Alternate Title: “Why You Should Admire David Lynch But Not Like Him.” But the truth is that everybody we know who has worked with Mr. Lynch or hung with him or whatever likes him. A lot. Seems selfishness isn’t always what it seems:
by Rory Carroll
David Lynch seldom smiles in photographs. His etched Easter Island statue
of a face doesn’t glower so much as brood; lips pursed and eyes hooded, he looks every inch the auteur in winter. The quiff completes the effect, its lush swirl seemingly frozen in place by alarming, Lynchian thoughts.
In his 40 years of film-making, the director has taken audiences from sunlit American idylls to surreal dimensions populated by demons, doppelgangers and psychotic killers. His are scenes you can’t forget: the whimpering, deformed baby in Eraserhead, the severed ear in Blue Velvet, the blood-spattered, skull-crushing violence of Wild At Heart, the nuclear explosion in Twin Peaks: The Return. Google “David Lynch creepy”, and you get 5.5m results.