David Lynch: The ABC of Going From the Big Screen to the Small

More film directors than ever are suddenly heading for television. Here David Lynch recounts his adventures in returning to the small screen once more.

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This is the interview that David Lynch did not want to do. Who can blame him? He knows I want to talk about the increasing number of big-name movie directors (like James Cameron, Steven Spielberg, Barry Levinson, Michael Bay, Cameron Crowe and Lynch himself) who are, for some reason, slouching toward television. Of course, in Lynch's case, as in Spielberg's and Levinson's, this is not the first foray onto the small screen. The problem is that Lynch has been getting word that his noirish TV pilot, Mulholland Drive, is not being warmly embraced by executives at ABC, the network that asked for it.

By the time we sit down and talk, the verdict is in.

"I was about to leave for the Cannes Film Festival with [my new film] The Straight Story, when my producer Tony Krantz called and said, 'ABC doesn't want Mulholland Drive for fall and they don't want it for midseason. They don't want it.' So if you're writing about film directors going back into television, this might be a worthless interview, because, at this point, I don't think I'm back in television." Lynch's tone is dismissive. This is clearly a man who's hurting.

"Well, let me put it this way," I say. "You were ready to commit to a television series knowing full well the limitations of a sponsor-driven medium run by risk-averse executives. What was it that lured you back?"

I'm well aware that what lures many directors at the moment is the astounding cash-cow potential television represents; a successful film can't begin to pay off the way years of syndication from a successful TV series do. But I doubt that's all Lynch has on his mind.

"I was lured back because of a really strong desire to tell a continuing story in which you go deeper and deeper into a world and you get lost in that world. A pilot is open-ended, and, when it's over, you feel all these threads going out into the infinite which, to me, is a beautiful thing. It's like a body with no head."

The decapitation simile aside, one can understand why a TV series that permits a certain amount of narrative meandering would appeal to Lynch. Conventional, beginning-middle-end stories are not his forte. He's always been niggardly with exposition. His dialogue is not memorable. We go to Lynch movies for the inexplicable, mesmerizing dream fragments that turn us into voyeurs. And we went to Lynch television a decade ago--to the memorable Twin Peaks--for the same thing. But is there still a TV audience out there ready to embrace such idiosyncratic fare? Lynch thinks so: "There's a bunch of people who want something different on TV. I was hopeful that I could make something the network would want."

We're commiserating in Lynch's Bat Cave of an office high in the Hollywood Hills. There are no obvious windows. Three of the whimsical wood-and-metal end tables were designed by Lynch and built in a factory in Switzerland. A book of Monet's Water Lilies lies on the couch. Lynch, who, in his 20s, supported himself delivering newspapers, owns three adjacent, fortresslike houses on a wriggly street that's barely wide enough for the garbage truck. In these pink-and-gray concrete castles, he dictates his scripts, edits, paints, records music, designs furniture and meditates.

He made his first film in 1966. Its running time was one minute. Called Six Men Getting Sick, it was shown on three, skull-shaped screens to the accompaniment of a siren. Since then he's been Oscar nominated for The Elephant Man (1980) and Blue Velvet (1986). In 1990, Wild at Heart won the Palme d'Or at Cannes and Twin Peaks became an international hit. He's 53 now, but says most days he feels between 11 and 23. He lives with his editor, Mary Sweeney, who is also the mother of his third child and writer/producer of The Straight Story. Mary warns me I can't exceed my allotted hour with David because she has to "feed him" before an afternoon meeting. This is clearly a man who needs tending, and, indeed, on one floor of one of the houses there's a clutch of secretaries and assistants, one of whom pops in to refill Lynch's coffee mug--an act that is, I gather, repeated many times each day. Lynch is dressed in his trademark khakis and white shirt, one flap of which hangs outside of his pants. His hair is thick, tousled and gray. He smokes incessantly.

"So let me get this straight," I say. "You wrote the script for Mulholland Drive and submitted it to ABC."

"Yes. And they seemed happy with it."

"Was there any interference during the production?"

"No. It was a beautiful shoot. There was no indication that it wasn't going to go great. Then two network executives watched a cut; I heard they didn't like the pace and they didn't like the show."

"Did they call you?"

"No one called me. I never heard from anyone after I turned in my cut. Not word one. All I got was a whole truckload of notes."

"From whom?"

"I don't know. I didn't recognize any of the names. And I have a problem with notes." He takes a swig of Java. "In the feature film world, I've had creative control since Blue Velvet. And in my mind it's not worth doing anything if you don't have that freedom. You have to do what you believe in. I'm not opposed to listening to somebody and defending decisions and taking a good note, but in the TV world, there's a real need for people to give notes. You could talk to 100 people and get 100 different reactions to something. And I don't want to do anything with people who aren't enthusiastic."

Later, one of Lynch's assistants tells me, "The network thought the show was 'too weird.'" Someone else close to the project confided that, "Somebody at ABC objected to a shot of dog poop on the sidewalk." Well, what did they expect from the man who's given us severed ears, exploding heads and oxygen-masked psychopaths?! Didn't they realize they'd hired an artist who revels in the erotic, the ghoulish, the kinky and the grotesque? A man whom Mel Brooks (of all people) has called "Jimmy Stewart from Mars" and whom The New York Times dubbed "A psychopathic Norman Rockwell"? Who did the suits at ABC think they were getting? Ron Howard?

Actually, they were getting Ron Howard. It's Imagine Entertainment, Ron Howard and Brian Grazer's company, that produced Mulholland Drive. However new to TV, they're no slouches at putting out winners, either--they're the company behind Felicity, The PJs and Sports Night.

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