulholland Drive feels like falling an endless fall, free-floating across the void, suspended in nothingness. It feels like pure beauty born of nightmares, pain and ravishment. It feels like nothing else in the world. Like something only David Lynch could have imagined. And what can we do other than surrender to that feeling on this day of all days when we must say farewell to the man, the artist, and the great? David Lynch has died…
MULHOLLAND DRIVE (2001)
I wonder if everyone remembers what their first Lynch was. Mulholland Drive was mine, if that introduction didn't make it clear how close I hold that film to my heart. What a way for a tween to be introduced to one of the film world's most influential auteurs. And make no mistake, the man's influence in modern cinema is beyond words. Or, put in another way, it's a word – "Lynchian." That overused descriptor is testament to his impact, a reminder of how many have tried to copy him and often failed. More importantly, a reminder of how some have taken to his work, finding themselves in it, using it as a fertile ground from which their own artistic visions blossomed. On a less messianic level, it can't be overstated how much Lynch has taught the world to appreciate the uncanny and the abstract, the undefinable and mysterious. He taught many to stop demanding explanations and trust intuition, let curiosity rule. That was a gift he gave, widening cinephiles' horizons into eternity and beyond.
From those early shorts in the 60s, going through his indie breakthrough, a failed swing at blockbuster cinema, an adventure into TV, and a final consecration of his name as one of the greats, David Lynch's films are a revelation. They don't so much feel like a break from reality, but like a different reality into itself, similar to ours yet… not. Or maybe they're a mirror. After all, Lynch looked at the world and saw absurdity all around. But he didn't withdraw from it, nor did he do as most of us who don't perceive the surreal even as we see it right in front of us, in others, and within ourselves. His art, regardless of discipline, didn't expose us to the surreal or confront us with absurdities invented out of thin air. Instead, it gave us the tools to articulate and recognize what was always there to start with.
I guess one can describe Lynch's work as shocking, even provocative but to me, his pieces tend to come across as an act of sharing, inviting despite their oddities and often because of them. With each new nightmare and glorious dream, David Lynch gave us the opportunity to see the world as if for the first time. No matter how bizarre, there's an earnestness in every single creation, a welcoming warmth that counterpoints the pits of cold sweat and shivers and terror. Such nature is further reflected in the long-lasting creative partnerships he nurtured, building a family of moviemakers whose work grew strong together. Many have died recently – Angelo Badalamenti, Catherine E. Coulson, Harry Dean Stanton… – and the art of the moving image has been made poorer with every loss.
THE LOST HIGHWAY (1997)
Regarding the actors, it's important to note how much Lynch loved them. In considerations of his oeuvre, one rarely finds much written about his work with actors, but it is a vital portion of his work in features. But even before Eraserhead, that affection was there. Bless that man's ability to recognize when a face was made for the movie camera, even or especially when they evaded the cookie-cutter mold Hollywood imposes. Not that Lynch was in defiance of Tinsel Town, its values or vices. Take a look at most of his pictures, and you'll recognize a love affair between the renegade auteur and the classics. There was respect there, too, not merely the recognition of them as material to subvert. The Wizard of Oz was his favorite movie, lest we forget, a celluloid dream re-imagined countless times as Lynchian reverie. Wild at Heart is practically a remake.
Americana was another interest, earnestly dissected to expose the dark underbelly, the lunacy, the freak show. He had a penchant for playing with the familiar, rendering it alien, from Blue Velvet's suburbia to Inland Empire's oneiric Los Angeles. No, it was more than just alienation. He rendered the familiar wrong, ontologically so, sometimes transcending into the cosmical. But, in a strange way, that was how he communicated hidden truths about himself, his world, his audience. And it was how he gifted hope in shades of blue, empathy shrouded in red curtains. Those words are overutilized in modern film writing, but they are true of Lynch, his work, how it has been received, how it has affected us, his audience. And how it will keep affecting future audiences. Like Spielberg said in tribute to Lynch, "his films have already stood the test of time and they always will."
That quality is likely the reason I fooled myself into believing he would never leave us. There would never be a world without David Lynch – there couldn't be. When Badalamenti died, the director himself expressed a reluctance to accept the finality of it. "Life is a continuum," he said, and "we're all going to be fine at the end of the story." Heaven knows he spent his last years creating what can only be described as the perfect farewell, meditations on the end that, in these dark days, serve as consolation but also as a reminder that… death is just a change, not an end. Even before the Log Lady left her last message, he was telling us this, unwittingly preparing us. Remember the last scene of The Elephant Man?
THE ELEPHANT MAN (1980)
So, dry your tears and pick yourself up from the floor. David Lynch evacuated his home a few days ago amid the LA fires. His situation worsened, and today, he died. But nothing ever dies. The stream flows, the wind blows, the cloud fleets, the heart beats. Remember him through his art, love it, let it transform you like it transformed cinema. That way, David Lynch will never die.