Today I want to talk about “Room to
Dream”, a quaint memoir about a Depression-era orphan who survived America's uncaring foster system to become a patent attorney in Omaha.
Okay, okay, I'm kidding. but seriously,
look at that cover; the cute childhood photo and the title's sketchy,
childish font all scream “earnest book club memoir”. I passed it
by completely until I saw this guy on the back...
“Room to Dream” is an exhaustive
memoir/biography about David Lynch, the cult
filmmaker/painter/singer/dead animal fetishist. He made Twin
Peaks, one of my favorite shows,
and unforgettable movies like Mulholland Drive and
Eraserhead, so I knew
I had to crack that spine. The book, as with so many things involving
Lynch, is odd since it's split into two very different sections. The
first is a straight-ahead, chronological retelling of Lynch's life by
journalist Kristine McKenna. She spent decades interviewing Lynch's
family, friends, lovers, actors and assistants about how a funny,
exuberant Midwest kid (he was born in Montana but spent most of his
formative years in Boise, Idaho) became a renowned artist known for disturbing and unsettling his audiences. The other
sections of the book, nestled in-between McKenna's chapters, are
ostensibly written by Lynch himself (they read more like long form
interviews) and feature his reactions to what McKenna has written
about his life. Sometimes he corrects her reportage, but usually
they're in agreement.
McKenna's
sections were perfect for readers like me; I've watched dozens of
interviews with Lynch, but never thought much about his upbringing.
Room to Dream starts
by exploring the Midwest in the 1950s, fulll of immaculate picket
fences, clean sidewalks, glistening buildings free of graffitti; a
time when neighborhood kids roamed the street until dinnertime. This
is Lynch's world—he clearly pines for those long-lost days of
innocence. Some of his favorite memories including watching friends
build rockets in their backyards and spending time with his
grandfather just before he died. However, there are darker shades to
these early recollections—Lynch also remembers seeing a bloodied,
naked woman walking down the street at night when he was just a
child, an image that troubled him for years.
The back-and-forth
nature of the book takes some getting used to, but I think it's the
best balance. McKenna's writing is thorough, walking us through his
turbulent adolencense, his myramid of high school crushes, and a
chance encounter with a classmate's dad that showed him that people
could be painters and live “the art life”. She leaves no stone
unturned, but after a while the blow-by-blow accounts becomes bland;
that's when Lynch comes in to spice up the narrative. Unsurprisingly,
he remembers the little things—the texture of the wallpaper in the
first home he purchased, the bizarre earthen displays he built on his
kitchen table, the mural he painted on his apartment ceiling.
McKenna's sections are the body, and Lynch's sections are the blood
pumping through its veins.
Your
mileage with this book will vary. If you only know Lynch from Twin
Peaks, buckle up—the show
isn't mentioned until page 239. However, the book does cover all his
projects, from short films like “The Cowboy and the Frenchman” to
even...lesser work (sorry hardcore Lynchians!) like his astoundingly
awful album Crazy Klown Time.
The book also covers his fascination with Transcendental Meditation;
personally, it reminded me of a less-aggressive Scientology, with
actors getting gigs only after meditating with him at TM facilities
and former lovers being eased out of his life after showing no
interest in the practice. Lynch is a creative genius, but seems naive
about how the group uses his name and money for their own purposes.
Personally,
I was hoping for a little more insights about the years between
Eraserhead's completion
and his wider fame; Lynch's first wife states that their life in
California was a literal “rags to riches” story, but it feels
like McKenna skipped a beat. On one page Lynch is a broke man living
in a lousy apartment with a young daughter, but within a few pages
he's shooting The Elephant Man in London with name actors and living what seems to be a comfortable life. Perhaps that's how
quickly it happened in reality, but the transition was too jarring after spending so long reading about a Lynch who seemed allergic to
pursuing mainstream success.
That
said, Room to Dream is
essential reading for any serious Lynch fan. If you've ever wondered
how he shoots so many videos and records so much music out of his own
house (a truckload of assistants) or how much he misses the late,
great Harry Dean Stanton (a lot), it's all in there.
Sweet dreams.
