You know he’s from here, right?
Should you find yourself in Missoula and label yourself a David Lynch fan and mention that out loud, you will either learn or confirm that David Lynch is ours.
We didn’t own him, of course, though it’s true he was born here on what was probably a cold January day in 1946. He died on a January day, too, this week, four days before turning 79. His dad worked for the Forest Service as a researcher and scientist. By the time he was 2, David Lynch became Spokane’s, where locals and writer/former Montanan Leah Sottile claim he frequented a bar called The Swamp. But Sottile also says probably he didn’t, considering he left when he was 7.
Don, the researcher dad with a University of Montana degree and a pretty great obit that ran in the Bigfork Eagle, moved the family around. He was Idaho’s and North Carolina’s also, and the elder Lynch settled for a while into a desk job in our nation’s capital. D.C. is probably more Lynchian than Missoula, since he was knocking around there in more formative years. Really though, David Lynch, if he belonged anywhere, belonged to California.
“If yooooooooou can belieeeeeeeeve it, it’s Friday again!” That or some variation of that is how he’d start his weekly weather reports, which were mostly about beauty and the color of California sky out his window. Lynch was the most joyful dark artist who ever lived, if you ask me.
Which you didn’t. Yet here I am, segueing into my deep love for this man and what he did for me and for film, for network television, for you, for art. For whatever American culture is, David Lynch made it better.
Lynch was the most joyful dark artist who ever lived, if you ask me. Which you didn’t. Yet here I am, segueing into my deep love for this man and what he did for me and for film, for network television, for you, for art. For whatever American culture is, David Lynch made it better.
I grew up in a rural place in New York State, about as far away from “the City” you could get and still have one of the Cuomos as your governor. I was 17 and a junior in high school when the pilot of “Twin Peaks” aired on a Thursday in 1990. No one else I knew or can recall watched this kooky new show on ABC, the network also offering TGIF schlock like “Family Matters” and “Full House.” But there was Agent Dale Cooper in my living room and talking into his recorder.
“Diane, it’s 11:30 a.m. on February 24th and I am entering the town of Twin Peaks. It’s five miles south of the Canadian border, 12 miles west of the state line. I’ve never seen so many trees in my life. As W.C. Fields would say, I’d rather be here than Philadelphia…”
If you want a good cry, follow Coop (aka Kyle MacLachlan) on social media and read what he has to say about David Lynch picking him out of obscurity and changing his life. (Also, just follow Kyle MacLachlan on social media. He makes that trashfire worth it, honestly.)
In Missoula, the arty dorks at Hellgate High had a “Twin Peaks” club. I know because The Pulp’s co-publisher, Erika Fredrickson, was in it. When she told me that, man, I was so jelly. I had to remind her about the time my brother gave me a “Twin Peaks” T-shirt. I loved it so much I wore it to a high-school kegger in my hick town. The boys started calling me “Twin Peaks” and maybe it’ll take you a minute, like it did me. (It was funny because “Twin Peaks” was written across my teenage boobs. I know. Hilarious.)
I left when I graduated and never really went home again. Now I live in this place with a moviehouse that loves David Lynch like I do. At the Roxy Theater, I saw on the big screen all the greats: “Eraserhead,” of course. And “Blue Velvet” and “Dune” — which is the one David Lynch movie a lot of David Lynch fans don’t like. They’re wrong. It’s brilliant.
A few years ago at the Roxy, I saw “David Lynch: The Art of Life,” a documentary based on audio recordings Lynch agreed to make after having a daughter late in life and feeling wistful. It’s so moving and gorgeous. I think about it all the time. If you need a Lynch fix, go see “Dune,” I swear to god, but then pluck this doc out of the noise, watch it and be glad your tiny time on Earth coincided with his.
Next week, the Roxy’s showing “Mulholland Drive” in 35mm. Glad I hopped on that ticket before I knew Lynch’s love of cigarettes would rudely snuff him out. Maybe I’ll see you and we can be happy to be there and sad that he’s gone, but be quiet about it. No one likes it when you talk during the movie.
When David Lynch’s family announced he died, they did it on Facebook. “It is with deep regret that we, his family, announce the passing of the man and the artist, David Lynch. We would appreciate some privacy at this time. There’s a big hole in the world now that he’s no longer with us. But, as he would say, ‘Keep your eye on the donut and not on the hole.’ It’s a beautiful day with golden sunshine and blue skies all the way.”
If yooooooooou can belieeeeeeeve it, all our heroes die.
