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A review by neilrcoulter
Room to Dream by David Lynch, Kristine McKenna
2.0
“I’m gonna tell you a story.” Those are the first words David Keith Lynch says in this audio edition of his biography/memoir hybrid. And over the course of 13 CDs, that’s what he does—story after story, charting the shape of his life from childhood to the present. I don’t often listen to audiobooks (I find it much harder to focus on spoken words than on printed words), but when I learned that the audio version of Lynch’s book is read (in part) by Lynch himself, I thought that would probably be the best way to experience it. And though I have mixed feelings about the book, I still believe that listening to Lynch read it is far better than just reading the words on the page.
Room to Dream is an odd book in its structure: Kristine McKenna writes biographical chapters about Lynch, and after each chapter, Lynch then writes his own response or reflection on that period of his life. Because of that format, Lynch himself isn’t a contributor to McKenna’s chapters (though she draws on interviews with just about everyone who has ever known or worked with Lynch), but what he says rarely contradicts or corrects McKenna’s sketches.
I loved the first half of this book. Hearing Lynch tell stories about growing up in the 1950s and 60s in Montana, Idaho, Washington, and Virginia, is delightful. He has a fantastic memory, and he’s a great storyteller. He had a stable, loving family, a lot of good friends, and survived quite a few adventures. What became clear from listening to Lynch talk about his youth is that he has long had the ability to see both the shiny surface of life and the unsettling darkness underneath. The interesting thing is that his awareness of lingering darkness doesn’t at all take away from his pure pleasure in the shiny surface. He seems to be able to keep hold of all of that, and it drives him to joy rather than despair.
I didn’t know a lot about Lynch’s early film career, so it was interesting to learn how Eraserhead transpired, and how he was then launched (by Mel Brooks, of all people) into Hollywood with The Elephant Man and then Dune. McKenna and Lynch also give a lot of behind-the-scenes information about Blue Velvet, including how Lynch first met Angelo Badalamenti, which would become one of the great director–composer collaborations.
Making Blue Velvet is about the halfway point in this book, and I felt like after that, McKenna might as well have said, “And then Lynch made some more movies and stuff.” Because it’s somewhere around this part of the book that the narrative becomes very monotonous, going over minute details of movie-making but not giving us so much of the interesting stories. Lynch seems somewhat uninterested in talking very much about Twin Peaks (or maybe he feels he’s already told all those stories; which is probably true, and I already know a lot of those stories anyway).
At first, as the book was growing more dull, I thought, “Maybe he just doesn’t feel as much like talking about things that happened more recently. Maybe they’re too close to have become great stories yet.” But as the book continued, I saw another possibility. I think that as Lynch has isolated himself more and more from “real life” and has arranged an everyday existence that is totally under his control, free of any demands on him that he hasn’t himself voluntarily accepted, he has lost the kind of life that makes great stories. I think the full realization of “the art life” that he has long pursued has drained him of the stories that initially brought him here. It’s sad and ironic. I almost feel bad for him by the end of the book—this “perfectly artistic” man who at the end of his life is living in a small outbuilding with blackout curtains permanently covering the windows, sleeping by himself on a twin bed, urinating in the sink, and having all meals delivered to him so he doesn’t have to do anything but “focus on his art.”
The reason I don’t actually feel sad for him is that he has made some choices that I don’t respect at all. In his pursuit of the art life and, ironically, “finding the transcendent within” and world peace through transcendental meditation, he has left behind three wives and one partner, and his current wife is not very connected to him anymore (when she wanted to have children, he told her, “Why do you want children? Am I not enough for you? Well, if you want a child, then that’s up to you, but don’t expect me to be very involved with any of it.” She had a child and, true to his word, he disappeared into his work and pulled far away from the family.). His exes seem extraordinarily gracious toward him (and since all of them after the first one were the woman he left the previous one for, they certainly had some idea what they were getting into), but that doesn’t change the fact—unstated in the book, of course—that Lynch is a self-centered, immature person.
Given all of this, I find it really sad to listen to Lynch’s multiple earnest pleas to all his listeners to “just get with the program” and start meditating because that’s the only way we’re going to end suffering and have world peace. My idea of non-suffering and peace does not involve breaking so many relationships and leaving hurt people in my trail. All of us make mistakes, of course, so I’m not demanding perfection of Lynch. But I would like to have seen some hint of sorrow, remorse, apology. In the current cultural climate, some remark like “You know, what I did to that woman was terrible, and I wish I would have made different choices” would be very appropriate. But there is none of that evident in this book. What does Lynch have to say to us in films when he has so broken away from real human community?
As those poor choices add up, Lynch’s boyish charm begins to wear thin on me. I’m baffled by the way he can go from something terrible (“So I knew that I wanted to end our marriage”) to one of his trademark flippant responses (“But I was really in love with [the next woman], and it was so byootiful. It was just inncrredible.”). To me, the relentless pursuit of the “beautiful,” the pleasure in each situation as it happens, seemed rather thoughtless and shallow, perhaps even an escape from having to confront the difficulties of life.
I also find his initial justification for transcendental meditation completely bizarre. As a teen, Lynch left his Christian church upbringing because he was frustrated with the hypocrisy he saw in the church. Later on, he discovers meditation, and with boyish glee proclaims that transcendental meditation is the real deal, because “get this, what it teaches us it that we should treat other people the way we’d like to be treated ourselves!” ?? He seems entirely unaware that what he’s just said is the words of Jesus (from Matthew 7:12), which Christians regard as “the golden rule.” I find Lynch to be a really odd spokesperson for meditation.
When I was younger, I thought much more highly of Lynch and saw him as an intriguing, visionary auteur. This book has been a splash of cold water on that youthful idealism. It’s sad in a way, but probably for the best. I will always hold Twin Peaks close to my heart, and there are other Lynch projects I also enjoy a lot. But I can’t say that I’m a “David Lynch fan” in general. I’d like to have seen more thoughtfulness, intellectual growth, and a well-lived life. What I’ve seen instead is a very inwardly focused artist who has removed himself further and further from what makes not an “art life” but a “good life.” I pray that he will find the true healing and community that will bring him out of his “art life” and back into the world.
Room to Dream is an odd book in its structure: Kristine McKenna writes biographical chapters about Lynch, and after each chapter, Lynch then writes his own response or reflection on that period of his life. Because of that format, Lynch himself isn’t a contributor to McKenna’s chapters (though she draws on interviews with just about everyone who has ever known or worked with Lynch), but what he says rarely contradicts or corrects McKenna’s sketches.
I loved the first half of this book. Hearing Lynch tell stories about growing up in the 1950s and 60s in Montana, Idaho, Washington, and Virginia, is delightful. He has a fantastic memory, and he’s a great storyteller. He had a stable, loving family, a lot of good friends, and survived quite a few adventures. What became clear from listening to Lynch talk about his youth is that he has long had the ability to see both the shiny surface of life and the unsettling darkness underneath. The interesting thing is that his awareness of lingering darkness doesn’t at all take away from his pure pleasure in the shiny surface. He seems to be able to keep hold of all of that, and it drives him to joy rather than despair.
I didn’t know a lot about Lynch’s early film career, so it was interesting to learn how Eraserhead transpired, and how he was then launched (by Mel Brooks, of all people) into Hollywood with The Elephant Man and then Dune. McKenna and Lynch also give a lot of behind-the-scenes information about Blue Velvet, including how Lynch first met Angelo Badalamenti, which would become one of the great director–composer collaborations.
Making Blue Velvet is about the halfway point in this book, and I felt like after that, McKenna might as well have said, “And then Lynch made some more movies and stuff.” Because it’s somewhere around this part of the book that the narrative becomes very monotonous, going over minute details of movie-making but not giving us so much of the interesting stories. Lynch seems somewhat uninterested in talking very much about Twin Peaks (or maybe he feels he’s already told all those stories; which is probably true, and I already know a lot of those stories anyway).
At first, as the book was growing more dull, I thought, “Maybe he just doesn’t feel as much like talking about things that happened more recently. Maybe they’re too close to have become great stories yet.” But as the book continued, I saw another possibility. I think that as Lynch has isolated himself more and more from “real life” and has arranged an everyday existence that is totally under his control, free of any demands on him that he hasn’t himself voluntarily accepted, he has lost the kind of life that makes great stories. I think the full realization of “the art life” that he has long pursued has drained him of the stories that initially brought him here. It’s sad and ironic. I almost feel bad for him by the end of the book—this “perfectly artistic” man who at the end of his life is living in a small outbuilding with blackout curtains permanently covering the windows, sleeping by himself on a twin bed, urinating in the sink, and having all meals delivered to him so he doesn’t have to do anything but “focus on his art.”
The reason I don’t actually feel sad for him is that he has made some choices that I don’t respect at all. In his pursuit of the art life and, ironically, “finding the transcendent within” and world peace through transcendental meditation, he has left behind three wives and one partner, and his current wife is not very connected to him anymore (when she wanted to have children, he told her, “Why do you want children? Am I not enough for you? Well, if you want a child, then that’s up to you, but don’t expect me to be very involved with any of it.” She had a child and, true to his word, he disappeared into his work and pulled far away from the family.). His exes seem extraordinarily gracious toward him (and since all of them after the first one were the woman he left the previous one for, they certainly had some idea what they were getting into), but that doesn’t change the fact—unstated in the book, of course—that Lynch is a self-centered, immature person.
Given all of this, I find it really sad to listen to Lynch’s multiple earnest pleas to all his listeners to “just get with the program” and start meditating because that’s the only way we’re going to end suffering and have world peace. My idea of non-suffering and peace does not involve breaking so many relationships and leaving hurt people in my trail. All of us make mistakes, of course, so I’m not demanding perfection of Lynch. But I would like to have seen some hint of sorrow, remorse, apology. In the current cultural climate, some remark like “You know, what I did to that woman was terrible, and I wish I would have made different choices” would be very appropriate. But there is none of that evident in this book. What does Lynch have to say to us in films when he has so broken away from real human community?
As those poor choices add up, Lynch’s boyish charm begins to wear thin on me. I’m baffled by the way he can go from something terrible (“So I knew that I wanted to end our marriage”) to one of his trademark flippant responses (“But I was really in love with [the next woman], and it was so byootiful. It was just inncrredible.”). To me, the relentless pursuit of the “beautiful,” the pleasure in each situation as it happens, seemed rather thoughtless and shallow, perhaps even an escape from having to confront the difficulties of life.
I also find his initial justification for transcendental meditation completely bizarre. As a teen, Lynch left his Christian church upbringing because he was frustrated with the hypocrisy he saw in the church. Later on, he discovers meditation, and with boyish glee proclaims that transcendental meditation is the real deal, because “get this, what it teaches us it that we should treat other people the way we’d like to be treated ourselves!” ?? He seems entirely unaware that what he’s just said is the words of Jesus (from Matthew 7:12), which Christians regard as “the golden rule.” I find Lynch to be a really odd spokesperson for meditation.
When I was younger, I thought much more highly of Lynch and saw him as an intriguing, visionary auteur. This book has been a splash of cold water on that youthful idealism. It’s sad in a way, but probably for the best. I will always hold Twin Peaks close to my heart, and there are other Lynch projects I also enjoy a lot. But I can’t say that I’m a “David Lynch fan” in general. I’d like to have seen more thoughtfulness, intellectual growth, and a well-lived life. What I’ve seen instead is a very inwardly focused artist who has removed himself further and further from what makes not an “art life” but a “good life.” I pray that he will find the true healing and community that will bring him out of his “art life” and back into the world.