They Don’t Make ‘Em Like David Lynch Anymore

The Twin Peaks pilot opens with the mundane: a high school, students smoking, a boy summoned to the principal's office, attendance being taken. Then, a police officer whispers to the teacher. A scream. A fleeing student. Tears. An impending announcement. The camera rests on an empty desk. Two students exchange a look, understanding: Laura Palmer is dead. This deceptively simple scene perfectly encapsulates David Lynch's thematic approach.

Lynch masterfully captured life's surface details, yet always revealed the unsettling undercurrents, the "something not right" he perceived lurking beneath. This Twin Peaks moment, while definitive, is just one among many iconic scenes in his four-decade career. Any devoted Lynch fan could offer a different "definitive" scene.

The term "Lynchian" perfectly describes that unnerving, dreamlike quality that defined his legendary work. It's a unique descriptor, unlike terms like "Spielbergian" or "Scorsese-ish," which focus on specific stylistic elements. "Lynchian," however, encompasses a broader, unsettling atmosphere, joining the exclusive club of adjectives like "Kafkaesque."

Watching Lynch's Eraserhead was a formative experience for one of us (Scott), an experience later shared with his teenage son, who, along with his girlfriend, independently discovered and binged Twin Peaks (reaching the Windom Earle arc of Season 2). This speaks to the timeless, albeit odd, quality of Lynch's work.

Twin Peaks: The Return (2017), amidst the Hollywood nostalgia boom, saw Lynch defy expectations. He created a bizarre world, including a child's bedroom seemingly from 1956, yet populated by characters from a disturbing, otherworldly dimension. He notably omitted key original characters, a distinctly un-Lynchian yet fitting choice.

Even his Dune, a notorious misfire, remains undeniably Lynchian. His troubled experience making the film (detailed in Max Evry's A Masterpiece in Disarray) is evident in the film's unique imagery, including the infamous cat/rat milking machine – a testament to Lynch's singular vision.

Lynch's imagery, however strange or unsettling, possesses a captivating beauty. The Elephant Man, while arguably his closest approach to "Oscar bait," is a touching film set against the disturbing backdrop of a time when sideshow freaks faced real mistreatment. This, too, is quintessentially Lynchian.

Defining Lynch's work by genre or trope is futile, yet his films are instantly recognizable. His dark humor, dreamlike surrealism, and uncanny strangeness are hallmarks. He obsessively explored the world beneath the surface, pulling back the curtain to reveal hidden realities. Blue Velvet, for instance, uses the seemingly idyllic setting of Americana to expose a darker underbelly of drug dealers and unsettling characters.

Lynch's influence transcends generations. He started as a unique blend of influences, but evolved into an influence himself. The term "Lynchian" reflects this lasting impact.

I Saw the TV Glow (2024) exemplifies Lynch's influence. The film's atmospheric scenes, with floating cameras, theatrical costuming, and dissonant lighting, evoke a distinctly Lynchian mood. This is just one example of Lynch's broad influence on contemporary filmmakers, including Yorgos Lanthimos, Robert Eggers, Ari Aster, David Robert Mitchell, Emerald Fennell, Richard Kelly, Rose Glass, and even Quentin Tarantino and Denis Villeneuve.

While not everyone's favorite, Lynch's impact is undeniable. He represents an era's end. His films, invoking the past while exploring hidden realities, leave a legacy of influence. We will continue to search for those "Lynchian" elements lurking beneath the surface.