They Don’t Make ‘Em Like David Lynch Anymore

The Twin Peaks pilot opens with the mundane: high school life, a girl sneaking a cigarette, a boy summoned to the principal's office, attendance being taken. Then, a police officer's hushed words to the teacher, a scream, a fleeing student, a teacher's tears, and the looming announcement. David Lynch's camera focuses on an empty desk; two students exchange a look, a shared understanding of Laura Palmer's death.

Lynch masterfully captured life's surface details, yet his genius lay in dissecting them, revealing the unsettling "not rightness" beneath. This Twin Peaks moment encapsulates his thematic career arc, yet it's just one among countless unforgettable scenes from his four decades of filmmaking and art. Ask any Lynch aficionado, and you'll receive a different "definitive" scene.

The unsettling, dreamlike quality of his work is so unique it's become synonymous with the adjective "Lynchian"—a descriptor for that unnerving feeling of something being profoundly amiss. This is the poignant aspect of his passing for fans; an artist with a singular voice whose appeal resonated differently with everyone.

Few artists earn a new adjective. "Spielbergian" or "Scorsese-ish" describe specific stylistic elements. "Kafkaesque," however, transcends its source material, encompassing a broader sense of unpleasant disorientation. "Lynchian" belongs to this exclusive club.

Watching Eraserhead was a rite of passage for one of us (Scott), unknowingly foreshadowing his son's own discovery decades later (with his father's guidance). But it wasn't just Scott's influence; his son and girlfriend independently binged Twin Peaks (reaching the Windom Earle arc of Season 2!).

Lynch's work possesses a timeless oddness. In Twin Peaks: The Return (2017), a child's bedroom evokes 1956, yet this child inhabits a disturbing, Lynchian world—a father cloned from another dimension, an evil clone, and brutal violence.

Amidst Hollywood's nostalgia boom, Lynch defied expectations. The Return deliberately left the audience adrift, omitting key original characters. This unconventional approach was quintessentially Lynchian.

Lynch's Dune, though a notorious misfire (even credited to Alan Smithee), remains distinctly Lynchian. His troubled experience (detailed in Max Evry's A Masterpiece in Disarray) didn't erase his unique vision. The familiar story is infused with bizarre imagery—a cat/rat milking machine, for instance—a testament to Lynch's singular creativity.

Yet, Lynch's imagery possesses a strange beauty. The Elephant Man, while Oscar-bait, is a touching film set in a disturbing era, highlighting the mistreatment of sideshow freaks and the resilience of a gentle soul.

Defining Lynch's work is futile, yet his films are instantly recognizable. His work is dark, funny, dreamlike, surreal, and strangely organic. His obsession with the world beneath the surface, pulling back the curtain to reveal hidden realities, is a defining characteristic.

Blue Velvet, for example, appears as a standard noir, but Kyle MacLachlan's descent into a world of drug dealers and bizarre characters exposes the unsettling truth beneath the idyllic surface. Rooted in mid-century Americana, Lynch's work is infused with surrealism, unconcerned with grounding itself in reality. A documentary exploring Lynch's connection to The Wizard of Oz further illuminates this influence.

We're now on our second or third generation of filmmakers influenced by earlier generations. Early cinema saw artists from other disciplines adopting film. Later filmmakers emulated their childhood favorites. Lynch is among them.

Lynch transcended being a product of influences; he became an influence himself. This leads back to "Lynchian" and the unlikelihood of seeing his equal again.

A scene in 2024's I Saw The TV Glow—a bar with live music, floating camera, theatrical costumes, and strobing lights—exemplifies a Lynchian atmosphere. Jane Schoenbrun's film, inspired by Twin Peaks, showcases the surrealism familiar to Lynch fans.

The breadth of "Lynchian" is evident in various films. Yorgos Lanthimos' darkly comedic films (like The Lobster) dissect polite society. Robert Eggers' The Lighthouse and Ari Aster's Midsommar are avant-garde nightmares. David Robert Mitchell's It Follows and Under the Silver Lake, Emerald Fennell's Saltburn, Richard Kelly's Donnie Darko, and Rose Glass' Love Lies Bleeding all carry the Lynchian imprint. Quentin Tarantino's homages and Denis Villeneuve's early works (like Enemy or Maelstrom) also reflect Lynch's influence.

Even if Lynch isn't your favorite, his significance as an era's end is undeniable. His films evoke bygone eras while exploring hidden realities. His enduring influence on future filmmakers is his legacy. We'll continue to search for those "Lynchian" elements lurking beneath the surface.