I truly had no idea what I was watching.
Alone in a pitch-black room other than the glow of my TV, I was a 19-year-old college freshman trying to make sense of it all. The title Mulholland Drive held some cultural weight in my mind as an important film by various critics, as well as diehards of David Lynch (though the two groups are not mutually exclusive). A story ostensibly about Hollywood was intriguing. Finally watching the movie felt like the natural next step to satisfying my curiosity.
The next roughly 2.5 hours weren’t transformative in the sense that I was a newfound Lynch-head. I didn’t have the language to describe how I actually felt about the film, only knowing I was entranced and confused by the tone, the twist and the seemingly incongruous nature of the narrative.
Years passed, and I would periodically tap back into the Lynch oeuvre. The first watch of Eraserhead left me appreciative of Lynch’s craft — particularly the sound design and effects work — but cold emotionally. The Elephant Man unlocked Lynch’s empathy as a filmmaker through a tale about, among other things, misconceptions based on appearance. But Inland Empire left me baffled to say the least, allowing me to draw the conclusion Lynch’s work was simply not for me.
That is until watching Blue Velvet and re-examining Mulholland Drive for my “Formative Films Project” in early 2021. The noir trappings probably made me more susceptible to their charms, but a closer look exposed Lynch’s compassion as a filmmaker.
It showed that, despite the terrifying surreality of his cinematic landscapes, there is always an open-heartedness at the core. That even though you can’t always concisely explain what exactly is going on, there’s still an emotional resonance.
Whether Lynch is the greatest filmmaker ever is debatable. But even before he died Thursday, it was evident to me the story of American cinema cannot be told without David Lynch. His singular voice was transcendent.
In some ways, he’s off-putting and bizarre, his dreamscapes feeling damn near impossible to wrap your arms around. Yet there’s an inescapable quality to his work. His images linger long past the end credits.
Horror is certainly baked in. He showed manifestations of evil like Bob in Twin Peaks, Bobby Peru in Wild at Heart and Frank Booth in Blue Velvet. Lynch helped craft sequences like the reveal behind Winkie’s in Mulholland Drive and Laura Dern walking down Hollywood Boulevard in Inland Empire and Robert Blake’s whole vibe in Lost Highway. There are sequences of sexual violence stitched throughout his work that, while not exploitative as some might suggest, are deeply unsettling all the same.
He made parenting look nightmarish in Eraserhead, yet also depicted one of the most touching father-son moments of the past 35 years (at least) in season two of Twin Peaks.
It’s also impossible not to be deeply moved by John Hurt and Anne Bancroft reading Shakespeare in The Elephant Man or Richard Farnsworth and Harry Dean Stanton reconnecting at the end of The Straight Story.
Lynch always walked a tonal tightrope, matching the absurd with the sincere and showcasing the ability to bounce between genres. His earnestness allowed for the perfect blend of soap opera and police procedural in Twin Peaks. He was perfectly in sync with his collaborators, showcasing his ability to create stories about lovers on the run and coming of age and downbeat noir and, above all, rumination on the human condition. His work was wild at heart and weird on top.
I love how much he loved art. I love watching him be brought to tears by the end of It’s a Wonderful Life. I love his fascination with Americana and classic Hollywood and The Wizard of Oz. I love his connections to composer Angelo Badalamenti and actors Laura Dern, Kyle MacLachlan, Naomi Watts and so many others (which made the end of Twin Peaks: The Return even MORE heart-wrenching). It’s touching to know the feeling was mutual between Lynch and his actors.
I love how playful he could be. I love how he balanced despair and grief with true emotional connection and shared joy. I love his disdain for people watching movies on their phones. I love his weather reports and his folksy demeanor and his final on-screen appearance as John Ford in The Fabelmans.
I’ll always associate David Lynch with Pabst Blue Ribbon, a slice of cherry pie and a damn good cup of coffee. I’ll continue to be amazed by his influence on contemporary cinema and I’m eager to continue discovering new elements within his filmography.
Rewatches have elevated nearly every film of his (sorry Dune), most notably Eraserhead and Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me. Patience has been consistently rewarded; even when I was perplexed by the first several episodes of Twin Peaks: The Return, I eventually found my footing and was floored by the end.
Much like Miguel Ferrer’s Albert in Twin Peaks, I’m relieved to have been eventually won over by the work of David Lynch. The world is lesser without him, yet it’s impossible not to be grateful for the contributions he made over the past 50 years.
I’ll always cherish that first viewing of Mulholland Drive. I would’ve never expected how much Lynch and his filmography would grow in my estimation or how much his art would mean to so many.
This immeasurable loss signals the end of an era, the final goodbye to an artist that was truly one of one. But thanks to his work — the masterpieces, the moments that stay with us decades later, the influence still felt today — David Lynch will live forever. In terms of legacy, what more could you ask for?