There’s a pivotal scene in the Twin Peaks pilot that encapsulates the essence of everyday life, unfolding in a high school where a girl sneaks a cigarette, a boy gets called to the principal’s office, and attendance is checked in class. The scene shifts dramatically when a police officer enters and whispers to the teacher, leading to a scream and a student sprinting across the courtyard outside. As the teacher fights back tears, the camera focuses on an empty seat, symbolizing the sudden realization among students that their friend, Laura Palmer, is dead. This moment is quintessential David Lynch, masterfully blending the mundane with the unsettling, a hallmark of his work.
Lynch’s genius lies in his meticulous attention to surface-level details, which he uses as a canvas to explore deeper, often disturbing undercurrents. The Twin Peaks scene not only captures this theme but also serves as a microcosm of Lynch's career-long exploration of the unsettling beneath the ordinary. However, it's not the only defining moment in his vast oeuvre. Lynch's fans, each drawn to different facets of his work, might argue over which scene or film best represents his style. This diversity in interpretation underscores the unique, personal connection viewers feel with his art.
The term “Lynchian” has become synonymous with an eerie, dreamlike quality that defies easy categorization, much like the man himself. It's a testament to his singular voice in the arts, akin to other legendary descriptors like “Kafkaesque.” Lynch's appeal is multifaceted, resonating differently with each fan, yet universally recognized for its unsettling allure.
For many budding film enthusiasts, watching Lynch’s Eraserhead was a rite of passage. Decades later, the tradition continues, as evidenced by the experience of one fan’s teenage son, who, along with his girlfriend, delved into Twin Peaks on their own accord. This timeless quality of Lynch's work is further highlighted in Twin Peaks: The Return, where a child's bedroom evokes a 1956 aesthetic, juxtaposed against a dystopian narrative that only Lynch could conceive.
Lynch’s approach to The Return defied the nostalgia-driven trends of Hollywood, choosing instead to subvert expectations by not revisiting the original series' key characters in a traditional manner. This refusal to conform is quintessentially Lynchian. Even when he ventured into more mainstream territory with Dune, Lynch’s unique vision remained evident, despite the film’s troubled production, as detailed in Max Evry’s book, A Masterpiece in Disarray.
The beauty of Lynch’s imagery, whether in the disturbing or the touching, is undeniable. The Elephant Man, his closest brush with mainstream acclaim, is a poignant exploration of humanity set against a backdrop of societal cruelty. This blend of the beautiful and the unsettling is a recurring theme in Lynch’s work, epitomized in films like Blue Velvet, where a seemingly idyllic town hides a dark underbelly.
Lynch’s influence extends far beyond his films. His work has inspired a new generation of filmmakers, from Jane Schoenbrun’s I Saw The TV Glow to Yorgos Lanthimos’s The Lobster, Robert Eggers’s The Lighthouse, and Ari Aster’s Midsommar. Each of these directors taps into the surreal, unsettling quality that defines Lynchian cinema. Even Quentin Tarantino and Denis Villeneuve have acknowledged Lynch's impact on their work.
David Lynch may not be everyone's favorite filmmaker, but his influence marks the end of an era. His films, which often evoke a sense of nostalgia while exploring the unseen, continue to inspire and challenge. As we look to the future, we remain ever vigilant for those “Lynchian” moments lurking just beneath the surface.
