I talk about the creative power of Lynch’s films, think really hard about the nature of favorites, and discuss the ways that my recent re-watching of Eraserhead helped to pull me out of a rough period in my life (not presented exactly in this order).

David Lynch is most likely my favorite film director.

That is and is not a true statement. It’s wrapped up in a whole quagmire of self-reflective thought that I still haven’t managed to properly sort through. I have an extremely difficult time deciding on a favorite film because, like most people, different films mean different things for me. Hayao Miyazaki’s masterpiece Princess Mononoke is certainly the movie I’ve seen the most – it’s also the most influential on who I am as a person. Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner is a perfect representation of the kind of movie I want to write (it’s also perfect in every way). Hideaki Anno’s follow up to his magnum opus – itself also a magnum opus of the magnum opus – Neon Genesis Evangelion: The End of Evangelion is the most important movie I’ve ever seen for a multitude of reasons (most prominently in snapping myself out of a particular phase of my adolescence). Andre Tarkovsky’s Stalker is the film that inspires me to think the hardest thoughts, and it’s a movie I still change my mind on the meaning of to this day. All of these are candidates for my favorite movie of all time, and it’s obvious that they all have a seat at the table in the discussion. And yet, even though not a single film of his appears in this short list, David Lynch is most likely my favorite director. So why the heck is that?

There is a whole separate discussion to be had about the nature of auteur theory (it’s not a thing), but this isn’t the space to have it and what I have to say about Lynch doesn’t warrant comparison to that notion. Lynch is clearly a collaborator. He surrounds himself, repeatedly mind you, with some of the best creative minds working in the artistic industry. Yet even when you acknowledge his intense collaborative ethos, when I watch a David Lynch film it is one of the most intimate experiences imaginable. Every time I watch a David Lynch film, I truly feel transported from wherever I am or whatever I was doing before, into a different space – a space occupied by only myself and him. It’s a truly incredible experience, one that I still don’t feel I’ve correctly conveyed with words, and yet it seems, based on my observation, to be a universal aspect of his movies. Everyone I know who loves Lynch feels this connection to a greater or lesser degree. He’s scooping out the inside of his head, and just kind plopping it in yours. To really sum up what it is he does:

David Lynch is authentic and honest in his filmmaking.

It’s strange to use the word ‘authentic’ like this. I want to be clear that I’m not at all saying that other filmmakers are inauthentic, or that someone else’s deep connection to, say, Christopher Nolan, isn’t also authentic and true, or that Nolan himself isn’t authentic in his pursuits. I’m also not saying that Nolan, or say, Fincher, are liars (though Film Crit Hulk made a particularly compelling argument for the deceitful nature of Nolan’s films). What I’m really trying to get at is how I feel about David Lynch – what exactly I see, or perceive, as different in the movies he makes. There is this fantastic interview with the late David Foster Wallace where he talks about what exactly separates David Lynch from other directors, and I think it sums up my feelings better than I can. Wallace says:

“…that what the really great artists do — and it sounds very trite to say it out loud, but what the really great artists do is they’re entirely themselves. They’re entirely themselves. They’ve got their own vision, their own way of fracturing reality, and that if it’s authentic and true, you will feel it in your nerve endings.”

That’s really what it all comes down to. Your nerve endings. That raw, uncontrolled, unmitigated feeling that seeps deep into the parts of you that you keep covered and hidden away, and it rings true and resonates wholly throughout you. That’s the thing that David Lynch does better than, in my mind at least, any filmmaker I’ve ever had the pleasure of watching.

You might be wondering at this point in reading my rambling, “Okay, but what about Eraserhead?” And I assure you, I’m getting there. But first, a bit more on Lynch!

It might be strange to hear this far in, but Eraserhead isn’t my favorite David Lynch film. It sits probably around three or four shifting back and forth with Blue Velvet, with Fire Walk with Me and Mulholland Drive vying for the first-place spot. And yet, despite this fact, I find Eraserhead to continually fascinating (like just about everything Lynch has ever done). I always felt a draw from the movie: the off-kilter design aesthetics, the unexplained yet perfectly realized world, and the strange torment and suffering of Henry Spencer (Jack Nance). It wasn’t until my most recent viewing, however, that I felt like I ‘got’ the movie. I’m not talking about an analytical breakdown of the semiotics present in the movie – I tend to smile kindly at but set aside that kind of interpretation of Lynch’s films (except for the understanding of Mulholland Drive as a dream, which is key to understanding that film) – instead, it felt like I finally connected with the film on the sub textual, purely spiritual level that Lynch was operating at when making it. I felt Henry, even though I’m not a father, as a fellow human, someone I shared a kinship with and empathized with on a level beyond the normal relationship of film – subject and one-who-watches.

I can’t exactly explain why Eraserhead clicked for me this time. And make no mistake, ‘click’ is the exact way to describe it. It was like a switch was flicked in my head, shifting my perspective just that tiny bit necessary to receive the full image. And boy was it an image. I found myself during the movie completely ignoring the fact that I was uncomfortable on my bed, that the pillows I was leaning on for watching were either slightly too high or too low to lean against depending on the number of them I stacked up, I didn’t register the sounds of my roommates in the other rooms, I didn’t even realize that it was actually 3:00 am (which recontextualized the noises in the other room as somewhat worrying) – all I saw was the movie. In that moment of revelation, that spiritual reconstitution of my entire mind, the often-used adage “David Lynch movies are an experience,” suddenly took on new light and meaning.

So, when I think about this kind of truly epiphanic experience, I’ve gotta ask myself: Is Eraserhead maybe (possibly?) my favorite movie? I don’t have a conclusive answer (sorry if you expected a revelation of your own in this essay), but it really makes me start to realize this: it doesn’t really matter whether something is your “favorite” or the “best,” all that really matters is that you give all you have to give to whatever it is you’re doing. When you completely exit yourself, when you give up on that death-grip on the control you naturally cling to, magical things start to happen. I can’t wait for the next one of those I stumble across. I’m sure it won’t be the film I expect, but it most certainly will be the one I needed the most.