David Lynch: An Individual Talent in Hollywood

Convoluted plots, mysterious occurrences, and sex and death in their most bizarre forms have featured in almost every David Lynch movie since the filmmaker began his career with 1966’s short film “Six Men Getting Sick.” One would think that Lynch’s mind, which has been responsible for imagining and filming scenes such as a man’s brain being made into pencil erasers and the discovery of a rotting human ear in the middle of a field, would be as full of torment and torture as the scenes themselves. His films have odd subject matter, and you might expect the director himself to be as weird as his movies are.

It’s quite the opposite, in fact; Laurence Tirard, in his book “Moviemakers’ Master Class,” described him as “one of the plainest, warmest, and most charming directors [he’d] ever met.” His personal life isn’t anywhere near as splashy or public as other directors like Woody Allen or Quentin Tarantino, the former infamous for marrying his former lover Mia Farrow’s adopted daughter Soon-Yi Previn, and the latter notorious for spitting on a reporter at the 1997 Oscars.

Born January 20, 1946, in Missoula, Mont., at first glance Lynch’s upbringing seems as American as apple pie. His family moved all over the country due to his father Donald’s job as a research scientist. The majority of the areas were small towns, settings that show up frequently in Lynch’s work, including feature film “Blue Velvet” and ABC television drama “Twin Peaks.” Lynch was a Boy Scout and received its highest rank, Eagle Scout, as well as serving as an usher for John F. Kennedy’s presidential inauguration at age fifteen. Even in later life, he remained rather straight-laced: though Dennis Hopper’s character, Frank Booth, in “Blue Velvet” swears profusely, never once was Lynch heard to utter any of Booth’s obscenities himself.

He planned to become a painter, studying at the Corcoran School of Art in Washington, D.C. and attempting a trip to Europe, but eventually found himself drawn into film while studying at the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts. There, still intending to make a career out of being an artist in the more traditional sense, Lynch made a short animated film, called “Six Men Getting Sick,” to be projected onto one of his sculptures in 1966. “[T]he idea was to make it look as though the painting was alive,” Lynch has said. From there, he received several awards that made it possible for him to create a few more short films and begin filming his first feature, “Eraserhead,” in 1971.

“Eraserhead,” finally released in 1977, is a deeply personal film for Lynch; he has referred to it as his “Philadelphia story.” He wrote, directed, and edited the stark, black and white, film. Everything he experienced while working in the town contributed to the film’s making; he lived in a dangerous, unpleasant part of the city, and the film reflects that. It’s the story of Henry Spencer, played by Jack Nance, and his interactions with as well as his attempts to escape from his girlfriend Mary and their mutant, alien-like baby.

In its presentation, it’s highly surrealistic – at one point, a miniature chicken which Jack is attempting to carve for his girlfriend’s family starts to move its legs up and down of its own accord and begins spewing dark fluid from its abdominal cavity. Spencer also fantasizes about a lady within his radiator with cheeks abnormally puffy, who sings to him and stomps on creatures that look nearly identical to the mutant baby.

In one scene, the “baby” gets sick and is covered in small black sores; it’s reminiscent of a scene in “Un chien andalou,” the famed Surrealist created by Luis Buñuel and Salvador Dali, where ants unexpectedly appear in hand of one of the characters. As such, “Eraserhead” allowed Lynch to find his own personal voice, and paved the way for more avant-garde filmmakers to follow.

This film in particular exhibits Lynch’s surrealistic tendencies, and this style can be seen in all of his films, even more commercial, mainstream movies such as “The Elephant Man” and “The Straight Story.” For example, at the beginning of the former film, the mother of the titular character is trampled by an elephant, but this isn’t shown in a typical way. We see shots of her face with shots of the attacking elephant superimposed over it, blurred together in what seems to be a hallucination.

Though Lynch clearly has a style of his own, utilizing dark, claustrophobic lighting and ominous soundtracks – nearly all composed by frequent collaborator Angelo Badalamenti – he is certainly able to direct films more accessible to mainstream viewers, though this isn’t something he often likes to do. This is exemplified by his feature films “Dune,” “The Elephant Man,” and, to an extent, “The Straight Story.” These movies were told in a straightforward, chronological fashion, and were both commercially successful.

Lynch has been of great importance to the filmmaking industry since he started filming in 1966. For the most part, he writes his own films, thus giving him the power to tell his own stories, share his own visions with his audience. He’s significant because throughout his career, he’s fought to make films according to what he wants to do, without studio intervention.

The few times he’s gone astray from his original ideas, he’s greatly regretted it. In his television series, “Twin Peaks,” he planned never to reveal the identity of Laura Palmer’s murderer, but in the end was forced to do so by studio heads. He then lost interest in the show and it was canceled soon after. Additionally, Lynch directed “Dune” without having final authority about what would stay in the film, and “was so damaged by the result that it took […] three years before [he] could make another film.”

This is why Lynch advises new directors to never “go against your own pleasure and your own vision” in making a film, and never to try to please everyone. Though Lynch isn’t as odd or flashy as other directors in Hollywood today, he is unique in letting his films speak for themselves, letting audiences determine their meanings for themselves, without directorial comment. In this respect, and for his bizarre yet wonderful films, he’s truly made a lasting impact on audiences, other filmmakers, and even Hollywood for good.