Falling in space

Because I gotta get my .02 in on David Lynch too.

Let’s face it, no one had better hair either.

Because I am old, my introduction to David Lynch was The Elephant Man, his second feature. It’s not an original observation to say that if you’re new to Lynch and you start with The Elephant Man, you may think “What’s the fuss? I understand what’s happening here.” Indeed, as with The Straight Story later, it lacks Lynch’s signature elliptical plot, graphic violence, gritty sexuality, and slick, hyper-real look. It’s one of his only genuine period pieces, set in Victorian England, whereas most of his other movies exist in a 50/60s era rockabilly netherworld where the cars are cool, the music is hot, and good girls wear long skirts and sweater sets.

Yet there’s a touch of the Lynchian unreality to it, like in the dream-like prologue that suggests that John Merrick’s deformities were caused by his pregnant mother being trampled by elephants¹. There’s also the poignant ending, in which Merrick dies peacefully in his sleep and appears to ascend to Heaven (or something approximating it), his dying thoughts of a woman who showed him kindness and compassion. It’s strangely evocative of the ending of Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me, in which Laura Palmer, after suffering a prolonged, agonizing death at the hands of her own father, weeps with relief at the sight of an angel who’s come to take her away from her torment.

For all the criticism David Lynch received about how often his female characters were put through the wringer (usually at the hands of abusive, duplicitous men), they were often given happy endings. Dorothy Vallens is reunited with her son at the end of Blue Velvet after her tormentor is shot to death. Though numerous people are violently working against them, true love prevails for Sailor and Lula in Wild at Heart. Nikki is back in her home and The Lost Girl is reunited with her family at the end of Inland Empire. Even Mulholland Drive, in a way, has a happy ending, in which the alternate universe versions of Diane and Camilla smile dreamily together under the Hollywood lights. Some part of them is happy, somewhere in another time.

Lynch was the first filmmaker who helped me to understand that you don’t have to be able to understand what’s happening in a movie to enjoy it. His work defies every loud, bearded, hoagie-scented YouTuber who’s designated himself the official Movie Explainer. Though it’s a tough decision, my favorite Lynch film is probably Lost Highway, and I have no idea what the fuck is happening in that. If you were to ask me to explain the plot, I’d probably say “Well, a jazz musician is wrongfully convicted (maybe?) of killing his wife(?) and then turns into a completely different guy who has an affair with a woman who looks like the first guy’s wife(?) and convinces him to murder her older husband(?) so they can be together.” There’s a lot I’m leaving out, and I’m not entirely sure I’ve explained the plot correctly as it is. But it doesn’t matter, because what I like about Lost Highway is its dark, menacing, deeply sexy vibe, and its absolutely killer soundtrack.

Speaking of vibes, perhaps unsurprisingly if you watch Denis Villeneuve’s Dune movies, Lynch’s 1984 take on it makes somewhat more sense. You can also see where the primary issue was, and that was trying to stuff 10 pounds of plot into a 2 pound bag. If anything, though, the attempt to explain everything with an extended version, including Virginia Madsen’s narration and the deeply silly internal monologues worked against it. It should have been left to be like 2001: A Space Odyssey, a movie you put on while high and just fall into for a couple hours. Life doesn’t make sense, movies shouldn’t have to either.

What I loved about David Lynch most, however, was the wholesomeness at his core. Yes, his movies were dark, violent, and sexual, and undoubtedly, given this strange era of “depiction equals endorsement,” it’s perceived that that was all a reflection of who he was as a person. But the same David Lynch spent much of the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic giving daily weather reports from his home to his fans, in his amusing voice that Kyle MacLachlan lovingly described as a “Great Plains honk.” It was a subtly loving gesture to bring comfort and stability: “Good morning, the sun rose another day, and we’re still here.”

Another famous clip of Lynch involved him marveling over the rather mundane combination of Coca-Cola and cookies, in the same tone of voice as a more jaded person talking about a $400 sushi plate at Nobu. He reportedly had just one demand when he cameoed as John Ford in The Fablemans: a bag of Cheetos, describing them as having “marvelous flavor.” Even at nearly 80, and a career focusing on turning rocks over and peering at what lay underneath them, he had a zest for life and the little things I try to emulate. I too have a fascination with the dark, violent, and occasionally sexual. If I made movies, I’d like to think they’d challenge the audience with how much they’re willing to accept without it being easily explained. But at heart, I love kittens and babies and cereal for dinner and I’m always surprised anew at how good ice water tastes. That’s who I really am.

Given the dark and uncertain times that lie ahead, we would do well to take on the qualities of David Lynch in his absence and face life with a renewed appreciation for the small things, a love of the absurd, a sense of justice (remember, the bad guys rarely prevailed in his movies), and an acceptance that some things defy explanation. We don’t have to understand everything. It may even be better if we don’t.

1. They weren’t, it’s a genetic disorder called neurofibromatosis, as seen in last year’s A Different Man, starring Sebastian Stan as an actor with the same disorder who undergoes extensive plastic surgery, and Adam Pearson, an actor who lives with it in real life.