Christopher Rhoten
David Lynch spent his career realizing a vision so unique that separating the man from the artist can feel almost impossible. Lynch’s well-documented eccentricities come across in his films, certainly, but even a few minutes of reading about or listening to the man reveal an incomparable uniqueness, so much so that the director’s affinity for Quiona is nearly as well known as his love of red curtains. Yet for all the attention paid to Lynch as a director, painter, musician, and purveyor of transcendental meditation, his work as an actor—an especially revealing form of performance—has largely remained a footnote.
As such, author and fellow critic Brent Simon has found a truly fresh angle in his recent book on the prolific American filmmaker, The Dreamer’s Path: Twin Peaks and David Lynch the Actor. It’s a work that seeks to understand David Lynch as a performer rather than a director. Though Twin Peaks-heavy by nature, since that show is responsible for his longest-running role, it takes a comprehensive look at every performance Lynch was ever credited with, from shorts to features to everything in between. Does that mean every single episode of The Cleveland Show that features a voice cameo from Lynch will be summarized and analyzed? Yes, and with a thoroughness that would impress Dale Cooper himself.
When we think of David Lynch, the ear from Blue Velvet or the industrial wasteland from Eraserhead will eventually come to mind, but it’s just as likely that his infamous quiff, his Midwestern drawl, and his boyish, unassuming smile will enter the brain just as quickly. Even though Lynch’s status as an actor will always be second fiddle to his career behind the camera or the pen (or Bristol board—the director penned a comic strip that ran for nine years), it’s undeniable that he made a mark onscreen as well. And, as the book compellingly explores, it’s Lynch the person who has proved just as memorable as the imagery within his films.
From distinctive FBI chief Gordon Cole to his now iconic cameo as John Ford in Spielberg’s The Fabelmans, Lynch’s history as an actor is retraced with remarkable attention to detail. No matter the length, importance, or circumstances behind each role, Simon has meticulously researched every on-screen appearance of David Lynch ever put to celluloid, digital, or YouTube. Armed with an impressive array of 60+ interviews that include Lynch’s daughter, Jennifer, Blue Velvet’s Isabella Rossellini, and dozens of crew members, assistants, and collaborators, Simon collects dozens of touching and insightful anecdotes concerning Lynch’s experience on sets where a different name sat in the director’s chair. Lynch’s somewhat surprising fear of acting is discussed multiple times, as well as his unwillingness to view his contributions as “real” acting. Also captured, however, is meticulous planning and memorization in preparation for roles, as well as a discerning taste when it came to accepting offers.
While the idea that Lynch possessed underrated acting skills is hardly new, several accessory conclusions might shock diehards. One is that Lynch had an obvious effect on subsequent generations’ sense of humor, which frequently leans towards the surreal. This claim is supported by his appearances in the aforementioned Cleveland Show (along with bouts in Family Guy, Robot Chicken, and Louie), and bolstered by a chapter on Lynch’s own woefully underseen animated series, Dumbland, a cartoon that has far more in common with Smiling Friends than any contemporary animation. Another revelation is Lynch’s penchant for creating shorts in response to events, festivals, or awards ceremonies that he couldn’t or wouldn’t attend—shorts designed to play in his absence and often featuring cameos from Idaho’s own, revealing a whole new oeuvre waiting for those who have exhausted the rest of his work.
Across the dozens of artistic endeavors Simon commemorates, it becomes clear that David Lynch lived, breathed, and smoked performance, even if his doubled role as actor often resulted from convenience or happenstance. Performance is tied into Lynch’s very being, his very thesis as a creative, and it seems fitting in retrospect that he spent so much time establishing a presence online during the early days of the internet (recurring projects like David Lynch’s Weather Report and Today’s Number Is… could be seen as Lynch’s own idiosyncratic form of vlogging). The book becomes not only an exploration of his acting credits—though it is still that, very much so—but also an exploration of Lynch the artist.
It’s only natural, then, that an entire chapter is dedicated to performances that don’t really count, like late-night show appearances and experimental interviews (some of which need to be seen to be believed). It results in a slowly dawning realization that Lynch’s perennial interest in self-expression created a certain mythos, one that imbued every appearance behind the camera with something harder to quantify. An extended look at the much-theorized significance of Cole in The Return, for example, explores how the role, consciously or otherwise, allowed Lynch to grapple with his legacy in a legacy-defining work. Much focus is given to the enduring appeal of the infamous “fix your heart or die” line, originating here as a call for empathy from someone more in touch with the state of the world than most his age.
Simon, the former president of the Los Angeles film critic association, is a clearly experienced writer with clear passion for his subject, providing thoughtful, informed analysis that complements the observations of coworkers and acquaintances. While it can’t be said that every role Lynch played is of interest (how could they be), he is wise to linger on the noteworthy and more substantial roles for the most part. A few sections drag from sheer repetition, as everyone says the same thing about Lynch’s general demeanor (that it’s charming), but the majority of nuggets prove valuable towards painting a portrait of Lynch previously unseen. Standouts include Lynch reading for his first real role in Tina Rathborne’s Zelly and Me (where he quickly learned how competitive and challenging auditioning was, an experience that influenced his own process as a director), and Seth Green’s fond recollection of receiving Lynch’s approval after directing him in a voice session for Robot Chicken.
Without “spoiling” the book, flipping past the final page doesn’t answer the question of what acting meant to Lynch. Even his closest confidants remain divided. It’s a truth that Simon is comfortable with, because it’s one more question in a life built on mystery. The author interviewed Lynch several times (though never specifically for this project—sadly, the director passed away before anything could be set up), and it’s suggested with confidence that acting was just one more outlet for a soul in constant search of creating. Lynch’s many eccentricities and routines point to a mind almost certainly somewhere on the spectrum, and acting was just one more form of cathartic expression—one not particularly consciously important to Lynch, but a viable and relatively frequent valve all the same.
The Dreamer’s Path will primarily appeal to like-minded Lynch fans, but its interest (and expertise) in reevaluating his skill as a performer makes it a unique read in the pantheon of Lynch literature. If you’re well and truly caught up on the art itself, it’s an easy recommendation, one that argues acting was just one more path for the dreamer whose dreams changed cinema forever.
