DAVID LYNCH: ARCHITECT OF THE DREAM FACTORY
A Deeper Look into Lynch’s Film Structures
Where to start with David Lynch? Since landing in Hollywood with his cult classic Eraserhead in 1977, the great American surrealist has developed a singular style of storytelling that has inspired generations of directors, with any film bearing a resemblance to his method often dubbed “Lynchian.” His works playfully deconstruct the American Dream, exploring the inherent duality within both society and the human soul. For Lynch, behind the pristine exterior of white picket fences and neatly manicured lawns lurks a simmering darkness—one filled with sexual violence, madness, and death.
Lynch was an architect of dreams, a pied piper of sorts, who revelled in leading his audiences into the realms of the imaginary. It is telling that one of his favourite motifs to appear in his works was that of the curtain. The fabric demarcation, beautifully drenched in rich red, was, for the director, the symbolic embodiment of mystery—portals into a world of secrets that would only be revealed when he decided it was time.
Lost Highway (1997)
“To me, a mystery is like a magnet. Whenever there is something that’s unknown, it has a pull to it. If you were in a room and there was an open doorway, and stairs going down and the light just fell away, you’d be very tempted to go down there. When you only see a part, it’s even stronger than seeing the whole. The whole might have a logic, but out of its context, the fragment takes on a tremendous value of abstraction. It can become an obsession.”
Inland Empire (2006)
This brings us to two core tenets of Lynch’s method: abstraction and fragmentation. These tools were essential in creating a mood of mystery in his films, with Lynch carefully withholding information to leave audiences scratching their heads in bewilderment. His fascination with fragmentation and withheld details can be traced back to his formative years as a painter. One evening, while working on a scene of a garden at night, Lynch noticed that the enveloping darkness had an intriguing effect on the subject—shrouding it in mystery before gradually allowing it to unfold before the viewer. This approach recurs throughout his work, with characters set against minimalist backdrops, their motives and appearances obscured both figuratively and literally from the audience.
Boy Lights Fire, 2010. Mixed media on cardboard, 72 x 108 in. Courtesy of the artist.
His stories while often obscure and obtrusive, are united in a common theme, that of duality. They deal with the inherent darkness that exists in the heart of humanity, and the counterbalance of good that paints the surface of our everyday realities. This is no better expressed than in the opening of his film Blue Velvet. The film begins with an idyllic suburb filled where children merrily skipping to school and rose-covered gardens, yet as the scene progresses we find ourselves pulled through the orifice of a detached bloody ear and into the rotting and decaying earth, home to squirming insects and bugs.
Blue Velvet (1986)
“ The world that we live in is a world of opposites. There is goodness in blue skies and flowers. But another force, a wild pain and decay also accompanies everything.”
Duality was not just reserved to that of physical locations within Lynch’s world. His films often feature doppelgängers, be it the naive Betty or fractured Diane from Mulholland Drive or the sweet and innocent Maddy Ferguson contrasted against the dark and mysterious Laura Palmer in Twin Peaks. These doppelgängers serve as recurring tropes used to emphasise the duality of the human condition, the idea that even within the best of us lies the potential for evil and destruction.
Lynch often cloaks these characters in ambiguity, posing questions to the audience: are these doppelgängers distinct individuals, or are they even manifestations of the same soul? Are these doppelgängers distinct people or are they manifestations of the same soul? His stories never provide overt answers, and his interviews with film critics and analysts have proven equally cryptic and obtuse. Perhaps that mystery is part of the charm of his style, and one of the fundamental reasons that fans keep coming back for more.
Twin Peaks (1990)
““I love curtains. I love the idea of curtains opening because it seems like we get to go into another world. Curtains are both hiding and revealing. Sometimes, it’s so beautiful that they’re hiding; it gets your imagination going. But in the theatre, when the curtains open, you have this fantastic euphoria, that you’re going to see something new, something will be revealed.””
It would be remiss to analyse the style of Lynch’s film without discussing his production design. For Lynch, this aspect of filmmaking has always served a single purpose; to generate mood and emphasise the themes of the story. Whether it be a seedy motel in rural Americana or the blue-lit smoky interior of a nightclub stage, Lynch wants us to feel and emote when confronted with his cinematic vision. He has a penchant for mid-20th-century Atomic furniture, and a certain nostalgia and romanticism for minimalism. These elements work together to unite his vision. In his 1997 feature Lost Highway, Lynch developed a sparse, cold and minimalist set for the home of characters Fred and Renee. This emptiness that permeates throughout the rooms, only adds to the drama and feelings of unsettled anxiety that develops as the plot twists and turns.
Lost Highway (1997)
Mulholland Drive (2001)
Colour is also an important tool for the director. When viewing his movies, it is noted that a few choice colours frequently pop up at various points. Blue is one of the most significant colours and is often used as a symbol of mystery. In Mulholland Drive, important objects are painted in blue, such as the key held by the hitman as well as the locked box possessed by Betty. This blue acts as a visual marker, a spotlight that illuminates clues with significance; it is Lynch’s abstract cue to “pay close attention.”
“I was painting and it was mostly black but had some green plants and leaves coming out... and I was sitting back probably taking a smoke, looking at it, and from the painting, I heard a wind, and the greens started moving, and I thought, ‘Oh, a moving painting, but with sound. And that idea stuck in my head. A moving painting.”
Twin Peaks (1990)
The final ingredient that complemented the style of Lynch’s films is that of sound design. Throughout his career, the director formed a strong creative relationship with composer Angelo Badalamenti. Badalamenti was as flexible as he was talented, able to construct soundscapes that ranged from heart-wrenching ballads, such as the theme of Laura Palmer from Twin Peaks to unsettling atmospheric rumbling, best exemplified in the intro of Mulholland Drive. Unlike the traditional methods of scoring the film, where directors would shoot the entire feature and then send it to a composer, for Lynch music was an essential part of the process of developing the image. He would often work in conjunction with his composers, creating the score through ad-lib conversations or late-night experimentations. Then once equipped with his score, he would play the music on headphones during filming, adjusting the pace of the actor's performance to match the music that was dancing through his earphones. It was this kind of attention to detail that marked him as one of the great auteurs of 20th-century filmmaking, an artist in the purest sense of the word, committed to a vision that could never be comprimised.
Eraserhead (1977)
In the wake of his passing, it is only natural for his work to receive an avalanche of press, attention and retrospectives, but perhaps one area that many may overlook was that of his spirit. An aspect that stood out the most throughout his career and outshone any artistic achievement. His positive personality was best exemplified by his morning weather reports during the pandemic, where he gave much hope and comfort to people during their enforced lockdowns. His ability to inspire wonder and sheer enthusiasm for creation is probably his greatest legacy, something that we can all learn from.