In Memory: David Lynch

By Mark Slade

To say David Lynch changed the way I saw things is an understatement. I had heard of surrealism before I found Lynch’s work. It was more in line with art, not storytelling.

My introduction to Lynch as a filmmaker was Blue Velvet. Actually, I didn’t get to see the film at that time. I had rented it from our local drugstore. Brought it home, but had to go to work. My mom put it in and, from what I heard, promptly ejected the tape after being subjected to a string of “fuck” words screamed by Dennis Hopper.

A few years later, 1990, I was living with my family in a somewhat desolate area. I was out of school, out of a job, out of money. Times were tough, but there were still books to read, dreams to dream, and of course, there was television.

If I’m not mistaken, on a Sunday night, possibly Easter week, my parents were in the living room watching Jesus of Nazareth, I think. I was in the sitting room. The house we lived in had rooms like that. Modern family dwellings had by that time been reduced to less. But there was a TV there. Earlier I had seen a curious ad for a TV show.

I might be wrong, but I think there wasn’t any dialogue except a voice-over saying, “She’s dead,” and a slow panning, swooping camera shot across the woods. Maybe I saw a woman’s face overlaid on the trees?

I tuned in, not expecting much.

Boy, was I wrong.

Right from the start, the theme song, at the time, I thought was a guitar, but now I know it was synth bass, pumping out thick puffs of cotton; the credits that seemed to go on forever; and that opening scene that was to haunt me and change my life forever.

A middle-aged man ambled outside to discover a body wrapped in plastic on the cold beach. He peeled the plastic back and saw the face of Laura Palmer. He rushed back in to call the sheriff.

“She’s dead,” Pete muttered into the receiver.

And that was the beginning of my obsession, not only with Twin Peaks but David Lynch.

So much emotion in that TV show that, along with Wiseguy and Seinfeld, changed the landscape of television. So many things can be found: horror, comedy, mystery, drama, nighttime soap opera, filmatic scenes… characters being goofy, characters screaming—wailing, and of course the strangeness—the overabundance of surrealism… questions asked, never answered.

Except who killed Laura Palmer.

They answered that one.

Unfortunately.

Soon, I had my entire family watching the show.

Interest in Twin Peaks, David Lynch, hit its peak that year and a half.

But mine didn’t.

I went out and watched everything he made, read as much about him, and to this day, still think Wild at Heart is the most perfect film committed to celluloid.

RIP David Lynch, a damn fine artist, filmmaker, and, like rock ’n’ roll, a true American original.