Impressions of Early David Lynch Films
The countenance of this man, how he is lit, and the particles that create a haze floating around him in the darkness, indicate the embodiment of a strange world, where the change of a lever’s position causes a greater change in a far off industrial wasteland or a sunny, small town in the U.S.A. A woman emerges from her home—the darkness—wearing a mask, perfectly strange. The corridor appears empty but it is not: it is rich in texture and full of sound, it is a vacuum tube gateway full of unseen movements, hissing and sucking. Every absence points to an unknown presence. There is a blank window. There is a head in the window. The expression on the head is blank. The eyes in the head look out, full of uncertainty, and pain or fear. And there, between the twigs and steaming pipes, a pile of dirt and an unruly collection of strands of hair. (Is that blood?) Those pipes didn’t just grow in those houses, and that hair didn’t get there merely by accident, without a reason. And it is the reason that should make us nervous, because it is not one we will expect, and it won’t be pleasant to discover. There is always a reminder, especially in the times when we are most afraid, that we are composed of, and exist by, a system of circulating fluids. Here the energy is always electric and shot through with sex and violence. Ready or not: here comes the dark.
It is an enigma that these small boxes can hold the potential for such brutal and uncontrollable energy, but look at how much space can be squeezed into an atom. Are these symbolic markers or mysterious but actual material objects? Time, too, collapses and expands, and the nights can be drawn out into long and turbulent trails. (I sleep, I dream, but this is no refuge: even my dream-show confronts me, mocks me, frightens me) And within this world, there is another, and beneath that one lurks another… The best place to discuss all these mysteries and risks is in a bright cafe, with the lights shining in our coffee and smiles on our faces. We can plan events situated in realms of chemicals, control, and perversion; and, later we will walk through the night, into the wildness, and dream.
The characters’ faces are contorted by irrational expressions of emotional extremes; behind them fabric is blowing, but it is probably not being blown by a mundane, natural breeze or wind. These faces and fabrics are being contorted and blown by mysterious flows of intensities. To understand this, and learn what these forces may be, one must uncover certain hidden dangers. In an endeavor like this failure is much more likely than victory. And there is a dance for every occasion. If you can’t find where the birds sing a pretty song, you can always try hiding in the closet. Try to be receptive. Be open, for instance, to communications through dreams. Go with the flow. Fighting it can be disastrous. There are signs everywhere, but you have to know how to read them. The motion of a flame, the vision of an owl, a well-dressed man, or a couple of silver dollars, anything may stand for a potent secret. Watch the desires, emotions, and anxieties play themselves out in living, interacting bodies. See the characters squirm and sigh and burst, watch them dance and eat and smoke. They are not who we think they are. They are vessels of secrets, mysteries. They are embodiments of the tensions and pleasures of violence and sex. And they are right there, close to pain and in sight.