Lynch
Director Unknown
David Lynch comes across as David Lynch in the new documentary, Lynch (which plays for one week at the IFC Center). I wish there were a way to skirt that redundant summation, but so goes the experience of the movie: Lynch, physically defined by his madcap, wavy hair style and the distinct whine of his voice, spouts eccentric pronouncements about the nature of ideas. He works in abstractions, refining specific images and dreamscapes rather than hammering out airtight conceits. The director’s status as an independent filmmaker has a direct relationship with his innate unorthodoxy. There lies the appeal of Lynch, the movie: Through his distinct presence, the artist justifies his work.
The documentary, compiled of footage from Lynch’s studio and the set of his last movie, Inland Empire, contains no linear path. Among the random exchanges and production meetings, it shows Lynch delivering his trademark “weather reports” to subscribers of his website (a paid service), which is basically his way of blogging. Hearing Lynch express excitement over the approaching Bastille Day doesn’t sound too intriguing until you see him do it; always enigmatic but sincerely focused, Lynch becomes an object of fascination no matter what he says. Structurally and aesthetically, the documentary reflects his imprint. Where typical filmmaker portraits will gather footage of their previous accomplishments to construct a biographical narrative, Lynch contains nonsensical cutaways to strange imagery and off-the-cuff conversations sans context. The visual scheme arbitrarily switches from black and white to color. It’s all part of the Lynchian dynamic: A wholly separate world forms under the auspices of its founding presence.
Lynch would make a great character for a straightforward portrayal, but that’s not the intention of the documentary’s director. But who is the director? The credit has been attributed to “blackANDwhite,” leading curious sorts to speculate that it was helmed by Lynch himself. Whether or not that’s the case, it certainly looks like an element of his universe. Lynch tends to redefine conventional formats of storytelling—especially film noir—to serve his own peculiar inspiration. In this case, he turns the documentary into a form of expressionism just by appearing onscreen.
Most of the movie consists of Lynch at work, but it’s usually tough to figure out exactly what he’s doing (which speaks to the quizzical effect of sitting through Inland Empire’s fascinating layers of moods). At times, the camera captures a professional breakthrough, as when Lynch convinces Jeremy Irons to join the film’s cast by describing the role as pure art (“you’ve got information pouring out of you,” he explains). Scenes of Laura Dern honing her performance are equally intriguing. But Lynch rarely pauses to discuss his other movies or interpret his intentions. Refusing to deconstruct Lynch’s self-made mythology, the documentary avoids turning into a sloppy DVD extra.
The lack of details doesn’t prevent the movie from containing an occasionally disarming emotional impact. In a shockingly intimate moment, Lynch sits in his studio with his head in his hands, griping that his project lacks the requisite support. On the verge of tears, he pulls it together. “Maybe I should write,” he says.
The movie’s lack of direction grows tiring after a while, but Lynch’s unfettered drive to let his mind unload is never less than fascinating. Viewing him in lo-grade DV (the format of the documentary) explains his newfound fascination with it (“I’m through with celluloid,” he announces in his alleged weather forecast). The gritty visuals are ominously hypnotic, offering an appropriate entry into this Lynch’s creative mindset.
A devotee of the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi (whose words preface the film), Lynch attributes his inspiration to transcendental meditation. He speaks adoringly of TM “scientist” John Hagelin, calling him “one of the greatest quantum physicists.” The meditation is Lynch’s own thing, but discussion of Maharishi and his money-grubbing posse (Hagelin has been ridiculed by the scientific community for pretending that TM has distinct physical ramifications) distracts from the enjoyment of Lynch’s aesthetic chatter. If his movies truly owe their existence to this utterly wacky organization, are works of wonder like Blue Velvet and Mulholland Drive nothing more than propaganda? If that’s the price of entry to Lynchville, it’s worth the cost.
Director Unknown
David Lynch comes across as David Lynch in the new documentary, Lynch (which plays for one week at the IFC Center). I wish there were a way to skirt that redundant summation, but so goes the experience of the movie: Lynch, physically defined by his madcap, wavy hair style and the distinct whine of his voice, spouts eccentric pronouncements about the nature of ideas. He works in abstractions, refining specific images and dreamscapes rather than hammering out airtight conceits. The director’s status as an independent filmmaker has a direct relationship with his innate unorthodoxy. There lies the appeal of Lynch, the movie: Through his distinct presence, the artist justifies his work.
The documentary, compiled of footage from Lynch’s studio and the set of his last movie, Inland Empire, contains no linear path. Among the random exchanges and production meetings, it shows Lynch delivering his trademark “weather reports” to subscribers of his website (a paid service), which is basically his way of blogging. Hearing Lynch express excitement over the approaching Bastille Day doesn’t sound too intriguing until you see him do it; always enigmatic but sincerely focused, Lynch becomes an object of fascination no matter what he says. Structurally and aesthetically, the documentary reflects his imprint. Where typical filmmaker portraits will gather footage of their previous accomplishments to construct a biographical narrative, Lynch contains nonsensical cutaways to strange imagery and off-the-cuff conversations sans context. The visual scheme arbitrarily switches from black and white to color. It’s all part of the Lynchian dynamic: A wholly separate world forms under the auspices of its founding presence.
Lynch would make a great character for a straightforward portrayal, but that’s not the intention of the documentary’s director. But who is the director? The credit has been attributed to “blackANDwhite,” leading curious sorts to speculate that it was helmed by Lynch himself. Whether or not that’s the case, it certainly looks like an element of his universe. Lynch tends to redefine conventional formats of storytelling—especially film noir—to serve his own peculiar inspiration. In this case, he turns the documentary into a form of expressionism just by appearing onscreen.
Most of the movie consists of Lynch at work, but it’s usually tough to figure out exactly what he’s doing (which speaks to the quizzical effect of sitting through Inland Empire’s fascinating layers of moods). At times, the camera captures a professional breakthrough, as when Lynch convinces Jeremy Irons to join the film’s cast by describing the role as pure art (“you’ve got information pouring out of you,” he explains). Scenes of Laura Dern honing her performance are equally intriguing. But Lynch rarely pauses to discuss his other movies or interpret his intentions. Refusing to deconstruct Lynch’s self-made mythology, the documentary avoids turning into a sloppy DVD extra.
The lack of details doesn’t prevent the movie from containing an occasionally disarming emotional impact. In a shockingly intimate moment, Lynch sits in his studio with his head in his hands, griping that his project lacks the requisite support. On the verge of tears, he pulls it together. “Maybe I should write,” he says.
The movie’s lack of direction grows tiring after a while, but Lynch’s unfettered drive to let his mind unload is never less than fascinating. Viewing him in lo-grade DV (the format of the documentary) explains his newfound fascination with it (“I’m through with celluloid,” he announces in his alleged weather forecast). The gritty visuals are ominously hypnotic, offering an appropriate entry into this Lynch’s creative mindset.
A devotee of the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi (whose words preface the film), Lynch attributes his inspiration to transcendental meditation. He speaks adoringly of TM “scientist” John Hagelin, calling him “one of the greatest quantum physicists.” The meditation is Lynch’s own thing, but discussion of Maharishi and his money-grubbing posse (Hagelin has been ridiculed by the scientific community for pretending that TM has distinct physical ramifications) distracts from the enjoyment of Lynch’s aesthetic chatter. If his movies truly owe their existence to this utterly wacky organization, are works of wonder like Blue Velvet and Mulholland Drive nothing more than propaganda? If that’s the price of entry to Lynchville, it’s worth the cost.
