Lynch (one) (of three)

Tessa Vanderhart, staff

illustration by GED C

David Lynch was an artist who studied in Philadelphia before he was a filmmaker. He is originally from Missoula, Montana, and drawls appropriately. He practices transcendental meditation. He chain-smokes.

If you are familiar with one of the most film-snob popular, darkest directors making movies today, you already know this about David Lynch.

You might not know, however, that his teeth, when examined close-up, give the appearance of gum disease. That he has a pile of cigarette butts collected just behind his office chair, just out of the view of DavidLynch.com daily update viewers. That he’s turned the corner on looking distinguished and is starting to look just old.

Lynch (one) is the first of three documentaries about the renowned-in-the-right-circles director, filmed by a “friend,” blackANDwhite, during the production of his latest film, INLAND EMPIRE.

I watched Lynch (one) the way I watched Lynch’s Twin Peaks, Eraserhead, Mulholland Dr., and Blue Velvet, for their intended maximal effect: in bed. Something about the incestuous rape scenes, alien and deformed marriage reality, schizophrenic lesbianism, and wanton self-destruction that run as themes to his work

Well, I tried to. Unfortunately, unlike the creepy ethereal films of Lynch, you must remember, this is a documentary. And while it offers some insight into the mind of today’s most philosophically deleterious director, the reality is that I fell asleep while trying to watch it.

That’s not to say that Lynch (one) isn’t full of powerful images of Lynch; it most certainly is, and all fans will find much to mine and interpret, notably the scenes of Lynch coaching Laura Dern through the Sunset Boulevard-screwdriver-stabbing at the climax of INLAND EMPIRE. Or soliloquizing on his decision to go digital — and not just digital, but commercial-grade mini-DV — for the film. Or a delicious bookend of Lynch first dipping a blazer into a barrel of greener-than-green paint, then a concluding image of the jacket dripping dry.

But, as best put by Boston Globe critic Ty Burr, the film is deeply unsatisfying: “It may be too much to expect a documentary to explain David Lynch. [ . . . ] Lynch’s public persona is that of a folksy genius, but the documentary gives us just enough glimpses of the director in action to reveal a surprisingly harsh on-set taskmaster, with the impatience of an artist, the command of a born leader, and a pungent vocabulary at odds with his devotion to Transcendental Meditation. “Lynch (one)” exposes these contradictions without investigating them, perhaps not wanting to displease the boss.”

It’s hard for me to recommend seeing Lynch (one) for its own sake; see it for personal curiosity, see it for a desire to get closer to the personal meaning of some surreally perfect films, or just see it because it comes with a free double-feature of Eraserhead at Cinematheque — but for its own merits?

But, as Lynch remarks in the film, “I discovered that if one looks a little closer at this beautiful world, there are always red ants underneath.”

Lynch (one) plays at Cinematheque from Jan. 18-21 at 7 p.m., followed at 9 p.m. by Eraserhead, for the price of one admission.