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David Lynch

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Which brings us to "Blue Velvet," a story of blackmail, sadomasochism, kidnapping and insanity percolating from beneath an innocent small town fagade. As critic David Thomson notes, the film "kept surrealism, hallucination, and 'experiment' in perfect balance with Americana, a simple compelling storyline, and the huge, gravitational force of a voyeuristic setup. I believe 'Blue Velvet' is also an allegory on sexual awakening, about innocence and peril, family ties, and adulthood, such as no American film has achieved." And it didn't hurt that gas-sniffing Dennis Hopper made one of the eeriest movie villains of all time.

This led to Lynch's greatest imprint upon mass American culture: "Twin Peaks." It didn't last long, but rarely has the viewing public been so gripped by a television drama -- particularly, in light of today's reality-based programming garbage, by one so good. Many lost interest after Laura Palmer's killer was revealed, and the show was canceled after two seasons. But it's likely "Twin Peaks" will be remembered long after, say, the 20-year run of "Gunsmoke" is forgotten.

Despite a Palme d'Or prize at Cannes, Lynch's "Wild at Heart" and an ensuing "Twin Peaks" theatrical prequel, "Fire Walk With Me," were less successful ventures. It's not so much that they were too surreal, but they seemed less genuine, as if the pull of evil was more inevitable, and therefore less inherently dramatic. That his next two ventures, "Lost Highway" and "The Straight Story," were so unbelievably different in every way -- yet oddly appropriate to the Lynch canon -- is a testament to his inability to be completely typecast, no matter how defined the Lynchian world may seem.

Asked to name his greatest filmmaking influences -- one sees traces of Hitchcock, Fellini, "The Wizard of Oz" and "Sunset Boulevard" in his work -- Lynch downplays their significance. Taking their ideas, he says, would be "like eating somebody else's food." With Lynch, you see, it's all about the ideas. He speaks in countless metaphors about their generation -- sewing a rug, water skiing -- but his favorite seems to be ideas as fish, which can only be caught with patience and concentration. "You can't force an idea to come to you," he says, "but you can make preparations. It's like you can't force yourself to go to sleep, but you can lay comfortably in the bed and close your eyes, get nice and cozy, and eventually you'll go to sleep. If you sit in a chair, and you have a desire for ideas, you begin to daydream, and as you're daydreaming you're sinking deeper in. And all of a sudden you can catch one."

No matter how flexible the interpretation of certain Lynch films may be, the filmmaker says he always knows unequivocally what they mean. Yet he is famously reluctant to divulge their secrets. "It robs people of their right to figure things out for themselves," he argues. "It's like somebody saying, 'This is what life is all about.' People have said it in different ways, but it falls on deaf ears because you have to experience life yourself and find your own way out."

What does Lynch say to people whose theories about his films differ from his original intent? "I would say, 'Very good.' Every translation is valid. In a way ideas are like music on the page. The notes may come one at a time, but the translation of that music has to do with the ability of the musicians to play and the conductor interpreting them. You can get huge variations, but it's the same notes on the page."

In the wake of Sept. 11, some may find the Lynchian world suddenly a little too close for comfort. There is a moment in "Fire Walk With Me," for example, when the Log Lady warns Laura, "When this kind of fire starts, it is very hard to put out. The tender boughs of innocence burn first. And the wind rises, and then all goodness is in jeopardy." But for those willing to stare down the darkness, Lynch's films are, like our own nightmares, oddly informative. Whether onscreen or in the world outside, we can't defeat our demons without knowing who they are. "It's about examining hard realities," says Lynch. "I think it's safe to say the world's getting crazier all the time, and facing the music is all you can do. That can be a beautiful thing."

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About the writer

Brian Libby has written for Willamette Week, Metropolis and Architectural Record.

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