FILM REVIEW - DAVID LYNCH'S BLUE VELVET (1986) | THE EXQUISITE PAIN OF OUR DREAMS AND NIGHTMARES


"It is a strange world... isn't it?"


Trying to entice sense and meaning from the surreal worlds of David Lynch has never been a temptation for me. To begin with, his stories come to him in pieces, as though his mind is attuned to a radio frequency subject to erratic broadcasts from the obscure, from hidden thoughts and dreams (or you know, he could just be fucking with us. Haven’t ever been quite able to work it out). 

From there, he pieces something together to form a narrative. To decode a story beyond a broad understanding is to filter these images through ourselves, and universal meaning becomes next to impossible due to the breadth of subjectivity involved. However, when you move away from meaning and examine thematic concerns, your experience as a viewer shifts and suddenly the film becomes like a conversation - about romance, terror, erotica and other-worldly mysteries. This relationship we are called to find is for me, what makes his films so beautiful.


                              


I first discovered David Lynch at 14, with the glorious and mystifying Twin Peaks on VHS (which will one-day get its own review). I loved it, and felt compelled to explore his films. My friend (and crush) Jess and I hired a copy of new release Mulholland Drive to watch during a sleepover, as she shared my taste for the obscure. Observing the film unfold I reigned in my desire to understand what I was seeing, and let myself connect instead to it's mood and atmosphere. I felt intrigued by the alliance between Rita and Betty, and enraptured by Rebekah Del Rio's acapella performance of Crying by Roy Orbison (what Lynch does with Roy's songs will never fail to mesmerise me). But that scene were Rita and Betty confess to one another how lost and afraid they are, before kissing with an intensity I hadn't seen between two women on screen before... I suddenly felt incredibly aware of my body, my limbs lithe and alert as I felt Jess's gaze along my outstretched legs. The sexuality of these two female characters was conveyed in a way that felt true to my own gaze, rather than that of men. 



It was as though I finally had permission to embrace that part of me freely. In the way I don't delve too deep into my vivid and sometimes terrifying dreams, I simply let the story exist and watched a woman's descent into madness. As the credits rolled, Jess and I had discreetly moved closer to one another. We took each others hand and crawled into my king single bed. Outside, the moonlight and stars lit up my room in pearlescent blue tones amidst the dark of night, casting shadows around us. "Can I kiss you..." she asked, and I nodded. And so we did. Tentatively, and coyly exploring one another, feeling inexperienced in light of the women we had just observed on screen. But it was beautiful, and the hate levelled at people like us in our small home town faded away as we fell asleep in each others arms.


A year later, I watched Blue Velvet for the first time. 



Where Mulholland Drive spoke to the part of me gentle and sweet, Blue Velvet called to darker instincts I hadn't fully understood until seeing them realised in the character of Dorothy, played by Isabella Rossellini. Watching Blue Velvet (released in 1986), we can see the groundwork being laid for Twin Peaks a number of years later. But what draws me in is it's ability to convey ugliness and beauty at the same time. On the surface, all we see are innocuous pictures of suburbia, an idyllic town called Lumberton, situated within the logging regions of Middle America. The images are saccharine, calling forth 1950's suburbia. In the opening scenes, the camera takes us beyond the ordinary families and perfectly manicured lawns, through the grass and soil, and to the beetles and worms ravaging and roiling just below the earth. Beauty and perfection exist alongside the hideous and the profane. This disparity is further captured in ways that pay homage to film/ neo-noir murder mysteries of the 50's, such as the brilliant Written On The Wind (1956) and Night Of The Hunter (1955). Like these films, Blue Velvet seeks to uncover the shadows of Americana. 




In the film, Jeffrey (played by a very young Kyle McLachlan) has returned home from college after his father is critically injured in an accident. In walks along abandoned and overgrown parts of town, he uncovers a human ear. He takes it to Lumberton's long-standing detective John Williams, and through this connection we meet John's grown daughter Sandy (played by Laura Dern). She is softly spoken, gentle and ultimately dichotomous to the underworld that lures in Jeffrey. The moments of warmth between these characters, and her willingness to aid Jeffrey in his efforts to solve the case, let us see the quiet strength of her character. She is aware that the smallness of Lumberton is both stifling and deceptive, and she too dreams. When Jeffrey in distress wonders why a dark abyss of people like Frank exist, it's Sandy's response that beautifully sums up the role of love in life:

“I had a dream. In fact, it was on the night I met you. In the dream, there was our world, and the world was dark because there weren't any robins and the robins represented love. And for the longest time, there was this darkness. And all of a sudden, thousands of robins were set free and they flew down and brought this blinding light of love. And it seemed that love would make any difference, and it did. So, I guess it means that there is trouble until the robins come.”




In the surrounding town and Dorothy’s apartment, little details are also infused with an air of ominousness, most notably after the sun sets. The trees lining the streets  cast shadows that seem darker than the night, a man out with his dog feels disconcerting and almost threatening. Camera pans to a heavy burgundy velvet curtain in Dorothy’s apartment that seems possessed by an invisible force, moving softly seemingly of it’s own accord, and cuts to an empty dark stairwell that communicates foreboding and anxiety. The club in which Dorothy performs feels like an extension of her cold apartment, as the crowd sits there in stoic silence. The moments she takes control with Jeffrey are the only time we see her truly free.




Lynch also shows us see how the male gaze can be oppressive, perverse and violent (Lost Highway is his greatest example of this, in the fantasy of Alice and all she is subjected to). Even in those scenes where Jeffrey watches Isabella through a crack in the wardrobe door, we know it's far beyond a curiosity over a found ear and her connection to a dark underworld. Sexuality becomes this dark, perverse thing, and once she wrests control of the narrative back for herself, I find myself leaning in to the conflicting emotions. We secretly want to see the encounter with Jeffrey play out, the knock at the door snapping us back to our senses. What follows drives out any of the seductiveness as we see Frank Booth (Dennis Hopper) enter, and the energy of the scene immediately shifts to something toxic and vile - we understand that in this Dorothy has no choice. Lynch has no qualms in showing us the distinction between the power of autonomy in erotic fantasy, and the possessiveness of forced objectification. We see the violating male gaze as it truly is - a pathetic, mewling, and grotesque thing. We are forced to sit with it, and as hilarious as  Hopper is, it also is very uncomfortable... and being a woman who has had men both leer as well as sexually overpower me without consent, I find the pitiful depiction of men like Frank both an accurate and satisfying one. 




The themes are also reinforced in the cinematography, such as when we are in Dorothy Vallens apartment, for which the set design is minimal. There are little signs of life and love, just a box of sentimental value, containing belongings she clings to for life and hope. In spite of the rich magenta's and luscious carpets and velvet curtains, the atmosphere is cold and oppressive. A beautiful prison. The cinematography leans into this, as shots are often wide, as though we are being invited to see Dorothy's life unfurl in secret, unseen and unheard. Jeffrey quickly finds himself split in two, as everything he recognises lies in Sandy's world. Yet - a beautiful yet dark world beckons in his affair with Dorothy. He slowly relents to her fetishes, as she whispers that she wants him to hurt her. Although at first resistant, he eventually gives in to her darkness, hitting her as she smiles. We realise, through tender assurances made by Dorothy, that she is alright. She wants this, and Jeffrey is invited to share her desires, while Frank invades and violates. This contrast is further illustrated in the scenes where Frank and his crew inflict their violence on Dorothy and Jeffrey, eventually beating him unconscious. Lynch shows us with little room for doubt, the difference between the darkness of lovers safe in each-others arms, and the darkness of the true monsters of the world. 

In Dreams is my favourite song of all time. I first heard it at three while playing my parents cassette tape collection in the basement of our Eastern Sydney home. I don't remember, but apparently I said to my father around this age "this will be my wedding song one-day", which hasn't changed (though Beyond Here Lies Nothin’ by Bob Dylan was added to that list at some point). It's exquisite and dark romance spoke to my soul from the moment I understood what music was, the worlds it could show us. This connection is something acutely understood by Lynch too, as it's appearance in Blue Velvet is one of the most hypnotising and surreal moments in the film. 



Frank has stopped by to see his suave associate Ben, with an unwilling Jeffrey and Dorothy in tow. What follows is my favourite moment in all of Lynch's films, ever. The transcendence of Roy Orbison's most beautiful song, In Dreams, is realised in a glorious performance by Dean Stockwell. Ben mimes to the track in full, holding the attention of the room as Frank looks on, eyes swimming with emotion as he mouths the words in unison*. The entire sequence (purposely marred by Frank's volatile outbursts as he stops the tape and pockets it... nobody wants to go on your JOYRIDE Frank). Like Lynch's films, this moment occupies a space between horror and amusement, the profane and exquisite, a place where the dream and nightmare meet. In the words of Roy:


"I was mortified because they were talking about the "candy coloured clown" in relation to a dope deal... I thought, "What in the world...?". But later, when I was touring, we got the video out and I really got to appreciate what David gave to the song, and what the song gave to the movie - how it achieved this otherworldly quality that added a whole new dimension to "In Dreams"." 

(Roy Orbison on Blue Velvet)


Later, when Frank recites the lyrics to In Dreams while tormenting Jeffrey, he contorts the song into a metonym for abuse and power. His promise that the pain inflicted by the true monsters of the world will always haunt the good and kind, relentless, finding us even in dreams (psychological horror would go on to serve as a David Lynch signature). It's the films most unnerving moment for me, partly because when you look beyond the unhinged hysteria Frank embodies, you comprehend his meaning more fully on each viewing. I can see how my own trauma has left me forever changed... I could never outrun it. It's these thoughts that swim in my mind as Frank kisses Jeffrey before beating him into oblivion. 



Upon waking, Jeffrey aimlessly wonders home, before breaking down entirely. Sandy delicately encourages him to tell her Detective father everything, and he agrees. Upon confession, the final piece of the puzzle falls into place, but not before a beautiful yet brief date between Sandy and Jeffrey. They confess their love for one another, and share a slow and gentle dance to the achingly beautiful song Mysteries of Love by Julee Cruise


Their joy is short-lived, as soon after there is a volatile confrontation between a broken and beaten Dorothy, Jeffrey and Sandy. Dorothy has lost her senses and been pushed to madness by Frank's ministrations, driven to utter desperation and longing to be free of it all. Sandy is initially devastated by the sight, though ultimately her compassion drives her to help Dorothy be reunited with her son. Jeffrey decides to seek vengeance on Frank, and let the police take care of the rest. What follows is a cacophony of betrayal, double-crossing, mutilation, shoot-outs, and the downfall of all those who served Frank (including the Yellow Man, a police chief that kept incriminating evidence away from Frank and disposed of any adversaries, who easily meets the most disturbing fate of all Frank’s associates). The final scenes are a joy to watch, as we see Lynch redefine typical film-noir with his sheer originality. Finally, after a game of cat and mouse Jeffrey hides in the closet with a stolen gun, waiting for the opportune moment to ambush Frank, ridding the world of his evil for good. 







It's in these final scenes we get to see Lynch's versatility as a director, as he offers an obscene tribute to the noir films of the past. The claustrophobic close-ups of Jeffrey in the dark stairwell, the crash-zooms, close calls as Frank (amusingly in his "well-dressed-man" disguise) stalks him through the apartment, shots framed from doorways and long halls (which would in-turn inspire Tarantino). The pace is thrilling, the soundtrack perfection, performances enthralling. 


What do you drink?!" While Frank Booth is the pure evil of the world, Denis Hopper's scenery-chewing, invigorating and unhinged performance is also darkly comedic...


In the end, Sandy and Jeffrey embark on a new life together, and Dorothy finally has her hearts desire - freedom, and reunion with her son. The original score by Lynch's lifetime collaborator, composer Angelo Badalamenti, is inspired by the music of 1950's noir murder mysteries, yet distorted into something disturbing. This is combined with the symphonies of classical composer Shostakovich, 1950's doo-wop and swing, all offset against the twisted underworld of suburbia. The resulting duality is both evocative and chilling



"Where is my dream?"



Blue Velvet is not only my favourite David Lynch film (next to Lost Highway), but one of my ten favourite films of all time. Cinematic love aside, to describe my true love of Lynch's work is to articulate my feelings, rather than my thoughts. A challenge for anyone writing about film. I ultimately saw myself in both Dorothy and Sandy - and perhaps therein lies David Lynch's intent. I am sensitive, loving, kind and warm, but still brazen and quietly strong. I am loyal and protect those I care for from harm. I am also darkness, romance, lust, seduction, passion and a force that combines all these qualities when in love. To see a director give space to the complexities of feminine sexuality in what was a darkly conservative time in the world, will always always be utterly empowering in every way.


Sometimes, we might fear that the Frank Booth's of the world have won, that our own darkness and trauma have rendered us incapable of knowing true happiness and freedom. To that I can only say this - in my life, there has been one other I have known who was violated at a young age, as I was. He knows what it means to encounter someone that desires to destroy the good in you because the power feels intoxicating to them, and it was perhaps (unconsciously) a reason we have always understood and accepted one another, without judgement. The thing is, these predators consistently underestimate the strength and benevolence of universal will. Even at his most broken and lost, my friend will always be someone worth protecting. I shall always go to great lengths to be a force of unconditional love in his life, even when I am feeling lost too. Through this simple act of defiance against those who once hurt us, I hope to send my own message to the monsters of the world: for us, robins will always come to chase their darkness away. Like Dorothy, Jeffrey and Sandy - we survived, and live on to dream.



Watching Blue Velvet now is something I only do late at night, curled up in my bed when the town that surrounds me have shut off their lights and drifted to sleep. Seeing Lynch's work in a cinema almost feels too public somehow, like I don't want to share this experience with anyone else. Like many of neo/ film-noir directors he subtly pays tribute to in the ways outlined above, Lynch is that rare filmmaker made richer by an intimate setting. Putting on a negligee and lace gown, my room illuminated only by my television screen and nightstand lamplight, I get to immerse myself in his world as intended (and my quilt cover happens to be velvet, because of course it is). Something about all of Lynch's films lend themselves to late night viewings in bed, perhaps because they evoke a world so close to dreams. The mood left by the film is both disturbing and beautiful, and even though I watch it alone - when I turn out the lights my mind drifts to a land of lovers. I imagine in visceral detail that feeling of hunger when you are in bed with someone you feel deeply drawn to and comfortable with. No music, barely any noise as the city sleeps. Lights from the street outside faintly illuminating your surroundings as you breathe each other in and kisses turn demanding. Hands working their way along one another with certainty as darker instincts take hold and desire turns into a base need. Heavy breathing that gives way to small sounds of pleasure are all that can be heard as hips grind and bedsheets wind up tangled at your feet, as we explore the parts of us that operate within darkness and fetish. Hands and fingers illicit pleasure and when desired, pain. Macabre meets seduction. And when it is all over, the mood is tender and calm, as my leg wraps around them and I rest my head on their shoulder as we travel to the land of dreams. That feeling of illicit lovers and our secrets under the dark of the moon is what keeps us returning to David Lynch’s universe, mesmerised by the way he brings to life to our dreams and nightmares.



La douleur exquise - or "the exquisite pain of love and longing". That feeling... of longing for love that gives space to our own beautiful darkness. That is the dream, romance and erotica of David Lynch's cinematic world distilled. 


💓




Authors Note:  While Blue Velvet is revelatory in it's depiction of sadomasochism and fetish, I would encourage those curious about the BDSM world to start with the film Secretary and tv series Billions (and stay clear of Fifty Shades, for the love of kink). As is the case with most erotica, Blue Velvet operates within the realm of pure fantasy, where there are no boundaries or rules. So go forth, be kinky and stay safe!).





Also genuinely heartbroken over Dean's passing which was news as I finished this. He was wonderful... may he rest in peace with all our other fallen muses in the land of dreams... ♥️


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