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.
During the first half of this essay, Wallace emphasized Lynch’s career almost exclusively from a technique standpoint. Whereas I criticized his lack of presence in the larger narrative, there was still something endearing about seeing the author delve into a filmmaker who, over 25 years later, has been hailed as a generational talent. To know that Lost Highway (1997) was considered a comeback film adds an interesting perspective if just because there’s something that feels uncommercial about it from a modern lens. It’s brutal, confusing, and grotesque like how 90s Lynch was, but I’d argue unpleasant in a way that’s meant to get under your skin. Wallace may not know the fallout of this film’s release, but there is one thing he does… he’s still a visionary.
What I love about Wallace throughout this entire journey his acknowledgment that Blue Velvet (1986) was a life changing film for him without holding Lynch as a messiah. In the modern age, it feels way too common to forgive a filmmaker’s lesser work simply because one resonated on a deeper level. In fact, he is quick to point out every foible that he disagrees with, and I think it makes me understand why he’s a fan. In an age of conventional storytelling, Lynch was doing something curious and pushing boundaries that were hard to pin down. Not just anyone could make Twin Peaks and Fire Walk With Me (1992) into this beguiling two-hander. Nobody was going to push the audience past the point of discomfort like Lynch, and Wallace wanted to be there for every squirm.
As the second half rolls around, I want to briefly touch on something amusing. I don’t know that Wallace strikes me much as a cinephile in his writing, but he does have some prescient points when the right topic emerges. Early into the second half of my reading, I was reminded of how critical he was of Quentin Tarantino: a filmmaker who was considered even more renegade than Lynch and has arguably achieved more awards and box office success. Despite this, Wallace’s belief that Tarantino is a man obsessed with visuals over depth is a sublime counterargument. It especially holds up because despite both being legends in their own rights, their goals for stimulating cinema differ greatly.
One thing that I loved about this half is how Wallace observes Lynch’s relationship with Los Angeles, CA. Given that the filmmaker was born in the Midwest and became known for a TV series set in the Northwest, it must’ve been bizarre to see him set a story in the land of make believe. It doesn’t immediately strike anybody as the place for surrealism to thrive and even Wallace assumed that Lynch would feel out of place. In some respect, he was. He’s described as being the palest person on set, having a physicality that allows him to stand out against a group of eccentrics who seem to all have special wardrobe quirks depending on their department. Even then, Wallace’s wandering around set reveals a wide group of characters doing odd jobs that make no sense, such as somebody editing images on a computer of Patricia Arquette’s corpse. It seems chaotic, but who dares to question Lynch’s methods?
Another thing I’ve loved about this anthology is how observant he is of geography. He has a gift for wandering around and collecting odd details about his environment. In this case, he paints the streets of Los Angeles as a futuristic sci-fi world where people are on their phones in cars communicating to the people next to them on the freeway. He talks about street musicians performing on medians and even acknowledges that there’s two people he’s run into named Balloon. Even the way he describes the winter sky has this poetic observation that make you understand that even if this is the land of glitz and glamour, the outsider has no choice but to feel a bit out of place.
Another form of displacement can be found when he’s required to be on set in Griffith Park. To those more familiar with the process, a lot of the minutiae will read as familiar. Crew members make sure to clear the set and allow the director to exist in his own insular world. Everyone has a place and they each have a different opinion of what the production is going to look like. In one section, Wallace highlights quotes from them and it ranges from enthusiasm and curiosity to one openly admitting that they’re not going to watch it. While the narrative style of Wallace’s essay feels fragmented and jumps from analysis to man on the street segments so abruptly, it all comes together to paint a picture of a writer eagerly trying to understand the magic of Lynch.
That could not be said for the one scene that he gets to see filmed. Along with script notes, he recounts watching a Mercedes driving around while crew members wait for their job to start. For as luxurious as the final product looks, the assembly seems to lack the same appeal even if Wallace manages to make everyone sound Lynchian. The one that he seems most intent on critiquing is the actor Balthazar Getty, who many on set dislike except for the director. Even then, he becomes a scathing jerk behind his back with a loathsome impersonation. It makes sense why his career hasn’t been as successful as others in Lost Highway, if just because he becomes the villain of the piece for a handful of pages.
For as much as this is a behind the scenes essay about Lost Highway, it’s clear that this was always about Wallace trying to understand his infatuation with Lynch. Even as he sits in a screening room to watch the rough cut, he’s looking for details that unlock some greater truth. He’s noticing background details and trying to make sense of why Lynch chose it. At a point he concludes that the director is doing it less to please audiences but amuse himself. He’s got a vision that he’s not going to sacrifice for anyone, and the mystery will overwhelm and bother whomever sets their eyes on it. They may be bothered by the conflicting emotions on display, but there is some inexplicable truth that Lynch wants to share. His years as an Expressionist painter have lead to a unique approach to filmmaking that is probably hard to understand without some arts degree.
It becomes interesting to know that the concluding section is less about Lost Highway and more a return to his curiosity around his larger career. There’s no sense that this film is going to succeed or fail. Instead he recalls how Blue Velvet featured a rape scene that features some Freudian language that might hint at something more uncomfortable about the protagonist. He also cites the differences of Laura Palmer between Twin Peaks and its accompanying movie. By turning an object into subject, he isolated his audience and forced them to question whether they could handle the complexities of life. She is both likable and unlikable at different points in the film, and the aggressive levels to which he portrays it are bothersome. It’s hard to imagine anyone watching Fire Walk With Me and not feeling a bit cheated on the first go.
Beyond any thematic point that Wallace is getting at, he reaches a conclusion that ties into his Laura Palmer point. There are those who likely would’ve assumed that Wallace would have even a line of conversation with Lynch, but instead their only contact involves him urinating. No, the larger point of Lynch’s appeal comes down to why people disliked Fire Walk With Me, which I’d argue Lost Highway shares some tonal similarities with. Wallace describes himself as a typical audience member who wants clear good and evil. Lynch is less interested in convenience and instead demands his audience dig into the uncomfortable reality that nobody is completely one way or the other. Wallace describes characters in Lynch films as being not “possessed” by evil but more evil wearing their skin (a feature that can be noticed in the lighting). Whereas many turn to film for escapism, Lynch wants to revel in the complicated truths that are hard to explain. It’s arguable how successful he ultimately was, but this conclusion may be the perfect summary of his career to that point.
This may be revealing ignorance, but I do honestly wonder what would’ve happened if Wallace was allowed to record his thoughts on every Lynch film from here. Imagine what he’d have to say about Mulholland Drive (2001) where audiences finally acknowledged his greatness again. What about Inland Empire (2006) where he followed up one of his most accessible films with one of his most ambiguously distanced. If anything, the millennium found him caring less about the studio system and wanting to make art that spoke to him in ways that Wallace referred to. The only question is whether he’d be into it or think that his pull away from commercialism was a big mistake.
What I love about this essay as it relates to this anthology is that Wallace is still mixing up his style and challenging our expectations of the form. Even the choice to break everything up into these odd segments and trivia sections brings personality to everything. However, it’s an odd mishmash of ideas that don’t make sense in the moment but have this greater purpose when you put it all together. It’s hard to properly cover the larger appeal, especially since Lost Highway feels like a side quest to some extent. It’s more a chance to dig into a dream and try to make sense of the imagery. Wallace’s efforts are not without commendation, but it’s hard to find meaning when you look too closely. Sometimes craft is just craft. It may be why his ultimate answer is less a clear-cut objective statement and something more subjective. It may seem like a cheat after so many pages, but I think it all helps to understand that the greatest reason to love Lynch is the reason to love life in general: the uncertainty of everyday.
Coming Up Next: "Tennis Player Michael Joyce's Professional Artistry as a Paradigm of Certain Stuff about Choice, Freedom, Discipline, Joy, Grotesquerie, and Human Completeness"
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