In Dreams: David Lynch: 1946 — 2025
David Lynch is gone; he died Wednesday at the age of seventy-eight, bringing one of the strangest careers in American film to an end and leaving the rest of us to try to reach a conclusion as to what it all meant.
He never made a western. He never made a romcom or a workplace comedy. He never made a “prestige” period picture. He never made a buddy movie or an action movie or a heist movie or a (straightforward) crime movie. Not for him was getting hold of a franchise and riding it until it died of thirst in the desert; he wasn’t interested in making Mission Impossible 6 and 7/8. The only things he made were David Lynch movies (as the producers of Dune found to their dismay), and those were about as far out of the mainstream of American cinematic entertainment as it is possible to get and still be permitted within the city limits of Hollywood.
I resist calling him an “experimental filmmaker” — though there is a grain of truth in the description (in the effect of his work more than in its intent) — because I don’t think he was experimenting at all; I think he had a cement-solid vision of what film was and what it could do, and he knew precisely what he was up to every single minute.
