Tag Archives: Photographers Gallery

Interview and damn fine coffee with David Lynch, part one

26 Jan

With an exhibition of David Lynch’s photos now at London’s Photographers’ Gallery, and a special anniversary edition of Twin Peaks featuring additional material (possibly newly shot) planned for Blu-ray, this seems a good time to put together the best of a 1997 Time Out interview I did with the great man:

“Oh, my,” says David Lynch, as he walks into the Paris hotel suite. “Look at you all lollygagging around.”

Several things are strange about this:

1. The word “lollygagging”. Who says that? It sounds straight out of the ‘50s. That’s why Mel Brooks once described Lynch as “Jimmy Stewart from Mars”.

2. Who “we all” are. Sprawled on a big hotel bed alongside me are David Lynch’s then 14-year-old son Austin, and either Adam Buxton or Joe Cornish of the “Adam and Joe” comedy duo (the second of whom would go on to make urban sci-fi comedy Attack The Block) and his film PR girlfriend, all watching Adam and Joe’s Toytrainspotting spoof.

3. It’s freakin’ David Lynch!!

His debut feature, Eraserhead, is so called because the hero gets decapitated and his head made into pencils. His only stab at a blockbuster, Dune, features a bloated, pus-boiled pervert, Baron Harkonnen, killing the terrified boy he is molesting at the moment of orgasm by pulling out the plug surgically fitted to his heart. [This is not, as I recall, in the original book]. Blue Velvet starts with a severed ear and gets much worse; Twin Peaks turns supernatural evil, serial-killing and incest into prime-time soap; in Wild At Heart Lynch cut graphic scenes of torture only after a hundred people had walked out of a test screening.

Lynch doesn’t need the torture, frankly. He is best at using the unseen and understated, a heightened banality coupled with an extraordinary use of sound, to create a terror of the unknown. His films inhabit a dreamscape where you cannot be sure what is reality and what is fantasy (never better than in Mulholland Drive and Inland Empire), with backwards-talking midgets and red-curtained purgatories accessorised as standard.

We meet just before Lost Highway is released, in 1997. This is one of his most impenetrable films: not so much a “whodunnit” as a “whatthefuckwasallthatabout?”, it still gives the impression that behind the string of striking images there might just possibly be a narrative thread. I think I get pretty close to finding out what that is.

But Lynch is, frankly, a tough interview. He doesn’t like to talk about his private life, which is fair enough. But nor does he like to talk about or explain his work. What does that leave? Diet tips, maybe?

Yep, that’s exactly where we begin. Lynch once called sugar “granulated happiness”. So as Lynch pours me a cup of some Damn Fine Coffee, I ask, so, David, find any good doughnuts in Paris?

“I’m off the doughnuts,” he says; he’s 22 pounds lighter than he was. “I’m off bread and potatoes. On a diet, yeah. Of protein, vegetables, fruit, many good things. But you can’t combine it with things that trigger your insulin level to go up. When your insulin level goes up, it forms a hand, and the hand grabs the fat, and puts it in your body.” Miming this, he makes it so sinister that I haven’t eaten a doughnut since.

We move on to kids. Lynch’s daughter Jennifer wrote and directed her own film, Boxing Helena, aged just 19.  It’s about a woman whose limbs are cut off one by one by her adoring but possessive boyfriend in order to keep her by his side. Sherilyn Fenn played the lead after Kim Basinger walked off the project, for which Basinger was successfully sued for millions. Money well spent, imo. The film was so panned that Jennifer didn’t direct another for 25 years.

Jennifer was quoted as saying that even her dad found the film offensive, which takes some doing. I ask Lynch about this, and he denies it: “But it should perhaps have been a small film that found its way. The way it turned out, it just set her up for a fall.”

Lynch’s first film, Eraserhead, made over a seven-year period, was about a father terrorised by a mutant baby that cries like a bleating sheep. It was directly inspired by his becoming a father to Jennifer. So… um… how did she react to that?

“Jennifer was eight when it was finished,” says Lynch, unperturbed. “She saw it. She was right there. Yeah, I think she got it…”

Read part two of the interview, in which I play a game of “hot or cold” with David Lynch to explain Lost Highway.

Journey into the art of darkness with David Lynch

24 Jan

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David Lynch’s exhibition of black and white photos at London’s Photographers’ Gallery is typically unsettling. Seen individually, each is a banal portrait of a post-industrial setting: a factory in Łódź, or a set of chimneys in Britain. But cumulatively, and particularly knowing Lynch’s films, they force you to start constructing a narrative in your head, to disturbing effect.

Smoke. Brick. Steel. Pylons. Peeling paint. Broken windows. Shadowy, inexplicable doorways, behind which you can’t help intuit a brooding presence. Snaking pipework – what gas or fluids do they carry? A wall of windows, some lit, some not, forming a geometric mosaic like a black-and-white Mondrian.

But the most striking picture of all, given all those that have gone before, is this one (below). We have had a succession of claustrophobic warehouse or factory interiors, all disused – abandoned after a radiation leak, perhaps; or one-time scenes of inexplicable workforce deaths; or currently used for the occasional kidnap, torture and murder. This is the only window on to the outside world in the whole exhibition, and it focuses directly on a single house.

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It’s hard not to feel like a deranged stalker looking out on a prospective victim. The perspective makes Father Dougals of us all — the house seems not so much far away, as very, very small. A dolls’ house whose inhabitants are of as little consequence, and there purely for the viewer’s sport.

Or is that just me?

I saw an exhibition of Lynch’s paintings in at the Galerie Piltzer in Paris in 1997. Again, they were individually unremarkable, until you realised that, cumulatively, they created a record of a crime scene.

Or was that just me?

Humans are meaning-creating creatures, the film guru Chris Jones has said. In other words, you don’t have to spell everything out for the audience when you make a film; the viewer will work hard to supply meaning to a scene in which little is said.

It works for David Lynch’s films, just as it works for his photography and paintings. Starting tomorrow, I will serialise my 1997 interview with Lynch, conducted for Time Out on the release of one of his most obscure and unsettling films, Lost Highway. Y’all come back now, y’hear?