Over the past few series, Short Stop has focused on stories that fall under the fiction umbrella. While some have been autobiographical, they present something more creative within the framework that is deserving of exploration. The chance to dive into what interests an author becomes a rewarding experience as I broke down themes and found interesting tidbits. While this will be the same for the upcoming series, the approach will be a little different. I’ve been a fan of David Foster Wallace ever since reading “Infinite Jest” years ago and have been curious to delve into his essays. In an effort to better understand his potential as a writer, I am going to be spending this column exploring the seven entries for “A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again.” Will the mix of analysis and autobiography provide something rewarding, or will I never do a nonfiction column again? Join me and find out. The only caveat is that due to some of these being lengthier, there’s an off chance the entries will take longer to release. Keep that in mind and let’s delve into one of the most unique voices of the late 20th century.
Despite being a media critic, there’s a strong sense so far that Wallace is not someone who has personal affections for art. My impression reaching the end of “E. Unibus Pluram” was that even if he loved what post-modernism started as, he was disappointed by his generation’s inability to find its own voice. He seems like the type to be more engrossed in technique over anything personally speaking to him. That may just be a byproduct of his essays so far discussing less the emotional weight of his subjects and more the clinical nature by which they exist. It could just be that the Illinois state fair piece made him seem like such a dullard, but he seems distanced from everything that could possibly be considered “cool.” He is your prototypical Gen-X academic, and I’m unsure if anything made him happy.
That is why placing “David Lynch Keeps His Head” in this collection is so fascinating. While there’s been elements of autobiography throughout this collection, I don’t think Wallace has so actively put himself front and center in a media studies piece. Even something like “E. Unibus Pluram” exists more as an observer than an active consumer. While the larger story is about David Lynch, this is also the story of a man who is sharing the art that means a lot to him. Whereas he’s already railed against post-modernism and irony, one had to wonder what kind of art spoke to him. What spoke to your quintessential Gen-X academic who encouraged his generation to challenge the cultural norms and find their own voice?
To hear Wallace discuss Blue Velvet (1986) is to witness something akin to a spiritual awakening. Like most cinephiles, there was that one film you saw in college that revolutionized the way you saw the world. There was something to Lynch’s hallucinatory suburban vision that cracked open his cranium and revealed a new way to perceive. His interviews will make clear how watching Blue Velvet convinced him to acknowledge that post-modernism and corporate-branded irony were hollow gestures. On the one hand, it has the silliness of any film student discovering a radically different perspective for the first time. Everyone has that period of thinking the way that they see the world is unique and special, and Wallace circa Blue Velvet feels like his version.
Unlike most people, I think it’s interesting to see Lynch as placing a seed into Wallace’s head that morphed and grew over time. Maybe because I grew up in the wake of films made by people inspired by Blue Velvet, I don’t know that I could ever fully appreciate Lynch’s early output. I can definitely agree that it’s “weird” and “artful,” but there’s not a point where I press play and think I could achieve half the level of enthusiasm Wallace did when he was out with friends seeing this strange little film.
While it’s not the central topic of the film, it’s important to note that Wallace sees his relationship with the film as holding some greater meaning to the larger text. Part of it could be chalked up to Blue Velvet following the box office bomb Dune (1984). Even in an era where every Lynch film has been reappraised, very few could think to call Dune worth considering. Even Wallace, who uses his media criticism bona fides to break down its many failures, acknowledges that it’s a fundamentally flawed adaptation that’s even lacking Lynch’s authoritative voice. Blue Velvet being a successful follow-up would mark a comeback that kicked off the 90s featuring a mix of Palme d’Or winners and one of the most beloved TV series of its era.
And yet, to compare Blue Velvet to Lost Highway (1997) is fascinating. I’ve bought into the idea that everyone always loved Lynch in part because that’s the only conversation I ever hear anymore. It’s hard to remember when he was completely counterculture. To hear Wallace talk about him, however, it’s easy to see the contrast clearly. There’s something enigmatic about watching a Lynch film. Even if the truth feels present, there’s often a lack of conventional sense driving the plot. The overabundance of artifice in films like Wild At Heart (1990) may not fully work, but Wallace is still curious about Nicolas Cage’s character being an Elvis Presley pastiche. He contemplates the “Wizard of Oz” motifs, suggesting the crassness informs an American fairytale that has gone awry despite its perversions.
This is all done in an effort to figure out who Lynch is as an individual. Even as he presents himself to a curious public, he’s not willing to spill his secrets. If anything, he’s playful and misleading in ways that feel like extensions of his work. There’s enough present to feel enlightened, but not enough to have everything revealed. For those who hate living in uncertainty, Lynch and his work will never be what’s considered a good time.
Another thing that seems fascinating is that even as Wallace deconstructs Lynch’s filmography, he’s showing the small ways that they’re one in the same. They may not appear that way on the surface, but consider Wallace breaking down society’s many foibles. He’s genuinely invested in understanding the appeal of tennis, literary language, and even state fairs. There’s something grotesque within each of these that he enjoys adding a comical perspective in. It’s hard to say whether he would’ve gotten there without Blue Velvet, but the first half of this essay feels like the student writing a love letter to the teacher.
However, I think the most interesting parallel between Blue Velvet’s formative origins for Wallace and Lost Highway is that both existed in a time where it can be argued that Lynch’s career was at a crossroads. Lost Highway in particular never struck me as a “comeback” film, and yet Wallace points out how it could’ve been the end of the road for Lynch if it all fell apart. His TV series On the Air was a notorious flop. Fire Walk With Me (1992) was a bold departure from Twin Peaks to the point that it offended fans. Some would rightfully even call it nonsensical. Given that this was before the 2000s when his work embraced a centerless dreamy texture, it’s hard to predict where his career could’ve gone. Even by Wild At Heart, one was right to assume that he was becoming a self-parody.
On the one hand, having Wallace detail every small thing what excites him about Lynch is tedious. Even if I have enjoyed the immersion that he writes with, I have to wonder what it would be like to have a more streamlined essay. Would this be as impactful if Wallace simply focused on his visit to the set of Lost Highway? While he interweaves it with this grander study of his career, this is such a love fest that feels a bit too endearing. Had it been a less ambitious filmmaker, I’m sure hearing him breakdown several films’ plots to prove a greater point would be aggravating. However, Lynch is so unique that it more than exacerbates Wallace’s point that Lynch is one of the true originals.
The second half of this essay will hopefully dig into Wallace discussing his time on the set. There are tidbits here, but they’re largely table setting. The most that I care to get into here is that one of Wallace’s first moments with Lynch is watching him urinate on a tree. The amusing reason for this is that the bathrooms were too far away and would eat up too much time. It’s also a moment absurd enough to feel straight out of a Lynch film. As someone searches for meaning in this man’s work, it’s interesting that nothing has felt conventional about his time on set so far.
I should say that a lot of this section has some good media analysis around Lynch’s career. It delves into why his work can be considered “sick” while also engrossing. There’s so many counterarguments playing out at once that create this richer vision. If you judge Lynch solely on what Wallace has to say, you can understand why he loves him. The pioneer status is very much earned without too high a level of hyperbole. If anything, there are raised eyebrows at this point. Now the question is what he’s going to discover once he sees how the sausage is made. As someone who is great at standing back and observing, I am hoping he finds something to rival the lore of the film itself. He’s already discussed how Lost Highway is about entering other people’s bodies. Now it’s time to see if Wallace can do that with Lynch.
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