“The Elephant Man” (1980)
Lynch’s second film is one of the most surprising in his filmography because it is not surprising at all, but rather elegant, classical, emotive to the point of sentimental, and immensely accessible. Featuring a gorgeous central performance from John Hurt who somehow manages to be the very definition of heartbreaking despite acting beneath seven hours’ worth of make-up and prosthetic effects, it’s based on the real-life story of Joseph Merrick (called John in the film). Merrick is a circus freak who is treated as a sub-human possession by his employer, before surgeon Frederick Treves (Anthony Hopkins), motivated as much by ambition and curiosity as by altruism, brings him to live among high society. Once there, Merrick’s innate intelligence makes itself felt, but while he is treated better, it is still with intense condescension and, at best, pity, despite the fact that his personal grace and dignity set him far above the gawping crowds. That Freddie Francis‘ luxuriant photography is in black and white is really the only avant-garde choice made here aside from a couple of hazy flashbacks, although Lynch’s intense, penetrating sympathy for the grotesque, which had already been on display in much more perverse and surreal fashion in “Eraserhead” does color every single moment with Merrick. Mostly though, this is a triumph within Lynch’s canon because it shows just how skilfully he could, if he wanted, turn in a “traditional” film — not for nothing is “The Elephant Man” also one of his most traditionally lauded, picking up eight Oscar nominations, among them Lynch’s first as Best Director. A little like a Picasso who mastered the “rules” of classical representation only to transcend them into the realm of the abstract, “The Elephant Man” is the straightforward, instantly comprehensible, emotionally available film that immunizes Lynch against accusations that he is obscure only because he doesn’t know how to be linear.
“Dune” (1984)
In the book of interviews “Lynch on Lynch” the filmmaker, notoriously reticent on the subject of his biggest folly, had this to say about his stumbling version of Frank Herbert‘s science fiction opus ““[it] was a kind of studio film. I didn’t have final cut. And, little by little, I was subconsciously making compromises.” While the truth of this vague assessment is inarguable to anyone who has seen the unmistakably compromised film, in any of its versions (some of which were even “Alan Smithee”-ed by Lynch), this quote is a real marker of what a different world we lived in 30 years ago — one in which Lynch’s subconscious urges were to capitulate to outside pressure and to try and normalize his personal vision into something a major studio could accept. The result is a mess, but a strangely lovable one, in overall form resembling as grotesque a mutant as ever took up residence behind Jack Nance‘s radiator, but one that has occasional flashes of wild, dazzling inspiration, and the kind of sincere heart that Lynch would arguably never even attempt to display again. The complex epic tale of Paul Atreides (Kyle MacLachlan) who turns out to be the messiah-like Kwisatz Haderach of the planet Arrakis aka Dune, sent to lead the oppressed indigenous people in rebellion against a corrupt power structure that sees the planet exploited for its mineral wealth, Lynch only ever has the tiger of Herbert’s unwieldy, populous plot by the very tip of its tail. But the production design, especially that of the repulsive “floating fatman” Baron Vladmir Harkonnen, is unforgettable, the universe’s darkness is often well-achieved, despite campiness elsewhere and even when the film is at its most incoherent, it’s never less than (compulsively) watchable, especially for those with any kind of nostalgic attachment to sci-fi filmmaking in the mid 1980s.
“Blue Velvet” (1986)
In some ways, David Lynch was a hard man to pin down in the early part of his career — he went from bold experimentalism, to a quieter, more mainstream (by his standards, at least) period picture for “The Elephant Man,” to the big-budget sci-fi misfire of “Dune.” He’s remained a hard man to pin down, but in a different way, because “Blue Velvet” marked different sort of turning point: it was the movie that saw him refine, define and confirm his own voice, picking up where “Eraserhead” left off in the Lynchian universe. An entirely distinctive neo-noir blended with a horror film, it seems ordinary enough in the early stages: college boy Jeffrey (Kyle MacLachlan) returns to his picture-perfect small-town home, only to be brought into the orbit of a mysterious woman, Dorothy (Isabella Rossellini), and gangster Frank Booth (Dennis Hopper). You’ve seen something like that a dozen times before, probably. But as Jeffrey and clean-cut love interest Sandy (Laura Dern), are drawn further and further into Frank’s world, caused by finding a severed ear, it becomes progressively clearer that Lynch’s thrust is anything but generic. Right from the first appearance of Hopper’s legendarily terrifying Frank, at once impotent and powerful, as glimpsed peeping-tom style by Jeffrey, “Blue Velvet” is a film that feels legitimately dangerous, a deep dig into the seedy desires and sexual violence that lingers below the surface not just of suburbia, but of the all-American boy as well, with almost everyone involved are giving their best-ever performances. Even more so than “Eraserhead,” this defining title informs everything that came after, from the dark-side-of-ordinary-life themes to the nightmarish surrealism to the music of Angelo Badalamenti (hired for the film initially only as Rossellini’s singing coach, he and Lynch have gone on to work together countless times). So not just for the magnificent film it is, but for creating the Lynch we know and love, “Blue Velvet” might just be his finest achievement.