by Matthew Bettencourt
Boise State University
August 4th, 2016
It is impossible to talk about David Lynch and not mention surrealism or expressionism. The primary characteristics of surrealism include “the logic of dreams, the mystery of the unconscious, and the lure of the bizarre, the irrational, the incongruous, and the marvelous” (Getlein, p. 493). Although surrealism was an art movement from the early twentieth century, its influence can be seen in a variety of later works. Whether or not Lynch was directly influenced by the surrealist movement is irrelevant; his work contains key components of the visual style. One such work is David Lynch’s Eraserhead (1977).
The first widely recognized surrealist film was Un Chien Andalou (1929), directed by Luis Buñuel and co-written by Salvador Dalí. Both filmmakers gathered ideas for the short by drawing on their own dreams, and the resulting film contains bizarre scenes that bear no direct relation to one another. Most widely released films typically follow a conventional narrative structure. For many directors, the camera is there to capture reality and present it in a way that is familiar to the audience. However, “Lynch is a filmmaker who sees each shot as a composition, not as a step in a narrative process” (Kaleta, p. 5). One aspect of surrealism is that the work of art cannot be immediately understood—and may never be completely understood at all. It creates an otherworldly feeling that resonates on a deeper, more subconscious level. Like the surrealists, Lynch’s reality is one that exists on a plane entirely different from the one we are accustomed to.
Eraserhead is full of dreamlike symbolism, and from the opening images we experience this bizarre presentation: our main character, Henry, is depicted floating in space. Behind him is what appears to be a moon, which remains visible even after Henry’s see-through head passes by. To me, the moon represents Henry’s ego, which seems limited compared to the vastness of space. When we enter the moon, there is a mechanical operator who, just like the ego, is covered in scars. He looks out the window, aware that there is something better out there. It is a bleak environment, entirely mechanical rather than organic. It is man-made. What comes out of the ego is disfigured. As we leave the ego, we are introduced to Henry’s external life.
Lynch’s first love was painting, and he was greatly influenced by the expressionist painter Oskar Kokoschka. Expressionism was a movement that emerged in Europe in the early twentieth century, and expressionist artists were more concerned with their subjective interpretation of observations (Getlein, p. 483). This concept freed artists: they were no longer trapped by the standard method of depicting the “natural world.” One major influence on Lynch’s art was his time in Philadelphia, where he lived in an industrial district and experienced much distress: “violence and danger lurked around every corner” (Kaleta, p. 6). This is where Lynch discovered the dark, sometimes disturbing underbelly of life. As we enter Henry’s “reality,” we see an industrial wasteland. Henry is clearly uncomfortable—he is trapped by fear, which in turn makes him isolated and lonely, hence the vastness of space in the opening shot. People seem strange and frightening to Henry. They all represent a potential threat to the ego and its demise, so he keeps his distance. The chicken they consume is “man-made,” and the consumption of man-made pleasures (pride, jealousy, anger) feeds the ego. The chicken begins to bleed between its legs, provoking Henry’s guilt and creating an unusual, erotic tension in the room.
Lynch’s reality requires the audience to participate, to delve into their own subconscious and feel what Henry is feeling. Whatever we expect to happen is reversed, and we are given something that could only be logical in a dream. Henry experiences some joy at having a new child (however premature) and having Mary live with him; he feels less lonely. At this moment, Henry gazes into the radiator, which appears to symbolize the inner peace and serenity he lacks. The woman in the radiator sings of a “heaven” where everything is fine. The premature “baby” calls to mind Salvador Dalí’s The Persistence of Memory and the odd-looking creature in that painting (Getlein, p. 494). These objects are not meant to reflect normal reality; they betray our trust in the normalcy of life and the expectations we typically project onto people and events. They evoke the imagination and force us to think in new ways. Like our dreams, what are they trying to tell us? Many theories promoted by Freud and Jung suggest symbolic meanings in dreams. Humans tend to demand normalcy not only in their actions but also in how they perceive the world. The dream world could be a place where truth exists, uninterrupted by human thought.
Watching this movie is a very individualized experience. Not only will two different people come away with their own interpretations, but subsequent viewings continue to provide unique insights, because you are not the same person you were the last time you watched it. Like Henry, the viewer doesn’t know what to make of what is happening, and that’s okay. Just like Dalí’s painting, which prompts us to contemplate the mystery of time, Eraserhead also raises questions about human existence—deep, personal questions involving conception, death, fear, sexuality, guilt, and relationships. The confrontation, awareness, and acceptance of these unanswerable themes in art, or in the scary things in life, can ultimately bring us to a place where everything is fine—a place where something bigger can erase our egos.
Works Cited
Getlein, Mark. Living With Art. 11th ed., McGraw-Hill Education, 2016.
Kaleta, Kenneth C. David Lynch. Twayne Publishers, 1993.