When this movie is finally released, commercially (last night’s screening for The Sydney Film Festival is in advance of the finalising of Dendy’s official run of the film), many of you will no doubt stumble, quite unknowingly, into something very, very strange that you may very well not be prepared for. Some of you, quite frankly, will find yourselves in the wrong place. During my screening, around ten people walked out; and there’s sure to be a few less bums on seats, at the end of every reel, than there was, when the lights first dimmed - but, that’s David Lynch for you! Despite being arguably the most famous living director of contemporary cinema, the popularity of Lynch can often work against him, as “cultured” movie-goers attend the latest Lynch film, simply because they are expected to. But not everybody “gets” it; and, on top of this, hardly anybody can be 100% certain of “what” it is they’re supposed to be getting. And not everyone can deal with that. So, the very least I can do is to make sure you do understand what realm it is you’re about to be dragged into – quite beautifully, and yet, so unpleasantly – when one buys a ticket for the infamously troubling (in one way, or another) Inland Empire. Let’s take a little peek at the obsessions and mind-bending ideological metaphors of Mr Lynch.
David Lynch has had a mammoth career, spanning 31 years and 10 feature films (alongside television ventures – most notably, of course, Twin Peaks; commercials – such as the cult PS3 series; and a constant dabbling in various musical outings, short films, cartoons and assorted oddities). Lynch has occasionally made the unexpected divergence, such as his 2000 Disney-collaboration, The Straight Story (in complete antithesis to what is considered to be “Lynchian”; a slow-paced, linear and heart-warming true story of a man and his lawnmower); but, throughout all, there has been a clearly visible train of thought, a string of films that, side by side, show us a progression of a singular method, theme and style. This began with the cult classic, Blue Velvet; but where it has eventually traveled to (now that we can look back over twenty years on this bizarre journey, and finally arrive at what is the current outer-limit of Lynch world) makes the tale of Jeffrey Beaumont, and his ill-fated curiosity, seem achingly simplistic, in comparison.
For those familiar with Lynchworld, I can comfortably inform you that despite many reviews heralding Inland Empire as a return to Eraserhead, such observation is merely the superficial comparison of one strange thing to another. What these critics are observing is a perceived level of surrealism; but Inland Empire’s surrealism is not, in any way, the same kind we saw with Eraserhead (where the film takes place in a single, surreal world, within which, there is still a linear tale), but rather, an extension of Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me, Lost Highway and Mulholland Drive. Considering it is these films that have captured my heart and adoration, for the past fifteen years (I’ll admit, I have never been fond of Eraserhead), I was most grateful to find a world quite familiar to the ones I have enjoyed so very much, in the past. Inland Empire is another existential quagmire, an internal identity collapse where perceptual subjectivity bends the rules of consciousness, finding a place where time is no longer linear, and who we are is no longer bound to the confines of an external reality we cannot face. Confused? It’s really all very simple. Sort of.
What foremost binds these Lynch films (the spine of his career, essentially), thematically and allegorically, is that they all revolve around a character who finds him or her self in an extreme psychological crisis, where reality (the everyday kind, that most cinema is happy enough to stick to) becomes unbearable or destructively hostile, for one reason or another. Laura Palmer (Twin Peaks) was placed there, by her ongoing abuse; Fred Madison (Lost Highway) was placed there, by the destruction of his marriage and the realisation that his wife was not exactly as devoted as he had thought; Diane Selwyn (Mulholland Drive) found herself there, waiting for her hitman to carry out the deed she had been driven to arrange upon the woman who betrayed her. And, now, Nikki Grace (Inland Empire) is the next poor soul to slip down the cracks of what Lynch refers to as an “Identity Fugue” (otherwise, known as a "Psychogenic Fugue"); an actress with a possessive husband, who lands a lead role in a cursed movie - during which, she begins to walk on a fine line of infidelity with her co-star.... as she plays a woman with a possessive husband, walking a fine line with her co-star. Hands up, all those who can smell a Lynchian ID melt, a mile away, in that plot!
All these doomed protagonists, for their own reasons, in their own ways, fall, not only from who they are, but, so too, from who others are, in an effort to mentally escape their predicament. Fuerthermore, nearly all are clearly painted as “doomed” and, more importantly, often paint themselves this way – something integral to understanding the psychology and philosophy behind Lynch’s fugues. These characters respond to their situations in such a manner, because there really is no other option – they are forced, by an external reality and/or identity they have no conscious control over (essentially, a classic existential crisis). Their reaction is to fall inward, psychologically, into subjectivity, because this is the space where we seemingly can author our own experience of consciousness. It’s a kind of cornered response mechanism.
Laura Palmer was the front-runner, partly because her experience was centered around the reconstruction of another – effectively keeping the identity of her abuser from herself, in order to deal with something she could not change. In this way, she tried to reconstruct her own role in her situation, through her conceptual relationship to the external entity that was placing her in the crisis (changing the other, to change herself) - primarily, because part of the problem with her abuse was more than the simple fact that it was happening, but also, that it was being committed by someone so central to a human’s fundamental concept of self and safety (her Father). Still, she didn't change her own identity – just her own disposition, by changing another’s identity.
Lost Highway took this further, and introduced the idea of changing not just the identity of others, but our own identity, along with it. This is where Lynchworld started to get a little… well… tricky. But it’s also where a more allegoric – arguably, in some ways, even moralistic – undercurrent started to become a stronger element of the Lynchian Fugue. Fred Madison, in response to his maddening jealousy and betrayal, escapes the situation this inevitably leads to (I’m trying not to spoil it too much for people who are yet to see some of these films, so I'll keep it ambiguous) by falling internal, and changing his own identity – reconstructing himself as the antithesis of his destruction: the man trapped in the anxiety of male ego, as he no longer has his youth or sexual allure, becoming the epitome of everything he can no longer be (in the character of the youthful, sexually-charged Pete). He does, however, change the identity of the “other” in his scenario, too – the betraying brunette, Renne, becoming the blonde reflection of Alice, recapturing (trying to, at least) the woman he lost. And this is precisely the problem, in so many ways. Inevitably, his escape fails, because all roads eventually lead back to the same crisis. That "other" gets him, yet again. "You'll never have me," she inevitably whispers (at which point, because this renders the reconstruction a failure, he transforms back).
This is where the philosophy of Lynch rears its head. To me, the allegory of Lynchworld is quite simple; it’s the irony of it, that leads so many to miss it. If I was to sum up the philosophy of Lynch, it would be this... "You cannot escape your Self". No matter how hard you try, no matter what dark corridors of the mind one travels down, all roads lead back to the same point – just as they do, every time, in Lynchworld. The Fugue doesn’t actually work in its core intention, on a superficial level. You can learn from the failure of the Fugue and rise from it, or not – some characters perhaps do (Fred may or may not, depending on how one sees the ending of Lost Highway), and others, most certainly, do not (such as Mulholland Drive’s tragic demise of Diane Selwyn); but the philosophy is, at least, quite clear: you can let go of the conscious, linear, external reality, and cheat your life and identity, by falling internal. The internal is a place that does not – cannot – work. One must ask why, to find the existential philosophy at the heart of Lynchworld.
It is here, that we find the laws of projection. We may exist, connected to a reality that is external (to some extent, perhaps, objective); but, as individuals, we are bound to the single core of who we are, the one point of our being. Everything must come from it. As a writer, I can create “imaginary” places; but while I may transcend my physical reality, by creating something not directly limited by it (I can “make something up”, in other words), I cannot transcend myself or the core of who I am. I can be "me", making something up - but the nature of that fantasy is built from the fact that I built it. This is the fundamental dynamic of psychoanalysis, because even our fantasies must come from – and be driven by – the reality of who we “are”. We can only create, imagine or dream, from a point of reference we cannot escape from - a reasoning, dependent on our beliefs and experiences. So, Lynch’s characters may discover a means where they can – seemingly – escape who they “are”; but really, they have not. Lost Highway’s Fred Madison may reconstruct himself as another, designed to resolve his anxiety, but this identity is still a projection – and, therefore, about – this anxiety, as it exists in accordance to it, functionally. It's like how, sometimes, the lies people tell show us more about what drives an individual, than if we looked at the surface reality of their lies. The Fugue, at the core, is a kind of deception; but it fails, because, within it, there is still the horrible truth that drives it. Therefore, in the end, these people have not escaped, at all.
Mulholland Drive was - and to me, yes, still is - the epitome of this Lynchian cautionary tale. It's wrong of me to make such conclusions after a single screening of Inland Empire (in comparison to the 30 odd times I've watched and dissected Mulholland Drive), but there was still a beauty and sadness that Mulholland Drive had (that made it such a powerful experience) that Inland Empire just doesn't have. That doesn't mean to say that it should, as such - each film has its own qualities (a good thing, to be sure). Lost Highway had a sexiness, an unmistalkable cool, that Mulholland didn't have; Mulholland had the beauty that Lost Highway didn't have. Inland Empire's distinguishing quality is an atmosphere that is hard to articulate, but is decidedly heavy and harsh - I'd go as far as calling it "grating", at times. The film opens with the heavy crackle, as a needle cuts the vinyl on an old gramaphone, and it pretty much sets the tone. The film, quite deliberately, lacks the beauty of Mulholland Drive, or the sex-charged, super-cool fantasy feel of Lost Highway; giving it a distinct edge in what could almost be described as a trilogy, of sorts, but making it hard to live up to these predecessors (as a matter of my personal taste - I'm sure many, I'd imagine male, fans may disagree).
Technically speaking, this atmosphere is (as always with a Lynch film) a mix of extreme use of sound (Lynch has always relied on vivid soundscapes, much more than other film-makers of our times) and vision, but is also largely related to (or utilising, at least) the fact that this is Lynch's first exploration of the world of DV (digital video). Lynch takes the grainy, saturated effects of DV that most would complain about and try to hide, and openly toys with them. Indeed, Lynch has confessed his undying love for the new medium. It's a "warts and all" love; but not just in spite of those warts, but because of them. Davey thinks the warts are an untapped opportunity; enjoying the new medium and textures, in the same way a painter would swap from acrylic to oil, to see what the difference could do to his vision. It's inspiring, and he's... you know... allowed, and all. I credit it, and I'm glad he did it - but there's a beauty to his work in film that is, however deliberate, missing from this one. I imagine this may bring the film undone, with many reviewers who have previously heralded Lynchworld.
Furthermore, the camera-work is often hand-held; not overbearingly, with the sometimes painful self-awareness and purpose of a dogma film - but deliberately raw, all the same. This swaps back and forth, to camera-work more traditionally set up; but still, however professional and "classic" the studio technicalities may often be, the same actual camera remains in use - not even a top-of-the-line model, but a relatively standard version.
The decision to use this camera, however, was more than the artist merely controlling the aesthetic. In fact, it is central to how Inland Empire came to be what it "is"; for, above all, it allowed Lynch to film his movie, seemlessly (one thought allowed, by the technical restraints of using proper film being removed, to beget another as the thought erupts) and spontaneously (reacting impulsively to a feeling or thought, without having to set up lighting and cameras, etc). Inland Empire was created, pretty much on the go - this is not a film undertaken after the completion of a script, but a continuum of consciousness that Lynch dared to follow. This is where Inland Empire really breaks from the other Lynch outings and becomes its own forerunner, of sorts. If Dogma was the rebel "method" of the late 90's and early 00's, perhaps Lynch has handed us a new rebellion against conventional film-making, with his stream-of-consciousness approach. It is where Lynch's recent obsession with transcendental meditation seems to have quite logically affected his film-making, and, I must confess, it is partly what excited me about seeing the fruits of this technique, in this latest weird and wonderful walk into Lynchtown.
Lynch's style is essentially a tip of the hat to the subconscious - the idea that something abstract but fluid can produce something beyond the conscious Self. Lynch freely admits he was quite unsure of where Inland Empire was heading, or what it was actually "saying". He simply allowed his subconscious, artistic impulses (after meditating two hours, to start every day) to project and express, without questioning them; resulting in fragments that seemingly had no obvious connection, but, as filming went on, slowly revealed a kind of sense to him. But even so, you get the feeling that sense remained a feeling, the kind of sense you don't exactly articulate. Inland Empire is so devoted to the pursuit of this, even the film has seemingly been edited in this state (one that, it must be said, is obviously connected to the same part of David Lynch that loves to meditate). In the end, we have a film authored, directed and edited, not by a conscious man, but a subconscious man - the David Lynch that lurks beneath the surface of the man who makes the films about what lurks beneath the surface. Perfect.
Of course, this is where fans and critics divide. Many will think there really is nothing to get, and that Lynch's subconscious revealed nothing but a disjointed mess that, at best, links only in a metaphoric way. The problem is indeed that Lynch does, in embarking on producing a film in such a way, ask the audience to trust his subconscious, along with him. It's a big ask, when the film is so complex. Trusting Mulholland Drive was much easier. But, I remind some of you, that however abstract Mulholland Drive seemed upon first viewing, in the end, it could be perfectly pieced together. There's actually nothing abstract about Mulholland Drive; it's just a very complex rubik's cube of a movie, requiring the piecing together of cryptic clues - something that is simply impossible for the human mind, from a single viewing (it took me a few, until I really snapped it all into place, I must admit).
Still, the clues were there - as they are in Inland Empire. The watch, the different states of the scribble on the doorway to the mysterious building (you'll understand these references, when you see it - they should be followed closely, if you're going to crack the puzzle) - I think these are clues to arranging the chronology; the same way that Mulholland Drive relied on such techniques, in order to chronologically arrange it and work out what the hell you'd just seen. Inland Empire is just so much more dense - it has so many more pieces, and they are scattered, and jump from one to another, so quickly. And, instead of a split identity, there's now three, or possibly even four. It's not an easy game, this one!
And, at the end of the day, either you're into playing such a game, or you're not. But I still say there is definitely something to solve. I trust David Lynch; so be it. And even the adoring critics who have a tendency to like Lynch "because" you're not supposed to solve anything or understand it; to them, I say, "bollocks!" Good on them for enjoying something for the sake of the mystery, sure. I think in an era where we require everything so spoon-fed, it's refreshing that there are people who can just enjoy something abstract and without an apparent meaning. And certainly, to some extent, I enjoy the first screening of a Lynch film, in this way - you know you can't walk out of one viewing, with it solved, so you just have to let go and enjoy the mystery. But some people are happy to stop there, I guess - it's enough for them. And I say, that's great! Everyone enjoys Lynch on their own plane, and I think that's terribly cool. But I still say there is something there to solve, if you dare to persist.
And persist, I will. I love Lynch's abstract puzzle of the subconscious; but what I really dig, is working it all out. I guess that's life for me, in so many ways, and why I connect to Lynch, so much (more, in fact, than any other artist in the world). I've forever been the hungry, mesmerised detective of the mind - for many who've been reading my work here, perhaps that wouldn't surprise you! Lynch offers a mystery quite like no other, in Inland Empire - and, Goddammit, I'm going to crack it!
Inland Empire is released on DVD in America, on August 17th, which, sadly, will probably be quicker than it is released, here, for a proper commercial run. I've pre-ordered my copy from Amazon, already. I'll come back, probably about fifteen screenings down the track, and I will tell you all about the latest David Lynch film.
For now? Fucked, if I know. And God bless Mr Lynch for that.
David Lynch's latest epic of madness, despair and identity comes to The Sydney and Melbourne Film Festivals before beguiling, engrossing, confusing, enraging, endearing and captivating Australian audiences, in its ever-delayed commercial run. Before you venture in, perhaps it's time to take a look back at the history of Lynchtown, and make what sense of it we can...
