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 pierces the air; a student flees across the courtyard. Tears well in the teacher's eyes. An announcement is imminent. David Lynch's camera rests on an empty desk, two students exchanging a look—a silent understanding that their friend, Laura Palmer, is dead.

Lynch masterfully captured life's surface details, yet his genius lay in dissecting them, revealing the unsettling "something not right" always lurking beneath. This pivotal Twin Peaks scene encapsulates the thematic core of his career, yet it's far from his *only* defining moment. Across four decades of filmmaking and art, Lynch offered countless iconic scenes, each resonating differently with his devoted fans.

That unsettling, dreamlike quality—the inability to pinpoint exactly what's amiss—is quintessentially "Lynchian." It's this unnerving atmosphere that cemented his legendary status. The difficulty in accepting his passing stems from this very uniqueness: an artist with a singular voice whose appeal transcended individual preferences.

Few artists earn a new adjective. While terms like "Spielbergian" or "Scorsese-ish" describe specific stylistic elements, "Lynchian" transcends such limitations. It encompasses a broader sense of unease and disorientation, akin to "Kafkaesque." This is the exclusive club to which "Lynchian" belongs.

Watching Lynch's Eraserhead was a rite of passage for us, and decades later, one of us (Scott) introduced his teenage son to Lynch's work (with Dad's enthusiastic participation). But it wasn't just parental influence; the son and his girlfriend independently binged Twin Peaks (reaching the Windom Earle arc of Season 2—a testament to the show's enduring appeal).

Lynch's work possesses a peculiar timelessness. In Twin Peaks: The Return (2017), a child's bedroom is styled like a 1956 room, a detail seemingly coincidental with Lynch's own age in that year. Yet, this seemingly ordinary detail exists within a deeply disturbing world, only Lynch could conceive—a world of clones, alternate dimensions, and extreme violence.

The Return arrived during Hollywood's nostalgia boom, yet Lynch defied expectations. He disregarded conventional narrative structures, notably omitting key original characters. This unconventional approach was perfectly Lynchian.

Lynch's Dune, despite its infamous status, remains distinctly Lynchian, even under the Alan Smithee pseudonym. His troubled experience making Dune (detailed in Max Evry's A Masterpiece in Disarray) is reflected in the film's unique imagery—a cat/rat milking machine being a prime example. "It's the future, folks!" one can almost hear Lynch exclaim.

Lynch's imagery, however strange or disturbing, possesses a unique beauty. The Elephant Man, while arguably his closest approach to Oscar bait, is a deeply moving film set in a disquieting historical context, highlighting the mistreatment of sideshow freaks and the resilience of a gentle soul like John Merrick.

This, too, is Lynchian. Defining his work through genre or trope is futile, yet his films are instantly recognizable. His work was dark, funny, dreamlike, surreal, and organically strange. In the coming weeks, admirers will undoubtedly highlight these multifaceted aspects, as we do now. His obsession with the hidden world, pulling back the curtain to reveal what lurks beneath, is a hallmark of his films.

Blue Velvet, for example, appears initially as a standard noir, but its seemingly idyllic setting masks a world of drug dealers and bizarre characters. This juxtaposition of a seemingly typical mid-century Americana with surreal elements is a recurring theme. His influences—as explored in documentaries examining his connection to The Wizard of Oz—are unique and unlikely to be replicated.

We are now on our second or third generation of filmmakers influenced by previous generations. Early cinema saw artists from other disciplines adopting film. As time passed, filmmakers sought to emulate the works they grew up with. Lynch is among them.

Yet, Lynch transitioned from being a product of influences to becoming an influence himself. This brings us back to "Lynchian" and why we're unlikely to see his equal again.

A scene in 2024's I Saw The TV Glow—a bar scene with floating cameras, theatrical costumes, and strobing lights—exemplifies the Lynchian aesthetic. Jane Schoenbrun's film, inspired by Twin Peaks, demonstrates the broad reach of Lynch's influence. The term "Lynchian" encompasses a wide range of films and filmmakers.

Yorgos Lanthimos' darkly comedic sensibility, as seen in The Lobster, reveals the "Lynchian" undercurrent. Similarly, Robert Eggers' The Lighthouse, Ari Aster's Midsommar, David Robert Mitchell's It Follows and Under the Silver Lake, Emerald Fennell's Saltburn, Richard Kelly's Donnie Darko, Rose Glass' Love Lies Bleeding, and even Denis Villeneuve's earlier works like Enemy and Maelstrom all show Lynch's influence. Tarantino's homages and the otherworldly qualities in these films are testaments to Lynch's impact.

Whether or not you're a Lynch fan, his significance as a filmmaker marking the end of an era is undeniable. Like his films, which explore the world beyond our usual perception, his influence on future filmmakers is his lasting legacy. We will continue to seek out those "Lynchian" elements lurking beneath the surface.