Though Lynch was born in Missoula, Montana, it feels truer to say he was reborn i
n Los Angeles. He
studied at the American Film Institute, where *Eraserhead* began as a student project, and he later made the city his home, delivering whimsical daily weather reports from his compound. In a May 11, 2020, report, he squinted out the window and proclaimed, “Kind of cloudy, some fog this morning. This all should burn off pretty soon and we’ll have sunshine and 70 degrees. Have a great day.” His cheerful sign-offs always seemed sincere, despite the nightmarish visions his films so often depicted.
Lynch had a remarkable way of juxtaposing the banal with the bizarre. His public persona—polite, punctuated with old-fashioned phrases like “jeepers”—was a stark contrast to the unsettling worlds he created. In 2001, as *Mulholland Drive* captivated and confounded audiences, my friend, critic John Powers, described Lynch as reminiscent of Jimmy Stewart—only more akin to the tormented figure from *Vertigo* than the idealistic Mr. Smith. By then, Lynch’s beaming smile had already been tinged with age and experience.
When my glowing review of *Mulholland Drive* was published, it provoked a storm of angry letters. Readers weren’t just confused—they were furious. Many claimed the film made no sense, and I sympathized. On my first viewing, I was just as bewildered. But Lynch never aimed for obvious storytelling. His work defied Hollywood’s appetite for clarity and conformity, crafting art that was as challenging as it was mesmerizing.
Despite his fraught relationship with the industry, Lynch received an honorary Oscar in 2019. The moment was electric. His collaborators Kyle MacLachlan, Laura Dern, and Isabella Rossellini beamed with joy as the crowd gave him a standing ovation. Lynch, visibly moved, thanked those who had helped him “along the road”—an apt phrase for a filmmaker whose work, from *The Elephant Man* to *Blue Velvet*, echoed the dreamlike journey of *The Wizard of Oz*.
One of his films that never resonated with me, however, was *Wild at Heart*. Despite its stunning visuals and the daring performances of Nicolas Cage and Laura Dern, its cruelty, particularly the brutal beating of a Black character in its opening scene, left me cold. Roger Ebert condemned this moment as “a racially charged scene of unapologetic malevolence,” and I’ve never been able to look past it. Lynch’s work often dances on the edge of terror and revulsion—*Inland Empire* is a testament to that—but *Wild at Heart* pushed me beyond my limits.
Lynch’s legacy is one of beauty, horror, and uncompromising vision. He showed us the grotesque beneath the ordinary, the mystery behind the mundane. With his passing, we lose not only a great artist but also a guide to the darker corners of our own existence. And for that, I will miss him deeply.