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 rests on an empty desk, two students exchanging a look that speaks volumes: Laura Palmer is dead. This seemingly ordinary scene subtly introduces the thematic core of Lynch's career: the unsettling unease lurking beneath the surface of everyday life.
Lynch masterfully captured life's surface details, yet his work relentlessly dissected them, revealing a pervasive "wrongness." The Twin Peaks moment exemplifies his style, yet it's not *the* definitive Lynch scene. His four-decade-plus career boasts countless iconic moments, each resonating differently with fans.
That elusive, unsettling, dreamlike quality—the essence of "Lynchian"— cemented Lynch's legendary status. The difficulty in accepting his passing stems from his unique voice, which resonated with audiences in myriad ways. Few artists merit a new adjective. While terms like "Spielbergian" or "Scorsese-ish" describe specific stylistic elements, "Lynchian" transcends such limitations, encompassing a broader sense of disquiet and disorientation. It's a uniquely powerful descriptor.
Watching Eraserhead was a rite of passage for one of us (Scott), a tradition later shared with his teenage son (with Dad's enthusiastic participation). This wasn't imposed; the son and his girlfriend independently binged Twin Peaks (reaching the Windom Earle arc in Season 2!).
Lynch's work possesses a timeless, oddly peculiar quality. In Twin Peaks: The Return (2017), a child's 1956-esque bedroom (mirroring Lynch's own childhood) contrasts sharply with the disturbing world he inhabits: a father who's a clone from another dimension, an evil clone, and graphic violence. Despite the Hollywood nostalgia boom, Lynch remained defiant, refusing to pander to expectations, even leaving key characters largely absent—a quintessentially un-Lynchian move.
His Dune adaptation, though a notorious failure, remains undeniably Lynchian. Max Evry's A Masterpiece in Disarray details the troubled production. While the source material is present, Lynch's signature imagery shines through—who else would invent a cat/rat milking machine? "It's the future, folks!" he might have quipped.
Yet, Lynch's imagery also possesses beauty, regardless of its weirdness, humor, or disturbing anachronisms. The Elephant Man, while arguably his closest venture into Oscar-bait territory, is a touching and poignant film set against the unsettling backdrop of a time when sideshow freaks faced real mistreatment. This too is Lynchian.
Categorizing Lynch's work is futile, yet his unique style is instantly recognizable. His films and TV shows are dark, funny, dreamlike, surreal, and organically strange. He was obsessed with the hidden world beneath our own, relentlessly pulling back the curtain to reveal what lurks within.
Blue Velvet, for instance, presents a seemingly typical noir narrative within a seemingly idyllic setting. Yet, Kyle MacLachlan's character descends into a world of drug dealers and bizarre performers, shattering the façade of mid-century Americana. This blend of realism and surrealism, a rejection of grounded narratives, is a hallmark of his work. A documentary exploring his connection to The Wizard of Oz further illuminates these influences, showcasing a unique combination rarely seen today.
AnswerSee ResultsWe're now on our second or third generation of filmmakers inspired by previous generations. Early cinema saw artists from other fields adopting film. Later, filmmakers emulated the movies of their youth. Lynch falls into this latter category.
Yet, Lynch transcended being a mere amalgamation of influences; he *became* an influence. This explains the enduring relevance of "Lynchian," a term unlikely to ever become obsolete. A scene in 2024's I Saw The TV Glow—a bar scene with floating camera work, theatrical costumes, and strobing lights—exemplifies this continuing influence, drawing direct inspiration from Twin Peaks.
The broad applicability of "Lynchian" is evident in the works of various filmmakers. Yorgos Lanthimos (The Lobster), Robert Eggers (The Lighthouse), Ari Aster (Midsommar), David Robert Mitchell (It Follows, Under the Silver Lake), Emerald Fennell (Saltburn), Richard Kelly (Donnie Darko), Rose Glass (Love Lies Bleeding), and even Denis Villeneuve (pre-blockbuster works) all exhibit a Lynchian touch. Tarantino's homage to Lynch is also noteworthy.
While Lynch may not be everyone's favorite, his impact is undeniable. Like his films, which evoke the past while exploring hidden realities, his legacy continues to inspire future filmmakers. We'll continue to search beneath the surface, seeking those elusive "Lynchian" moments.
