Every David Lynch Movie Ranked
As of this writing, David Lynch has been gone for less than a month. Within that amount of time, I naturally took it upon myself to watch virtually his entire cinematic output, sans his Duran Duran concert film, one or two shorts that I could not locate, and a few of his commercials. This marathon viewing session of course included his ten official feature length movies, and as part of my mourning/celebration of a man that I can honestly call my favorite filmmaker, I feel an official ranking of these ten feature length movies is in order.
Watching Lynch's output in the course of a few weeks immediately following his death was a bittersweet experience, as one could imagine. Accepting that we will never get another piece of art from him is an inevitable tragedy since no one exists on this mortal plane forever, so there is a sense of sadness that comes along with watching what he left behind since it is now officially all that we are ever going to get. At the same token though, David Lynch has no all-out duds in his filmography, and as far as his full-length movies are concerned, all of them are different shades of fantastic. So taking them all on actually softened the blow of his passing, since it slams home the point that no artist was anything like him and few if any produced a body of work that was of such a consistently high caliber.
So without any further dilly-dallying, here are David Lynch's ten feature length films in all of their singular and outstanding glory...
This is a foreseeable one to technically rank at the bottom, if only because it was a mangled production that suffered various post-production setbacks that were out of David Lynch's control. Adapting Frank Herberts's celebrated and mammoth first Dune novel into a single movie is already a daunting task, (it took Denis Villeneuve two films to get it done and Alejandro Jodorowsky famously could not get it done at all), plus producers Dino and Rafaella De Laurentiis hacked-down Lynch's initial four-plus hour cut to a mere one-hundred and thirty-seven minutes. This in turn eliminated various side-arcs and the proper fleshing-out of numerous characters, creating a mess of a finished product. The third act is particularly rushed, and the film suffers from a different form of incomprehensibility than the deliberate kind that is found in Lynch's strictly auteur works. Troubles aside, Dune is a gorgeously designed movie with a who's who cast, plus stunning visuals, impressive sci-fi realizations, and a grandiose scope that is unlike anything else that the director ever did. Lynch may have disowned it and those familiar with the source material may be the only ones who have a prayer of keeping up with the butchered structure, but it is still fun and dazzling stuff.
Sometime in the early 2000s, David Lynch wrote-off shooting anything on film ever again and fell in love with handheld digital camcorders, ultimately spending a few years on arguably his most experimental full-length Inland Empire. The third and last in his "Los Angeles Trilogy" as well as the final theatrically released feature of his career, it is a rough watch from a quality standpoint since the standard definition leaves much to be desired, especially coming from a filmmaker whose attention to visually captivating details was always paramount. The 2022 upscaled version by Janus Films is a marked improvement, but regardless of how it looks, the disjointed narrative is easily Lynch's most intentionally abstract. This is because it is his only film to be pieced together in the shooting and not from a finished screenplay beforehand. The freedom that it allowed him was Lynch's driving motivation in making it, following his subconscious muse as usual and merely shooting any scenes that came to him with a cast of regular collaborators who were always game to hop back on board. There are stunning moments of strangeness that phase between disturbing, mystifying, hilarious, and everything in between, plus at three hours in length, (not to mention an additional seventy-five minutes of "More Things Happen"), this is the most excessive indulgence of Lynch's unfiltered ideas outside of Twin Peaks: The Return.
Speaking of David Lynch's "most experimental film", the man himself granted such a title to The Straight Story; the only movie in his oeuvre that he did not pen the screenplay for. Lynch's usual output often times pushed the stylistic and storytelling boundaries of conventional cinema yes, but for him, this stripped-down movie about a seventy-four year-old WWII veteran hoping upon a rider lawnmower to go visit his estranged brother two-hundred and forty miles away was nothing like anything that he had ever attempted, let alone anything that anyone would have predicted that he would attempt. Lynch simply fell in love with the script by John E. Roach and frequent collaborator Mary Sweeney, itself based on the real incident that Alvin Straight undertook in 1994. Adjusting one's expectations then considering who was behind the lens, this is as emotionally potent as any of the more high-octane bizarre moments in Lynch's other films. It slowly and tenderly mosies along, letting us sit with the quirky yet well-meaning stubbornness of its central character who is played beautifully by Richard Farnsworth, himself dying of cancer during its making. In route, we get to sit with the simple idea of aging and life passing us by, leaving us with a level of melancholic yet gentle acceptance as to where we all inevitably end up.
A companion piece to The Straight Story that was done nearly twenty years prior, David Lynch's sophomore full-length The Elephant Man is also conventionally digestible, based on a real life person, and emphasizes a mood that is more affecting than disturbingly strange. That said, it is hardly a bog-standard biopic, instead shot in atmospheric black and white by famed cinematographer Freddie Francis, (who also shot The Straight Story, yet another direct connection there), and concerning the uncanny medical case of Joseph Merrick who suffered from Proteus syndrome, spent a significant portion of his life brutalized in freak shows, and died at the age of twenty-seven after becoming all but completely debilitated by his physical deformities. John Hurt turns in one of cinema's most transformative performances under eight hours of makeup, becoming a pitiful yet charming "monster" who touches the heartstrings of several other characters on screen, as well as anyone watching the finished film. There are still some traces of Eraserhead that spring up in fits and starts, (especially with the ambient sound design and some brief dream sequences), but this is still in most ways a strong shift away from Lynch's maverick, midnight movie, oddball debut. So in other words, it proved that Lynch had both a singular aesthetic, yet was also far from a one-trick pony.
Shortly after shooting the pilot for Twin Peaks, David Lynch suffered some setbacks from two other productions that failed to materialize due to Dino De Laurentiis's company closing shop, but the opportunity nevertheless came for him to adapt Barry Gifford's novel Wild at Heart into a feature film. Lynch churned out a script in about a month and brought in a handful of actors that he had recently and previously worked with, as well as Nicolas Cage and Willem Dafoe who make their sole appearance in a Lynch film here. Dafoe does not show up until over an hour and fifteen minutes in, but he steels the show as Bobby Peru; a hilarious sleazebag that is so sleazy that you can practically smell his sleaze from the screen. Cage channels his best James Dean-via-Elvis impression as the outlaw with the heart of gold, and as his true beloved, Laura Dern turns in one of her many outstanding performances screaming, dancing, fornicating, and melting hearts in the process. Dern's mother Diane Ladd plays her character's mom as well, (and scored an Oscar nomination for what it is worth), chewing the scenery like a demented Southern Gothic porcelain doll. The soundtrack bounces between Cage singing Elvis tunes, to Angelo Badalamenti ambiance, to thrash metal for some outrageous reason, plus there are deliberate Wizard of Oz references sprinkled all over such a violent and off-the-walls tale of two star-crossed lovers who are simply trying to make a solid go of it in such a fucked up world.
Several years in the making, David Lynch's rightfully celebrated debut Eraserhead remains one of the most impressive, strange, and unique DIY works that has ever been made. A midnight movie hallmark that ran for years in various towns, it simultaneously built a cult following and impressed/baffled enough industry personnel to garnish Lynch a professional career as a filmmaker. Shot at a barn that was owned by the American Film Institute, (where Lynch was also living throughout its production), the movie was painstakingly put together in fits and starts as the money continually ran out. Yet the final product is a mind-melting and fully-realized vision that bares little if any resemblance to even the most avant-garde forms of cinema that came before it. There may not be a movie with a better or more memorable sound design, Lynch and Alan Splet somehow turning machine and factory ambience into something that is both continuously oppressive and hypnotic. Most uninitiated viewers will be pulling out their hair in bewilderment, but the narrative does reveal itself to be a hilariously twisted take on the fear or parenthood, sexual frustration, and commitment. Each outlandish set piece plays out as if in a lackadaisical haze, further pulling you in to a type of nightmare that is as funny as it is horrifying as it is perplexing.
After the debacle that was Dune, producer Dino De Laurentiis did David Lynch a solid and granted him final cut and free reign for his next film, and it was one that in turn set the thematic course for the rest of his career. Blue Velvet is in many ways where most of the Lynchian motifs were established. Namely, this is the most pristine example in his filmography of the light balancing out the darkness. The unassuming small American town that is harboring disturbed secrets has its Frank Booth, the Man in the Yellow Suit, and Ben, but it also has bright eyed teenagers, cops who want what is best for their communities, and well-meaning characters who flirt too close to danger. Narratively straightforward, the movie nevertheless contains arguably the most uncomfortable set pieces that Lynch ever concocted, squarely focused on the monstrous exploits of Dennis Hopper's wholeheartedly vile villain. It is difficult to imagine anybody witnessing the "Baby wants to fuck!" scene for the first time and not questioning their judgement as to their choice of viewing for the evening. Really, everything that made David Lynch tick can be found here, and it is all skewed through his exclusive lens with Bobby Vinton's title song, red drapes, severed ears, and Dean Stockwell "singing" into a light bulb.
An immediate indication that David Lynch still had more to explore in the universe of his recently cancelled and studio-interfered television series, Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me is an R-rated prequel that delves into the initial mystery of "Who killed Laura Palmer?", and does so as a vivid and heartbreaking nightmare. This is the closest that Lynch ever got to unabashed horror, but one can hardly make a point that he is working within the confines of such a genre any more than he ever had. In the lead, Sheryl Lee turns in one of many outstanding performances in a Lynch film, which is a treat for fans of the show since she was initially just hired to be a dead body "wrapped in plastic". Lee's troubled protagonist runs through a gamut of emotions in her final few days alive before being whisked off into the Red Room, and if anyone is keeping track, there many not be a more harrowing cinematic deception of incest and abuse out there. While splashes of head-scratching humor still find their way in, (particularly in the Deer Meadow prologue which explores the connected case of Teresa Banks' slaying at the hand of Bob), this is otherwise the most relentlessly dark of Lynch's films since we know that Laura Palmer is doomed from the get-go. It also goes hard into the surreal, with David Bowie's cameo alone being a solid contender for the most batshit insane scene in any Lynch movie.
The only clue to unlocking the intimidating mind-melt that is Lost Highway comes from David Lynch himself who said that he was inspired by the O.J. Simpson trial and how someone could live with themselves after, (allegedly), committing a heinous act. Yet diligent minds will be able to uncover further inklings on repeated viewings as to how Bill Pullman can turn into Balthazar Getty, how Patricia Arquette can play two different characters, exactly what happened "that night", who those video tapes were coming from, and what in the goddam fuck Robert Blake's entire deal is. Lynch often times talked about the importance of establishing mood in his art, and the first act specifically here represents an immersive type of suffocating strangeness and dread, as characters move lava-like through a neo-noir dream of jealousy, infidelity, and uncorked rage. The second act shift is one of the most magnificent ever pulled off, and things only get stranger, sexier, and more bleak from there. This can be seen as Lynch and co-screenwriter Barry Gifford playing within a film noir framework, but the hip, spooky, and dark subconscious-plundering style reigns supreme, and like Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me, it makes this miles removed from the genre that it is tinkering in.
It was a blessing in disguise that what was originally shot and conceived of as a TV pilot for ABC ended up getting unceremoniously passed on, since the resulting full-length Mulholland Dr. represents the best hour and forty-seven minutes that David Lynch ever put on screen. The second in Lynch's "Los Angeles Trilogy", this is closely tied to its predecessor Lost Highway in that it once again explores a troubled protagonist who is not all that they seem, nor is anything else all that it seems throughout the duration. Comparatively "easier" to follow than Lost Highway, it is more funny, more wacky, and ultimately more emotionally riveting. In a star-making turn, Naomi Watts turns in a bravado performance as a newly arrived Hollywood hopeful who meets up with Laura Harring to uncover a deepening mystery that ultimately leads to psychological turmoil and tragedy for all involved. Lynch's common motifs of characters speaking cryptically, many set pieces existing in a cacophony of the surreal, and jarring detours into comedy, absurdity, horror, and eroticism are front and center, and it all speaks to the lurking evil that good ole Tinseltown can bring out of those who succumb to shattered dreams. A well-honed and one-of-a-kind style married with captivating and challenging storytelling, it is an equally haunting and beautiful culmination of Lynch's gifts as a filmmaker, all done to the nth degree.
VERY HONORABLE MENTION
Technically speaking, Twin Peaks: The Return can more properly be looked at as a miniseries and/or the long-awaited final season to a cherished television show more than it can be looked at as a "movie". Yet part of its brilliance is in how much it blurs the lines between the two, and just like the ABC series that came before it, this further showcased a bold new direction for small-screen drama to take. Upwards of eighteen hours long spread over just as many episodes, it tells an ambitious narrative that picks up two-plus decades after the series left off, fulfilling Laura Palmer's backwards-talking promise that she would see Agent Cooper again "in twenty-five years". Yet conventional episodic television this is not, mainly because it was written and shot as a continuous product with David Lynch solely behind the screen throughout. He and co-creator Mark Frost provide several moments of closure to beloved character arcs that were long accepted to be abandoned, but they also deepen the Twin Peaks mythos profoundly, venturing into the series' supernatural dimensions and otherworldly characters while amazingly tying so many things together from both the show and the prequel film's past. They also kick open the doors to more frustrating mysteries, fittingly leaving us with a sense of bewildered wonderment as to how expansive and troubling it can all still go. When looked at as a whole, the initial two seasons of Twin Peaks, the aforementioned Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me, the ninety-two minute "The Missing Pieces" accompaniment to that movie, and then The Return all represent a high-water mark for everyone involved, not least of all Lynch who delivered his unfiltered masterpiece here.
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