David Lynch is such an incredible force in the world of art and film, having spent decades cultivating his distinct voice—and voice, both figuratively and literally, is an important component of Room to Dream. I listened to the audiobook of Lynch’s biography / memoir, co-written with Kristine McKenna, and hearing Lynch himself speak adds a unique charm, given his voice’s unique charm.
In terms of structure, the book is pretty engaging. McKenna writes sections of more objective biography and reportage and then David Lynch ‘corrects the record,’ as it were, giving his own perspectives and anecdotes that would generally not warrant inclusion in a biography. Those moments standout as particularly endearing, narrated kind of like grandpa Simpson talking about tying an onion to his belt, which was the style at the time, where the main narrative is suddenly interrupted by David Lynch talking about the best chocolate milk or donut he has ever had, or his discussion of being in France and how he “found out how great these pommes frites are, these French fries, and they coaxed [him] into doing these interviews by giving [him] all these pommes frites, which were incredible”.
One of the things I find so engrossing about Lynch as an artist and personality is his capacity for finding an exuberant pleasure in such simple things. His films explore such bizarre depths that it seems a contradiction that something as simple as French fries are a transcendent experience. It points towards Lynch’s focus on minutiae. The grand vision of his work is comprised of details significant, sometimes, only to him. In one section, for instance, the book notes that Lynch hides things around the set that would never be noticed and yet are supposedly crucial to the scene—coffee beans under the bed, for instance. The book suggests the intensity of attention that drives Lynch’s work and that is demanded of his audience. One witness to Lynch’s early art career describes how Lynch was creating an oil painting of a boat by a dock: “He was putting the paint on really thick at that point and a moth had flown into the painting and as it struggled to get out of the paint it made this beautiful swirl in the sky. I remember he got so excited about that, seeing that death mixed in with his painting.”
In fact, a central tension of the text is between the divine and the macabre. Lynch finds such beauty in all facets of life: light and darkness in equal measure. In the beginning of the book, there are scenes of Lynch playing in the street with his friends in a vision of classic Americana juxtaposed with chilling moments, including one in which he encounters a naked woman wandering in the street who has been beaten. Not to give too simplistic a reading, but there are parallels with Lynch’s filmic language. I’m picturing a scene in Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me that presents a similar vision to the one narrated about Lynch’s youth. In another scene, he talks about driving high at night where the darkness surrounds the road and narrows his vision: for that, it’s almost as though his teenage shenanigans are the inciting force for Mulholland Drive: the iconic shot of the centre lines in the road and the irresponsible young drivers that cause the crash that saves Rita’s life echoed in my mind’s eye.
As expected from the biography of an artist, there is thorough account of Lynch’s various projects. Given the opacity of his works, the book does not reveal their meaning, of course, but gives a glimpse into the world of filmmaking. The projects with which I’m most familiar are the sections of the book I was most invested in, particularly Mulholland Drive, Inland Empire, and Twin Peaks. While I’m familiar with Eraserhead, Dune, and Lost Highway, I’ve only seen them once each and my memory is less faithful. That said, the behind-the-scenes anecdotes are all compelling either for revealing how the projects come together or how certain choices came to pass. The coincidences behind casting Mulholland Drive, for instance, are pretty serendipitous to the project. There’s also accounts of projects that never materialized which are evocative to the imagination in compelling ways. Poor, poor Ronnie Rocket.
Some details I knew—Lynch being asked to direct a Star Wars sequel, for instance—but I didn’t know the depths of their connection. He was also offered American Beauty, and I can’t help but imagine what a different film that might have been with him at the helm. As I mentioned, the sections that David Lynch narrates himself are incredibly endearing and add to the humour of the book. He narrates an anecdote in which Marlon Brando was given a private screening of Lost Highway (Lynch had wanted him to be in the film). Hearing Lynch tell the story is hilarious: “Marlon came in and the man who owned the theater had a bunch of treats [...] and Marlon filled his pockets with all sorts of candies, this man told us, and then Marlon went in and he also had hamburgers and different things in his pockets, so basically, he was eating during the whole screening—hamburgers that he brought on his own. So, after the screening he left and the next day he called me and he said, “David, it’s a damn good film, but it won’t make a nickel.’” It’s such an absurd image. Imagine a guy with pockets full of hamburgers just pulling out burger after burger the length of the film. Now imagine David Lynch’s voice saying that. I laughed every time I listened to it.
The same is true when Lynch went on tangents about his own affectations. I’ll fail to reproduce the full effect, but in one moment Lynch describes his personal style and its rationale: “I button the top button on my shirt because I like the way it looks but also I don’t like any air on my collar bones. For some reason, that really bothers me. I don’t like, anyone, you know, fiddling with my collar bones, and I don’t like air on them.” Why are people fiddling with your collar bones, David?!
Actually, reading the book would suggest that Lynch has had his collarbones fiddled with a fair amount. He’s a charming man—and a bit of a philanderer. You can get the impression of his habits early in his life, a throughline you can trace through the accounts given by his four wives. If there’s something that will retroactively challenge Lynch’s artistic achievements, it will be his relationship with women (though, to be clear, none of the women seem to bear ill-will towards him, just a recognition that he loves love and he loves his work). If there are two things that will retroactively challenge Lynch’s artistic achievements, it will be his confusing political affiliation.
Yet, in some ways, issues like politics seem beneath Lynch. Again and again, Lynch returns to an endorsement of transcendental meditation. It arises at critical moments in his life and he presents a pretty persuasive case for engaging in the practice. He refers to the brain research of transcendence, offers it as a means for ensuring we treat others well, and an avenue for creativity. In his words, “I always say that negativity is the enemy of creativity and this conduit through which ideas flow, stress and all this tension, it squeezes that conduit and blocks the little beautiful little ideas from flowing through so you can catch them.” Transcendental meditation brings us to the level of consciousness that allows for inner happiness, external happiness, and, by extension, our creative faculties flourish. And, judging from Lynch’s manic productivity, it really does inspire you to make the art you want to make.
Recently, I was having a conversation with a friend who is very much not a fan of Lynch, for understandable reasons. When she asked me why I liked Lynch, and my answer was that I am drawn into the not knowing. When I think of books that I love, films that I love, and so on, there’s a kind of unanswerable mystery at the core. I am compelled by what requires deciphering, particularly when it evades a conclusive response. Even though Room to Dream gives some answers to Lynch’s life, it does not do so in a way that diminishes his art. Despite the fact that this biography is as likely as we are to get to a definitive account of his life and work, it maintains the impression that there is always more to discover, always more left unsaid.
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