David Lynch, a symbol of cult cinema, is back

Richard Farnsworth, in 'A true story'.
Richard Farnsworth, in ‘A true story’.

Looking for meritorious exits in the face of the alarming drought of premieres with interest, trying to offer something tasty to the cinephilia that continues to identify the dark room as the natural space of the films, a bold distributor rerun part of director Wong Kar-wai’s filmography, author of a poetic and very sad jewel entitled Wishing to love. They return to the fray, restocking in remastered versions and in numerous cinemas in this country during a month eight films by a revered guru of the avant-garde and of modernity named David Lynch, someone always fascinating (or so they say) for ancient and renewed legions of sophisticated moviegoers, author of a work that they find hypnotic and mysterious, sensual and terrifying, endowed with a disturbing and peculiar atmosphere.

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And I admit that there is something in the water when it is blessed by so many cultivated spirits. But there are few occasions in which I have felt enveloped by the irresistible magnetic field of Lynch’s cinema. In most of his films I don’t know what he’s talking about, I don’t find a minimum of logic in his arguments, I get lost, I get bored, I get irritated. I am that simple. And I know that he is a brilliant photographer, that he can create powerful and disturbing images, but also that what he intends to narrate sounds to me like nonsense with pretensions, like experimentalism with keys for initiates. The only thing that fascinates me in his way of conceiving cinema are the beautiful soundtracks that the musician Angelo Badalamenti composes for him. Lynch also has a style for introducing songs into magically visualized settings.

His filmography is short. Nine feature films and the television series Twin Peaks. 15 years ago it rolled Inland Empire, his latest, incomprehensible and delusional movie. They say that he dedicates his transcendent existence to meditation. Blessed be. Likewise, he makes short films that are shown on the internet. You must feel very identified and loving with new technologies. I don’t understand about that. I’m sure I’m missing something as necessary as it is exciting.

It is paradoxical that a cryptic and twisted director, someone who regularly gets on my nerves, has made two films that seem wonderful to me, that touch my soul, that convey emotion, feeling and tenderness, that could bear the signature of some directors what I love. One is The elephant Man, the brutal, tragic and compassionate story of John Merrick, a noble and luminous heart behind a monstrous physical appearance, exploited, humiliated and tortured like a carnival beast until a humanistic and generous doctor, able to see to an admirable human being in someone who has only known extreme suffering. In the atrocious memories and nightmares of the elephant man appear images with the permanent stamp of Lynch’s universe. But they do not break the harmony with the classic narrative that he uses to tell the story of that poignant outcast. It does so in stunning black and white. It masterfully combines melodrama and horror. It is a masterpiece.

Priceless lyric

It also seems to me A true story, that follows the tired footsteps of an old man, traveling astonishing distances on his lawn tractor to meet again and say goodbye to a dying brother with whom he fell out many years ago. This journey in which so many beautiful things happen is described with priceless lyrics, with privileged observation of people and feelings, with a sentimental complexity that can refer you to humanity, art, expressiveness, the poetry that inhabits the cinema of John Ford.

And like all his viewers I was mesmerized with the opening two chapters of Twin Peaks, with the mystery and curiosity that permeate the murder of Laura Palmer. The enchantment soon dissipated. The rest was tiresome, the most recognizable Lynch offering the opium of always to his exquisite parish, gratuity, artifice and darkness in a luxurious packaging. The sacred work of this man, including the esoteric and presumably untouchable Blue velvet Y Mulholland Drive, It seems to me as tortuous as it is incomprehensible, that those affiliated with that prestigious, corny and heavy concept of cult cinema enjoy it forever. My gods are other and they never wanted to be worshiped on the altars of the intelligentsia, in the temples of the avant-garde.