Farewell to David Lynch, A True North in an Unruly Universe
The Scoop features personal essays on movie-related topics.
By Natalie Bauer
There are a lot of things you could say about David Lynch.
As a kingpin and dramatist, he radicalized the movie industry and then television by accomplishing things on his own terms and declining to negotiate, even as it backfired (because that thing is Dune).
As a man, he had a rare comprehension of women — what compels them to haunt or be tormented; their intimate energy; their sincerity, both in terms of the cruelty that dismantles it continuously, and the inferno that is let loose when it is destroyed (both Twin Peaks and Mulholland Drive are, moderately, variations on the Marilyn Monroe narrative).
As a luminary, he never lost his blaring, neighborhood repairman tone or glee in the small blisses (“two cookies and a Coke: phenomenal”).
As a creator, he took his job seriously but never himself. Who else would devote their career to providing structure to the extremely disturbing measures of the mortal experience, and then later orchestrate an insane experimental blues album titled Crazy Clown Time? Who else would take on the composition of a grisly killing and name it This Man Was Shot 0.9502 Seconds Ago? Who else would direct Blue Velvet in addition to a twenty-minute video of himself simmering quinoa in the darkness? Lynch occupied space between dreamer and comic, abstract creativity and pop trash, masculine and boyish. A true north in an unruly universe.
Throughout his career, he was fascinated by the dysphoria that darkness can bring; where it arises, what places it takes us, and wherever it overrides the light. He was preoccupied with the Atom Bomb inasmuch as it symbolizes a tipping point for the baseness of the human race — a barbarity, deliberately constructed and discharged. He displayed consternation, clearly and freely, but with a spirit of longing for things unsettled.
This stance is intricate. You can’t start to appreciate the beauty of this realm before you have delved into the full scope of its decay. You can glide straight through, blinded and frigid, but you will never be correctly awake. How can you know who you are until you know what you can withstand? How can you identify a genuine soul until you have settled down with suffering and called for its name? The most excellent artistry is stationed on the battleground of the heart, pouch brimming with love notes and a full spectacle of the bloodshed. Despair is certain, so now what? Here, it’s worth celebrating that later on in life, he descended on behalf of light. There is fear in the ceiling fan but you can nevertheless have a slice of pie that’ll kill ya, so it’s not altogether awful.
David Lynch is someone whose death leaves you with the feeling that a vast chasm has been forged, vacant seat at a pulpit impression at a tabernacle stratum. When someone of his magnetism gets dispatched it feels like there is less in the world, but the cosmos are by this time fuller for his passing through. And at least he died doing what he loved (ripping cigs) with a breathtaking pompadour of silver hair on him during the first lunar standstill of 2025. Compelling testimony that he is, undeniably, connected to the moon.
Natalie Bauer is a content specialist at Cinema Sugar.