A place both wonderful and strange: looking back on the films of David Lynch

Where does one begin when writing about David Lynch? The man himself is a labyrinth of complexity, refusing clarity and promoting equivocality, while his artistic works are similarly diverse. Lynch’s canon of work includes film, television, music, and artwork, yet denoting these works under such enormously broad terminology disguises the unique nature of his designs. Today, I will explore each of Lynch’s ten feature films, and while Lynch himself would perhaps discourage such linearity, to decipher the indecipherable, perhaps the best place to start is at the beginning…

Lynch has described Eraserhead as his “most spiritual film”, and there is a great deal of truth to this

Following a flurry of short films, Lynch’s first feature film materialised in 1977: Eraserhead. Despite a notorious production, Eraserhead – like many of Lynch’s films – has prevailed as a cult success. Immediately, Lynch’s surrealist style is blisteringly clear; Eraserhead’s imagery – from the sickening design of the film’s baby to the bloated Lady in the Radiator – allows the film to fester in the best way possible. Lynch has described Eraserhead as his “most spiritual film”, and there is a great deal of truth to this, despite Lynch’s refusal to elaborate. Eraserhead – despite its almost dirty atmosphere – is an intelligent, internal tale regarding the trials of fatherhood and industrial modernity, and ultimately marks one of cinema’s greatest debuts for a filmmaker.

Along with 1999’s The Straight Story, 1980’s The Elephant Man is often regarded as one of Lynch’s more pedestrian efforts. Nevertheless, Lynch’s sophomore feature still possesses an underlying impression of surrealist unease. The opening scene – in which protagonist John Merrick’s mother is killed – is viscerally unpleasant, belying the Victorian biopic genre that the film primarily adopts. However, The Elephant Man also has an explicit emotional core – centred around an exploration of the exterior versus the interior – while following an explicit linear structure. Thus, despite its atypicality in Lynch’s filmography, The Elephant Man – illustrated by astounding performances from John Hurt and Anthony Hopkins – flourishes through Lynch’s creative vision.

However, the 1980s were a decade of inconsistency for Lynch; in just two years, he delivered one of his most lauded constructions alongside that which is nigh unanimously considered a rare stumble in Lynch’s career. In fairness, Lynch’s vision for 1984’s Dune was hampered by corporate troubles, while representing – despite its flaws – a tighter, digestible adaptation of Frank Herbert’s original novel, compared to Denis Villeneuve’s sprawling two-part extravaganza. Regardless, Lynch’s laboriously expository script is an undeniable step-down. Furthermore, Lynch’s handling of computer-generated visual effects – aspects of filmmaking that his previous features were virtually devoid of on such a scale – is rather fraught. Dune is not the cinematic catastrophe that it is often considered, but it is rather telling that virtually all of Lynch’s future films strayed away from Dune generically and stylistically.

Blue Velvet is a bastion of Lynch’s career and American cinema as a whole

However, 1986 was perhaps when Lynch’s career truly blossomed with the release of Blue Velvet. This is probably the film that I would use as an introduction for those unfamiliar with Lynch’s work; Blue Velvet possesses many of the idiosyncrasies that define his filmography, yet they’re presented in a rather straightforward, foundational manner. Consequently, Blue Velvet is one of Lynch’s simpler works, but stellar performances from future Lynch regulars Kyle MacLachlan and Laura Dern – along with the magnetic Dennis Hopper – make Blue Velvet a bastion of Lynch’s career and American cinema as a whole.

From there on, Lynch’s career skyrocketed, with 1990 in particular an incomparable year. One of the reasons for this is Wild at Heart, winner of the Palme D’Or at the Cannes Film Festival. Admittedly, this is a Lynch film that I am somewhat reticent about; the direction and cinematography is phenomenal, but I cannot quite gel with its narrative and characters (which, to be fair, are not of Lynch’s own design). However, 1990 also birthed Lynch’s televisual brainchild and almost certainly his most well-known creation: Twin Peaks. Lauded for its redefinition of the television landscape, with a wealth of memorable characters and a quintessentially surrealist style, the programme subsequently spans into Lynch’s sixth feature, Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me,  which is – without spoiling narrative details – one of the most visceral cinematic experiences out there. I recently attended a screening of Fire Walk With Me and, despite derisory reviews upon its release, virtually every seat was filled, while the programme’s star Kyle MacLachlan received applause upon his appearance. In spite of Lynch’s often brutal subject matter, it is evident that his films continue to inspire an impenetrable fondness.

Mulholland Drive is perhaps the Lynchian ideal: complex yet satisfyingly decipherable, terrifying yet beautiful

Lynch’s trilogy of films set in Los Angeles defined his late 1990s and early 2000s, the first of these being Lost Highway. Lost Highway stands out to me as one of Lynch’s most introspective films, providing the protagonist with whom I identify Lynch most closely. However, 2001 heralded what is, to me, Lynch’s magnum opus: Mulholland Drive. Lynch constructs an intricately woven narrative web that explores dreaming, identity, and truth, spearheaded by an astonishing performance from Naomi Watts and frequent Lynch collaborator Angelo Badalamenti’s finest musical score. Mulholland Drive is perhaps the Lynchian ideal: complex yet satisfyingly decipherable, terrifying yet beautiful. But if Mulholland Drive provides an ideal, then Lynch’s final feature film – 2006’s Inland Empire – is the purest distillation of Lynch’s unique cinematic vision. Inland Empire is commonly regarded as Lynch’s most distorted work. In the years since its release, Lynch has only offered ambiguity, obliquely stating that the title “came from the story”, and scenes are, indeed, knitted together with seeming incoherence. However, through Inland Empire, Lynch’s career feels almost cyclical; it feels as if Lynch is returning to the ultra-surrealist framework that instigated his filmmaking career with Eraserhead. With both films, Lynch harbours no desire to scaffold his audience, but simply wishes to take them away to a place both wonderful and strange.

If it were not clear from my retrospective of his filmmaking career, let me make it so: I adore the cinematic canon of David Lynch, and he has left behind a truly unique vision that will forever glow in the history of cinema. While Lynch’s films have earned a notorious reputation for being virtually incomprehensible, their complexity is, in some ways, a strength. I am looking forward to a lifetime in which I can hopefully ascribe meaning to Lynch’s indomitable masterpieces.