David Lynch’s Surreal Worlds: Why His Films Still Haunt Us

The first time I stumbled across a David Lynch film, I was a teenager just starting to get into cinema. I’d been working my way through classics like Breathless and A Clockwork Orange, when Blue Velvet popped up on Netflix. The poster, with Kyle MacLachlan cradling Isabella Rossellini, looked both alluring and a bit odd. When I asked my old man about it, he just said, “That’s a good one, but it’s a weird one.” I hit play, not really knowing what I was in for. The opening shot of red roses against a white picket fence, all under a bright blue sky, quickly gave way to a close-up of beetles wriggling in the dirt. Then MacLachlan’s character, Jeffrey, finds a severed ear in the grass. I was hooked. That was the start of my fascination with Lynch’s work.

Mulholland Drive soon became a personal favourite – the glitzy, grimy take on Hollywood was right up my alley – and Twin Peaks was basically my gospel. I even had a photo of Agent Cooper and Audrey from the Double R Diner stuck on my bedroom wall. The soundtrack was on constant repeat, the main theme as soothing as a whiff of lavender before drifting off. Through uni and beyond, I found myself bonding with mates over a shared love of Lynch’s films. That’s the thing about his work: it draws you in, and before you know it, you’re searching for others who get it too.

Strangeness and Devotion

There’s something about the way Lynch blends humour and darkness, all tied together with a sense of the bizarre, that keeps people coming back. Backwards-talking characters, unsettling stories, unforgettable faces – it’s all there. Lynch was never exactly an underground figure, but let’s be honest, Eraserhead and Inland Empire aren’t the sort of films you chuck on for a family movie night. If you’re into Lynch, you’re probably really into him. He’s the kind of artist who’s always chasing the big ideas, never afraid to go after something a bit out there.

What sets him apart from other big-name directors is his unapologetic oddness and his total commitment to his craft. He didn’t just make films – he dabbled in music, painted wild, Bacon-inspired pieces, and even sculpted some pretty disturbing stuff (that Eraserhead baby still gives me the creeps). He wrote books about transcendental meditation, a practice he swore by, and about his creative process. Most importantly, he made films that pushed the boundaries of what cinema could be, always blurring the line between reality and dream, or even nightmare.

Empathy in the Uncanny

Despite all the strangeness, Lynch’s work is full of empathy. His stories are packed with tragic figures – from Joseph Merrick to Laura Palmer – but he never turns them into sideshows. Laura, in particular, stands out. She’s more than just a plot device; she’s a complex, troubled character who lingers in your mind long after the credits roll. Lynch’s art is all about exploring the darkness in people, but also about finding a way through it, usually with a bit of kindness and a lot of heart.

For every terrifying villain like Bob, Frank Booth, or Bobby Peru, there’s someone good to balance things out. Lynch’s belief in the power of individuals to do good is always there, just under the surface. Producer Sabrina S Sutherland, who worked with him on Twin Peaks and other projects, once said,

“He was just so very kind to people. He was so very comfortable in his skin and comfortable with people, and I think he just genuinely loved people. He was just a very kind person. And I think he is the best example to me as the best human being. He was so confident in his vision. He’d have an idea, and that was it. He knew that that was the idea he wanted to do no matter what.”

Legacy That Endures

It’s this knack for finding beauty in the bleakest places, and for revelling in life’s oddities, that’s made Lynch such a beloved figure in film. Even his gentlest work, The Straight Story, shows there’s hope to be found, no matter how dark things get. It’s been a year since he passed, and like a lot of people, I was surprised by how much it hit me. I shed a tear for the bloke who changed the way I see art, and who helped me connect with so many like-minded friends along the way.

Lynch’s films are timeless. You can revisit them over and over, always finding something new – a fresh angle, a different meaning. That’s about all you can ask for from an artist, really.