Remembering the wonderful and strange (and quiche-loving) David Lynch

There are many film fans out there grieving the loss of a true and singular artist.

David Lynch, the gloriously bequiffed master of surrealism who blurred the everyday with the unsettling to better explore the dark corners of the human psyche and what festers underneath the picture-perfect white picket fences of the so-called American Dream, is no longer with us.

The American director revealed his emphysema diagnosis last year, but he did share that he would “never retire” and would direct remotely if necessary. Sadly, that option never came to pass, as he reportedly died after being forced to relocate from his house along Sunset Boulevard due to the LA wildfires.

When the news broke last night, I thought: “It’s happening again.”

This re-appropriated quote from Season 2 Episode 7 of Twin Peaks reminded me of a professional curse. As self-centered and callous as it may sound, obituaries are a daily part of working on Euronews Culture and it’s often the way that some deaths are announced after logging out after a full day in the office. Sometimes, there are obituaries you ‘want’ to write, purely because the figure means so much to you. This was the case when William Friedkin, another one of my cinematic heroes, died in 2023; it was the case last night with David Lynch.

Upon digesting the news, I experienced the same feeling I had when David Bowie died in 2016. It can sound odd or overly dramatic to some, but when a creative mind touches you and speaks to you like that, their loss feels deep and personal.

I wish I could conjure the words to encapsulate the effects that his films have had on me but it’s too soon. I’ll leave that to better writers, like the Guardian’s Peter Bradshaw – who somehow manages to accurately and richly summarize an artist’s life in his regular obituaries.  

Still, I so wish I could explain the mind-melting shimmer created by the series Twin Peaks when I was growing up and how many of the show’s frames continue to fizzle in my brain to this day. Whether it’s rewatching all three seasons for the umpteenth time, having the eclectic soundtrack to The Return on heavy rotation, or habitually exclaiming the line “Fuck you, Tammy!” every time something goes wrong in day-to-day life, barely a day passes without me revealing to what extent Twin Peaks has scarred me in the best of ways.

I also wish I could describe what it was like to see my first Lynch film, Eraserhead, or accurately put into words the unsettling dirge I’m plunged into every time I watch Lost Highway; how Lynch’s COVID-19 weather updates punctuated the pandemic with a delightful ritual; why I frequently recommend the un-Lynchian of all Lynch films, The Straight Story; or the joy it was to attend a packed theatrical screening of the director’s masterpiece Mulholland Drive at last year’s Lumière Festival.

So what can I say about David Lynch that hasn’t already been captured in better tributes?

The only thing I can think of now, is to share the first and only time I met him.

It was in 2013 in the French city of Beaune, where my grandparents lived. David Lynch was the guest of honour of the Festival International du Film Policier, and nothing was going to stop me from attending. I told my editor at the time that I was going, and while an interview was out of the question, the boss wanted a quote, a soundbite, an anecdote. Something.

I attended the public event, and remember hearing him talk about how Mulholland Drive was meant to be a TV series at first, and how his passion for cinema was being overtaken by his love of painting.

And then there was a moment, in the Palais des Congrès de Beaune, where he was sitting down with nibbles. I was terrified to go up to him, but I mustered what little courage I had and approached one of my idols.

I didn’t know what to say. My mind went Silencio. I knew that Lynch never liked to provide any explanation or personal analysis of his work, as he thought it was all there on the screen. For him, to give his take would be to destroy the joy of coming to your own interpretation and appreciation. So why bother asking.

My cringe-worthy opening gambit was a platitude about how much Twin Peaks meant to me, something he graciously accepted. However, a comment like that isn’t exactly fertile ground for a longer conversation.

“What are you eating?”, I asked, realising as soon as I uttered that question that I wanted the earth to swallow the shit-question-food-stalker I had apparently become.

“Quiche,” he answered with a smile. And thus began a nearly 20-minute-long conversation about food and the joys of savoury French tarts.

We discussed which was the best (an answer he gave in his wonderfully drawn-out American drawl – “Lorraaaaiiiiiiiine”); how to make them with the proper ratio of lardons to cheese; and whether or not broccoli was acceptable as a quiche ingredient. He asked for my ideal quiche baking tip (coating the base with grainy Dijon mustard) and he in turn shared how he had two kitchens in his house – one to cook in and one to eat in, as he didn’t like the lingering smell of cooked ingredients as he ate.

Those 20 minutes flew by and when it came time to say goodbye, I thanked him and left – only realising afterwards what I had coming to me.

When I told my editor, he despaired. To put it mildly.

“You talked to David Lynch – ABOUT QUICHE???”

I’ll keep the rest of that colourful conversation to myself, but reorganise the words “useless”, “neanderthal”, “you” and “fucking” into a sentence, and you get the extent of his frustration towards me.

Today, I’m thinking about that patient and foul-mouthed editor who failed to recognise the double kitchen scoop I’d brought him. I’m thinking about my grandmother, who chuckled when I told her what happened earlier that day. I’m also thinking about my two Euronews Culture compadres Theo and Amber, who both messaged me last night, knowing that this loss was going to hit me hard. Amber, who is also a huge Lynch fan, even sent me Twin Peaks stickers for Christmas. An extra thought went to her, as I momentarily suspected her of witchcraft when looking at the stickers, suspecting she was (unknowingly?) preparing me for this day.

Above all, I’m thinking about the quiche-chatting director who opened these unique cinematic portals to strange places and whose presence shall be greatly missed. I wish we could have gotten one last film, but he leaves us with a unique and amazing body of work that will continue to thrill and inspire countless creatives and movie lovers.

I’ll be making a quiche and attempting to get through Inland Empire this weekend. But for now, I’m off to get a damn fine cup of coffee, hoping that wherever David Lynch is right now, it is a place, to quote Dale Cooper, that is “both wonderful and strange.”