Interpreting David Lynch’s ‘familiar yet peculiar’ cinematic dialect

Recently, the news of renowned filmmaker and artist David Lynch’s passing sent shockwaves through the cinematic community. Lynch’s mysterious feature films, including “Blue Velvet” and “Mulholland Drive,” along with his television masterpiece “Twin Peaks,” pushed boundaries for viewers during their original premieres and continue to fuel inspiration among critics, authors, and creators.

This coming weekend, the Harvard Film Archive will pay homage to Lynch’s influence with a trifecta of films from across his career. Sabrina Sutherland, a producer who collaborated with Lynch since the 1990s, will host the screenings and engage in a dialogue about “Twin Peaks” and its contentious prequel.

Prior to the series, we asked Film Archive Director Haden Guest to share insights on Lynch’s impact on filmmaking, and the reason we continually revisit his bizarre, yet relatable, universe. This discussion has been refined for clarity and brevity.

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Lynch’s works are often unexpected and at times unsettling, yet audiences remain drawn to them. What do you believe accounts for this phenomenon?

Lynch’s creations have astonishing intergenerational resonance; younger viewers are just as captivated as their older counterparts. Our calendar was finalized and the screenings announced prior to his sudden passing in January. The fascinating part is that our screenings swiftly sold out, as they would have any time in recent years. His movies are incredibly entertaining, visually rich, absolutely stunning, yet at the same time, dark, compelling, and even chilling. Within Lynch’s films lies a unique and unparalleled blend of contrasting elements; of innocence and dread, beauty and grotesque violence, similar to the artistry of such renowned figures as Francis Bacon, Kōno Taeko, or Sylvia Plath. This undoubtedly positions Lynch as one of the prominent American filmmakers of the late 20th and early 21st centuries.

Lynch skillfully unleashes and embraces cinema’s capability to probe the uncanny, that element Freud characterized as both known and unfamiliar. In “Blue Velvet,” for instance, the backdrop is a quaint town that appears to embody the ideal white-picket-fence American dream, yet it is underpinned by sinister, dark forces lurking not only in the shadows but also in broad daylight. I recall first watching “Blue Velvet” in a multiplex at the age of 16, certainly too young at the time, and people were utterly taken aback. They were bewildered by what they had just experienced. I remember some audience members getting quite upset while others laughed uproariously. At that moment, I too was perplexed. It’s a profoundly dark, violent, and psychosexually impactful film. Nevertheless, it ignited my imagination and is one of the reasons I am now educating others about film history and curating the HFA cinematheque. I recently featured “Blue Velvet” in a course I teach, “The Art of Film,” which serves as an introductory study of cinema for my department, Art, Film, and Visual Studies.

Lynch can be likened to another legendary director, Luis Buñuel, whose films also possess the capacity to shock, surprise, and entertain audiences due to their boldness and distinct approach to imagery, narrative, and sound. There are few directors whose work maintains such vibrancy and can communicate directly with viewers, captivating them with intensity and depth. Much like Buñuel, I believe Lynch’s influence remains undiminished. In fact, it has only intensified.

It’s essential not to overlook Lynch’s significance in the television realm. “Twin Peaks” stands as perhaps one of the most groundbreaking television series ever created. Numerous attempts have been made, often failing, to render television more cinematic. Lynch is among those who understood how to achieve that, owing to his insights regarding both the constraints and opportunities television offers, alongside his profound admiration for Americana, which partially stems from his upbringing in rural America during the 1950s. I think it would be fair to assert that, with “Twin Peaks,” he brought forth a level of narrative intricacy and enigma to the mainstream that had never been seen before.

Why showcase “Eraserhead,” “Fire Walk With Me,” and “Wild at Heart,” among Lynch’s entire filmography?

We possess stunning vintage 35 mm prints of these three features — in addition to several other Lynch works — within the HFA archive. Experiencing these films in 35 mm is infrequent, and I would argue truly transformative, an experience that resonates with our audience. The monochrome in “Eraserhead” is extraordinarily sensual. It’s densely layered, skillfully utilizing shadows, mist, and oppressive atmospheres. These are films that must be witnessed on the large screen alongside an audience.

I am also drawn to the concept of presenting films from various eras of Lynch’s artistic journey. It’s intriguing to observe traces from “Twin Peaks” vividly present in “Eraserhead.” The legendary patterned “waiting room” floor, for instance, originates from that early work. The films showcased this weekend share a dreamlike essence that renders them deeply enchanting and permits them to adhere to a logic that is entirely their own. It invites the audience to possibly relinquish any preconceived notions about what a film ought to be.

What does it signify to have lost an individual like David Lynch?

Lynch occupies the same rarely achieved elevation as directors such as Alfred Hitchcock, Agnès Varda, Robert Bresson, or Ozu Yasujirō, as he is acknowledged and lauded not just as a filmmaker, but as a figure whose visionary artistry is perceived as a direct manifestation of his worldview. “Lynchian” evolved into a phrase of its own — akin to referring to something as “Hitchcockian.” There are few directors whose distinctive style is so recognizable and impactful that it is accepted they’ve created a cinematic language completely theirs. That sets an exceptionally high standard, doesn’t it? Very few filmmakers have accomplished that in resolute terms without merely rehashing familiar techniques; they are genuinely forging new pathways.

“His films established a realm that was distinctly his own. He conceived and inhabited it through his exceptionally devoted practice. Which came first, I can’t tell.”

Lynch began his journey as a painter and sculptor, and I believe that sensibility — the notion of crafting a personal realm — starting from a canvas of any chosen dimensions — parallels his cinematic endeavors. His films forged a world that was remarkably his own. He created and occupied it through his exceptionally committed approach. Which element preceded the other, I couldn’t say. All those unique components converged to develop his distinct cinematic vision.

Discussions surrounding Lynch often tend to focus predominantly on detailed analyses of his films, yet I feel there’s significantly more to explore. It’s unfortunate that he’s no longer among us, but this presents an opportunity to reevaluate his body of work. How we approach this is something I eagerly anticipate, beginning this week with the HFA screenings.