David Lynch once said, “Life is very, very complicated, and so films should be allowed to be, too.” His movies are indeed complicated. They are provocative and confrontational. They ask questions more than they provide answers. They force you to look inward and ask those questions of yourself. Watching a David Lynch film is an experience that is almost impossible to describe. It relies on mutual trust between creator and audience, and an understanding that the relationship will likely unsettle, possibly disturb, but ultimately reward.
He’s a director that people both revere and are frightened of – there’s an intimidating trepidation when approaching his work that ranges from lush, stylized fantasies to dark, ugly vagrancies. It’s less like traditionally consuming media and more like wandering through a shared dream, at once beautiful, mystifying, and terrifying. For the better part of five decades, we collectively shared that dream.
The first time I encountered David Lynch’s work was with his 1977 debut feature Eraserhead. Although it’s where he started his career after experimenting with the short film format, it’s challenging to say it was an easy entry point as a newcomer to his work. In all honesty, I was bewildered. I had never seen anyone do something that resembled what he did. I didn’t know you could do something that resembled what he did–the grotesque manipulation of the body, the industrial hum of a depraved parallel world, the stark images of a singular imagination. It was all part of a surreal consciousness that, over time, crept farther and farther into my perception of the world through media and the friends I consumed it with.
At the time I didn’t understand how important it was for me to encounter the weird world that Lynch’s mind inhabited with such clarity and sensitivity. Gradually, the weight of that encounter opened me to the bizarre; it made me curious to ask questions about my environment and to learn how others thought. He’s a provocateur of this curiosity who delivers haunting audiovisual packages with riotous confidence. He’s an alchemist of the uncanny who invites us into the hidden recesses of the human mind. But what stays with me most is how his work makes me feel: vulnerable and deeply connected to something beyond myself. His films remind me that beauty and terror often walk hand in hand and that the only way to truly understand ourselves is to embrace the mystery.
On Thursday, January 16, David Lynch passed away at the age of 78. There’s a reason his passing feels like an immense weight on the hearts, minds, and souls of so many who encountered his multidisciplinary work. He cared deeply for his collaborators, for his art, and for his characters. He understood their longings, failures, fears, and desires. He understood the fragile masks they wore to protect themselves from accepting those scary parts of themselves, and in that way, he understood us too. He told us about the weather of Southern California for many years, a cruel implication that when his home needed that joyous optimism most, he was unable to share his findings.
His movies changed movies forever. His movies changed me forever. There has never been another David Lynch and there will never be another. He gave us a language to mine the strange counterculture we couldn’t understand but knew was present. He opened the door to our surreal shared dream, and we lived it together for many years embracing the weird, eccentric stories we consumed. Now that dream is closed, but the door will always be open. On the other side of that door is where we confront everything that makes us human. It’s an experience I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life, armed with a reminder to look beyond the surface and step confidently into the unknown.
As only he could say, now good luck to you, and get the fuck out of my office.
Editorial Courtesy of Danny Jarabek
Feature Image Credit to The Talks