David Lynch: Architect of the Absurd

• My introduction to David Lynch's body of work kicked off on the midnight of a sultry summer day close to 24 years ago — during the onset of the internet explosion, and at the wane of what we referred to as the cable TV revolution. The sunny days of satellite TV, specialising in English entertainment in India had somehow managed to circumvent censorship, and enjoyed a healthy run of midnight specials, for a few glorious years. This was the post-primetime, post blockbuster, and post-family entertainer timeslot when provocative features with potentially risqué narratives made their appearance. It was on one such night in a pitch-dark living room that I caught a screening of Mulholland Drive (2001).

I cannot possibly remember at this point in time, what it was about that title that drew me to the film. But I am certain that there was a subliminal buzz around the film that I had been privy to, and a preternatural awareness that this might possibly be storytelling that fell within the realm of a forbidden territory. With my heart and pulse racing, I sat back to indulge in my first Lynchian trip. What unfolded on screen was at once rapturous, hypnotic, mysterious, erotically charged and nightmare-inducing in equal measure. Remember, this was a time when films were broadcast end to end with no breaks, so to speak. And I had watched Lynch's film in one breathless sitting, simultaneously bewitched and perplexed by the liberties taken by the auteur.

Without giving any spoilers away, it would be safe to say that Mulholland Drive is a headtrip unlike any, a cinematic excess that left audiences scratching their heads at the end of the film, wondering what just happened. Like any self-respecting cinephile, I decided that sleep would have to wait yet another night, and I found myself going down a rabbit-hole on the internet, latched onto websites that claimed they had the plot of the film, all figured out. Chief among them was a site called Salon.com. Their headline went: Everything you were afraid to ask about Mulholland Drive — The scary cowboy! The mysterious box! All that sex! For those who haven't yet caught this masterpiece, tough luck, it isn't streaming anywhere in India, but those who are obsessed will find a way.

I count myself as among those obsessed with the imagery and the soundscape of the Lynchverse, a dimension which I further explored through his extended oeuvre — Blue Velvet, Eraserhead, The Elephant Man, Wild at Heart, and of course, what many consider his magnum opus, the TV series Twin Peaks (comprising three seasons and a companion feature film). Of course, encapsulating the appeal of a Lynch feature in words is hard to do, because a lot of it has to do with the subconscious. For those keen on getting a hang of Lynch’s process, there’s a wonderful video on YouTube that features Lynch’s long-time musical collaborator Angelo Badalamenti demonstrating how he and David came up with the unforgettably melancholic opening theme to the show Twin Peaks. The show has gained notoriety for leaving its audiences aghast, regarding the question, ‘Who killed Laura Palmer?’ a maddening premise that is set forth in the very first episode.

Maybe that’s one of the cornerstones of a David Lynch film, to not really answer all the questions, but to leave the viewer with more avenues for inquiries than when they began the narrative journey through the film. For film buffs, Lynch’s work represented the amalgamation of the absurd, the inexplicable, the abstract, the dreamscapes, cloaked within the peaches and cream exteriors of Americana. Those looking for bow-tied endings will surely be disappointed as Lynch never pandered to such episodic, dramatic drives. Lynch’s singular vision has ensured that he remained a purveyor and a driving force of subconscious sensations. As vivid as his dreams are — like Betty and Rita embarking on a fever pitch romance in Mulholland Drive, his nightmares are equally terrifying — a case in point is the man behind Winkie’s Diner in the aforementioned film. Or how about the protagonist of Eraserhead, Henry, a man trapped in an industrial wasteland, and stuck with his baby, a mutant lizard-like creature whose endless wailing drives him insane. Or for those with a craving for some 70s styled decadence, there’s Dennis Hopper’s menacing turn as Frank Booth, a psychopathic drug-dealer in Blue Velvet (1986).

That is not to say that Lynch was oblivious to the art of telling a straight story, something he did when he directed The Elephant Man (1980), a drama based on the life of Joseph Merrick, a severely deformed man who lived in 19th century London. The film was an unsentimental portrait of disability, anchored by a career-best performance by John Hurt, and ably supported by Anthony Hopkins. Lynch’s passing signifies the end of an epoch, of an edifice defined by filmmaking of uncompromising standards, and the courage to take storytelling leaps unheard of then, and impossible to achieve now.