Wednesday, November 18, 2015

David Lynch’s Eraserhead (1977) and Silent Film





Like a lot of people, my first introduction to Eraserhead was at a midnight movie on a college campus. It resonated with me in a way that it didn’t with my companions, who dismissed it as nonsense. The film is still divisive, and for every person who praises it as a masterpiece, you’re likely to find one or two who didn’t make it through the first five minutes. It’s understandable, really, considering that films like Eraserhead and its surrealist counterparts are practically a whole different medium than traditional films. Like opera, or poetry, or improvisational jazz, it requires an understanding and acceptance of the genre to crack its code. It’s not a matter of elitism. It’s simply a matter of some people just don’t like this kind of stuff.

It occurs to me that the manner in which some people don’t “get” Eraserhead is similar to the way that some people don’t get silent film. I’m willing to bet that there may be a few silent film fans out there that appreciated Eraserhead when it came out because they were already used to weird films with little dialogue. For me, it was the opposite. When I first started to seriously watch silent films, part of why they appealed to me right away was because I came to love the world of Eraserhead so long ago.

In a lot of ways, Lynch’s first feature film is a silent film. It’s almost a full 11 minutes before anyone speaks at all (“Are you Henry?” asks the Beautiful Girl Across the Hall). There’s only brief, intermittent dialogue thereafter, amounting to only a few minute’s worth. Jack Nance (the film’s lead, and a Lynch regular until his death in 1996) remarked in an interview that it was “a little script.” He continued: “It was only a few pages with this weird imagery and not much dialogue and this baby kind of thing." He wasn’t being hyperbolic. The entire transcript of the dialogue takes up surprisingly little space (have a look). It’s easy to imagine the dialogue being presented silent film-style, on intertitle cards, without it changing very much about the film at all. You could even remove the spoken words entirely and still have something quite special (I’d argue the same with the title cards for F. W. Murnau’s Sunrise).

Harold Lloyd.


Those who mention the fact that Eraserhead is like a silent film are usually quick to point out that, of course, it does have sound. It’s an easy way to launch into a paragraph about the film’s soundtrack, which is as important as its visual imagery. Lynch went to unusual lengths to record just the right sounds for his film (filling bottles with microphones and putting them in a bathtub, for starters), and the results show. The atmosphere is pervaded by constant, unsettling sounds that seem alternately (and sometimes simultaneously) industrial and corporeal. The hissing sounds might be the steam releasing from a machine, but sometimes you’d swear you also detect the gurgling of saliva. It’s a disturbing effect, and a distinctly Lynchian one, that keeps the lines blurred between what is alive and what is mechanical. (Metropolis, anyone?) Keep in mind, though, that silent films were never presented soundlessly, and if you’ve ever tried to watch one without music, you know that they lose their atmosphere just as much as Eraserhead does with its sound turned down.

Eraserhead’s similarities to silent films go beyond the fact that it has little dialogue or even that it’s filmed in black and white. Its whole world is within the silent film milieu. The bleak factory setting is straight out of the Depression, with trappings far older than the year the film was made: a wall telephone with a flared mouthpiece, an old phonograph (used to play Fats Waller records from the 1920s), a curtained stage straight out of vaudeville. Henry’s filthy, sparse room looks like something from Chaplin’s The Kid, while the factory elements are as unsettling as those of Modern TImes. From the very beginning, Eraserhead looks both bizarre and familiar. Lynch would come to reuse many of the elements from the set, so the lobby will evoke both Twin Peaks’ Black Lodge and Mulholland Drive’s Club Silencio for those who have seen his later films. But, that’s not the only reason it’s so recognizable. It’s a world we know, because it’s an old one. It’s been captured on film for more than a hundred years.

Jack Nance’s Henry is a throwback as well, with a fright hairdo that resembles Harold Lloyd’s at the end of Haunted Spooks and an ill-fitting suit that’s the trademark of every silent clown. Like most of the popular silent comedians, Henry is a hapless innocent in bizarre circumstances, and he faces most of them with the stone-faced stoicism of a Buster Keaton. When his facial expression isn’t blank, it’s puzzled. Henry is part of a big, crazy world that he doesn’t understand, and he doesn’t do things so much as things happen to him. One of the first things we see Henry do is one of the oldest comedy tropes in the book, but it establishes his character in an instant: he steps in a mud puddle. We’re on very familiar turf, and we know something that is equally true for both silent comedy and surrealism. Anything can happen (and it probably will). As soon as Henry enters the warehouse, things turn dark, strange, industrial. The silent clown enters Metropolis.


Chaplin and Nance as caretakers.


Reduced to its basic plot elements, Eraserhead is a sequence of familiar ideas. While the more bizarre elements and visual effects make it difficult for some viewers to distill, there’s nothing here, story-wise that would be out of place in a classic film. Henry is a factory worker whose girlfriend’s parents convince to marry their daughter after she has a child (if that is indeed what it is). Mary has a hard time with motherhood and leaves Henry to largely care for the child on his own. Henry is seduced by a beautiful woman (the classic vamp of the silent film world) and things begin to fall apart. It’s the absurd details that make the film what it is, but those details are also part of what makes the film an echo of the films that precede it.

Take, for example, the film’s opening: a double exposure trick juxtaposes Jack Nance’s giant, sideways head with what appears to be a planet, or a moon. As we get closer, the planet/moon looks like it’s not made of rock, but something organic. It’s a rotten orange, or decaying meat. It’s possibly even alive. It’s not only a photographic trick that’s more than 100 years old, but it’s a visual that looks strikingly like something Georges Méliès would have done, or even more precisely, Segundo de Chomón.

Some of Lynch’s most grotesque elements in Eraserhead would be right at home in a de Chomón short, and both directors have a fascination with disembodied heads and decay. In one of Eraserhead’s scenes, Henry pulls sperm-like ropes from Mary’s body and flings them against the wall. One of them cavorts around in a stop-motion segment that de Chomón would have found quite familiar. A pioneer of stop-motion, he often used it to shock or disgust, as he did in Panicky Picnic (1909), wherein a cake is cut open to reveal an interior filled with worms. Lynch’s animated, blood-filled chicken in the family dinner scene is no more absurd than de Chomón’s sequences featuring self-slicing sausages or cracked eggs with live rats inside.


Above: de Chomon. Below: Lynch.


The tiny theater inside Henry’s radiator is not far removed from the miniature performances that take place in de Chomón’s Metamorphoses, but Henry is not controlling the show. He is merely a voyeur. When Henry steps into the radiator, it’s a shocking moment. We’ve come to accept the woman in the radiator as part of a different world—why, it’s not even his size! Like Keaton stepping into the movie screen in Sherlock, Jr., it’s a breathtaking moment that shatters the reality we’ve come to accept, and in this case, it was a bizarre reality to begin with. Henry has broken a fourth wall that exists inside a larger four walls. While things get pretty crazy on that stage, with Henry’s head falling off and the creepy baby wearing his suit, my favorite moment is one that’s easy to miss.

As the giant tree (or miniature tree, as we’re inside the radiator) is wheeled onto the stage, something unusual happens. Henry looks afraid, and at first it seems as if the big tree, an exact copy of the one on his bedside table that sits potless in a pile of dirt, is what has him in a panic. But, he looks out to the audience. As he backs away, he continues to steal nervous glances at the theatre’s audience, at us. He is acutely aware of being watched, of going from voyeur to the object of the voyeurism. The camera pans out to remind us that this is all taking place on a stage, perhaps to emphasize that it’s not taking place in the “real” outside world. It reminds me of the convention in some very early silents wherein the film would begin and end with a curtain’s rise and fall, especially in the case of thrillers, as a way of making the audience feel more at ease. (“It’s not real, folks!”)

If there’s a single silent film that Eraserhead resembles, though, it’s Un Chien Andalou, the surrealist Luis Bunuel/Salvador Dali collaboration from 1929. It’s often been remarked upon, but easily dismissed because Lynch claims to not have seen it prior to making his film. Even if the similarities are unintentional, they’re relevant, as the list of oddities the films have in common is long enough that it could be a separate post, so I’ll just name a few. Both films deal with voyeurism, first depicted in each film when a violent act is seen through the window. Both contain scenes of mundane domesticity  punctuated by gruesomeness. Un Chien Andalou’s most famous scene, still cited more than seventy years later as one of the most disturbing ever filmed, features a woman’s eyeball being sliced with a razor. Shock factor aside, what’s oddest about it is the fact that it seems to take place in an ordinary home, as if it’s an ordinary event, much like the disturbing aspects of the family dinner in Eraserhead. 

Un Chien Andalou's most famous sequence.

Both films contain dismembered body parts as well as live creatures emerging from human body parts. (It’s hard to believe that the ants crawling from the hole in a hand in Un Chien Andalou didn’t inform the infested ear in Blue Velvet, so even if Lynch hadn’t seen the short film in 1977, he probably saw it before 1986). In some ways, Eraserhead is Un Chien Andalou in reverse, as the Bunuel film opens with the slicing of an organ, while Lynch’s film saves it for last. Both films contain a ray of hope at the end, or at least of finality. Eraserhead’s baby is destroyed, and Henry steps into the world of the radiator, embracing the woman who has continually sung to him that “In heaven, everything is fine.” In Un Chien Adalou, it’s the mysterious box that’s destroyed, and the protagonists frolic on the beach. The final title card of the latter film informs us that it is spring, and we see the couple unmoving, buried in the sand up to their necks. Are they dead? Is this a happy ending or not? You could ask the same questions at the end of Eraserhead.

Bunuel and Dali insisted that their film had no meaning at all, and that creating a meaningless film was their whole purpose. “No idea or image that might lend itself to a rational explanation of any kind would be accepted” said Bunuel of the filming process. Lynch’s film is presumed to have some meaning, but the director has said repeatedly that no one has ever interpreted it correctly, and he’s keeping mum about what it (or any other film) really means. Is there a big difference between a film having no meaning and one whose meaning is kept in the dark? Even with Bunuel and Dali’s attempt at making a meaningless film, it’s impossible to watch it and not begin to form a plot in your head. As humans, we see patterns and make connections between things. It’s what we do.

And perhaps it’s what I’m doing when I spot silent film influences in Eraserhead. Maybe they are there, and maybe they are not. It’s funny to me, though, that even people who claim Eraserhead “makes no sense” also describe it as disturbing, or as a nightmare. That means they’re making sense of it in some way. Something recognizable is coming through to them as fear. And that’s because Eraserhead, like the best silent comedies (or the best surrealist works), speaks to universal truths. It’s about universal human struggles. The awkward family dinner, the fear of parenthood—it’s all really very simple. Those moments that are never explained (why are there peas in the dresser drawer?) are absurd, but so are our lives, and there are just as many questions in our own that we will never answer.

This post was written for the Criterion Blogathon. You can find the full roster of entries, each featuring a different Criterion film, at Criterion Blues.

Update: I’m pleased that my post was chosen for one of the daily jury selection awards in the Criterion Blogathon (most original post). 

24 comments:

  1. This is the best review of Eraserhead I have ever read. And I mean, THE best.

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    1. Gosh, thanks, that means a lot. I always feel unworthy of talking about films I like a lot.

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    2. I feel the exact same way. I was terrified of reviewing "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" on my blog, but I did eventually just go for it.

      I still haven't worked up the courage to tackle any Kubrick, though.

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  2. This is great! Love the connections you make here, thanks so much for taking part in this event with such a cool pick.

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    1. Thanks for reading! It was actually my second pick. I never thought I'd be lucky enough to get a Lynch film as my first pick, so my top choice was something more obscure—and it's the one that ended up taken.

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  3. Great, fascinating insights here, which I've found quite illuminating! The analogy of Eraserhead to silent cinema does make sense, given Lynch's techniques and imagery; it seems he was re-exploring the freedom allowed by silent movies, especially early silents, before film narrative techniques and tropes became established and accepted as norms (it's what I often see in early animation, with its use of endlessly shifting forms and changes of tone--it was so new that the 'rules' for how to do it had not yet been set up, so filmmakers felt they could do anything). After reading your terrific post, I definitely now want to see Eraserhead again!

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    1. Thank you for the compliment, and you're right about the freedom afforded very early filmmakers—it's when the structure became more rigid that ALL the rules became more rigid.

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  4. Loved the review, Kelly! A movie I've always wanted to see but never have...but your discussion has really piqued my interest, so I'll see if I can somehow track it down. And I see the 'eye-slicing' short is available to watch on-line, so I'll be checking out that WTF bit of cinema as well!

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    1. You're in for a whole load of WTF-ness. Hope you enjoy!

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  5. VERY good write-up, and insightful in ways I had never really considered! Wonderful work!

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  6. Great Stuff Kelly. I will re-visit this very soon with the help of your insights!

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  7. That is a brilliant post Kelly! I love it when a film sparks so many ideas in a viewer! Brilliantly written and researched!

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  8. Forgotten to mention - I recently watched Dreyer's The Passion of Joan of Arc without sound - it was a testament to the power of images! I highly recommend doing it! I had never seen the film before!

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    1. Thanks for the nice comments. I meant to mention Dreyer in the article (VAMPYR in particular)—I ended up with more stuff in my notes than I could cram in.

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  9. I really liked this review, and it may inspire me to give Eraserhead another view sometime soon!

    I am going to focus on a particular statement of yours because it is something I have thought about for a long time: " Is there a big difference between a film having no meaning and one whose meaning is kept in the dark?" See, I think there is a huge difference between those two concepts, and I'd love to hear your opinion on the matter.

    First, saying that a film is purposely without meaning explicitly states the particular aesthetic conceit of that film. You can debate whether or not making a film without meaning is actually even possible - as "no meaning" is itself a particular aesthetic statement and thus at least some kind of meaning. But, the point is, a film of this nature HAS a conclusion, or could be said to be "settled".

    By contrast, if an artist says, "Yeah, there's meaning, but I'm never telling" then it is very different. The viewer is now tasked with analyzing, interpreting, and coming to some conclusion about what particular themes, ideas, and meanings are present in the piece. Of course, we can disagree about these, offer-counterarguments or observations, or just throw our hands up if it is too obtuse.

    Still, there's a crucial difference: one piece is "without meaning", so while we can marvel at the visuals and craft story or theme in our heads, we won't likely take it much further - the other piece is pregnant with meaning, and we go on the hunt almost immediately.

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    1. Thanks for the comments. I almost expanded the section you refer to (and several other ones, too), but felt like I was getting too carried away. Yes, I agree with you that there is a difference in the two concepts. I'd much rather plumb the depths of a film that I think has real mysteries to solve. It's certainly more exciting.

      What I was trying to communicate was that there may be little or no difference between the WAY we might ultimately interpret those films. Even knowing there is supposedly no meaning in UN CHIEN ANDALOU, when I watch it, I find plenty of meaning.

      Without knowing what Lynch means by ERASERHEAD, anything I come up with is filtered through my own perception. Without any confirmation, the meaning I take from it is as individual as my perceptions in the Bunuel film.
      I'll never know if I'm "right." And maybe it doesn't matter.

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  10. Lynch particularly dares you to find definitive meaning in his work. We take away what we can.

    And, I, too commend you on this. The Harold Lloyd juxtaposition, particularly given Lynch's love of slapstick, is remarkably apt and sapient...among much else here.

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    1. Thanks so much! I wanted to delve a little more into the broad comedy of Eraserhead, but there was so much to cover. I think the mud puddle is one of the better examples, but there's so much more. Upon this re-watch, I was also struck by the boss yelling at the inept clerk in the pencil factory—not just the buffonishness, but also the classic fat guy/little guy element.

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  11. Very excellent write-up. I haven't seen this in years and you have my interest piqued. Thanks !

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  12. Your piece is very original. It's also very well written. You make many interesting and informative associations. It's not possible to make such associations without having wide and deep knowledge of and experience with film. You've clearly got those as well. Outstanding!

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