Okay, here it is.
"Lynchian": The Peculiarities of Auteur Theory
David Lynch describes his debut film, Eraserhead¸ as “a dream of dark and
troubling things”. When asked to expand upon that tagline in an interview
conducted by a film student in 1979, his answer was a curt, “No”.[1]
Lynch disguises his work in a thick veil. Examining his methods will often
reveal a mindset similar to that of a painter (which he proudly is). The mood
is the message in Eraserhead and
several more of Lynch’s works, so much so that viewing the films often become
an existential experience where meaning is achieved in trying to decipher the
many symbols the film holds. This deliberate open ended quality lays out an
interesting case study for auteur theory. Studying Lynch’s work in Eraserhead in tandem with specific
observations on auteur theory raises a few questions, or at least puts an
interesting perspective on well-established beliefs in the realm of thinking
that ascribes authors to films.
A necessary step in this analytical
pursuit would be to establish what specific studies on auteur theory can be
most usefully applied to Eraserhead.
An important note before discussing this would be that the auteur theory, of
course, is one of the most highly debated schools of film criticism. Auteur
theory must first be properly explained and the arguments for its proper usage
be laid out. For the purposes of this analysis, the distinctions made by David
Andrews in his article, “No Start, No End”, will provide necessary
justification for interpreting a “Lynchian” work along the grounds of an auteur.
Other observations on auteur theory will be used to corroborate this groundwork.
And finally, the informal notes of Andrew Sarris from 1962 on auteur theory
will be the ultimate looking glass through which Eraserhead and Lynch’s methods will be scrutinized in order to
attain a distinct and useful analysis of the film and the filmmaker.
Because the observations made by
Andrew Sarris were on auteur theory¸
a line will have to be drawn according to a historical and critical study of
all things “auteur” by David Andrews. Auteur “theory” is something created by
critics gleaning inspiration from Cahiers
Du Cinema theorists, whose notions of “auteur” functioned as a form of
politics rather than a frame of mind. “Les politiuqe des auteur” swore to only
give critical attention to movies deemed “good” by Cahiers critics[2].
Auteur “theory”, according to Andrews, is that form of politics redefined,
based on the notion that a filmmaker acts as an author, an assumption that must
logically be made in order to shun “bad directors” and praise good ones. Auteurism
is a similar term, referring to the general pattern of thinking by most viewers
that a film must belong to some independent creator. In his essay, Andrews
often uses “auterism” and “auteur theory” interchangeably, as the latter is an
academic expansion upon a rigidly held and often automatic pattern of thinking
among the movie-going public that defines the former (an attitude that Andrews
claims extends back to the silent era. i.e. a “Chaplin” film).
Andrews campaigns for the fact that
auteurism/theory is deeply rooted in the public psyche, and that it cannot be
done away with because it is “currently the basis of too much infrastructure”[3]. Presumably,
this infrastructure is that of criticism and interpretation made by both
academics and the general public. At least for the purposes of analyzing Eraserhead, this will be the most
relevant. As a result of the auteur theory being non-expendable, its undeniable
implications must be acknowledged to be used properly. A simplification of
auteur theory made by Kent Jones in his overview of the current state of
auteurism, “Critical Condition” provides a general justification of discussing Eraserhead and the accompanying modus
operandi of David Lynch through an auteurist scope. He posits that “An auteur
was no longer an artist who spoke ‘in the first person,’ as Rivette put it, and
who had actually crafted a formidable body of work, but any director who had
produced evidence of authorship, i.e., an ability to think in visual terms”[4].
To expound upon this, an auteur is able to deliver a personal experience of life
to an objective body, or the viewer. Therefore, David Andrews’ stance that the
status of auteur is “hard and real while the authorship to which that status
refers is subjective, negotiable, and marked by multiple contexts,”[5]
supports the view of an auteur as a subjective force that not only inserts its personal context into the body of work but allows for the audience to insert its own
context, the context of each individual viewer, onto the work as well.
Because these observations will lead
to an auteurist interpretation of a filmmaker's work, some final reiterations of
Andrews' stances on proper auteurist usage is in order. Ultimately, he states,
an auteur critic appropriates “existing attitudes” onto current works (the
existing attitudes used here will be that of the rational viewers insistence on
giving an independent entity responsibility for a work, and the observations
made by Andrew Sarris), and that they have “revised and revived”[6]
the political form of criticism championed by Cahiers to current circumstances. The circumstance that arose long
after Cahiers ended would be David
Lynch’s first film, which defiantly protected its subtext from revelation. The
critics from Cahiers were not
observably anticipating a filmmaker who, when provided with an auteurist (both
publically and academically) interpretation, would warp and bend the meaning of
a director’s intent.
There is one final instruction given by
Andrews that will bookend its helpful reference to this study. The key to this instruction lies in the notion
of “multiple contexts” that Andrews alludes to. The type of film most suited to
auteurist studies, which is both reasonably argued by Andrews and convenient
for the type of film to be discussed here, is the “cult” film. Andrews position
that favoring the avant garde over the mainstream “benefits film scholarship,
for it guarantees that the scholarship on cult auteurs will remain rooted in
the collective, collaborative contexts that culminated in their being labelled
'auteurs' and their movies being labelled 'art movies'”[7].
Moreover, an “art film” exists in multiple contexts; its symbols often a
collage of the director’s subjectivity. The frequent ambiguity of such art
films invites the imposition of individual viewers as well. In the case of Eraserhead, specifically, “collaboration”
is a fitting term, for the film is about Lynch’s feelings as well as his
validation of the audience’s, resulting in interplay between filmmaker and spectator that occurs both while watching the film and while researching it.
Finally, Andrew Sarris, whose observations on auteur theory will be the basis
of interpretation for Eraserhead¸
leaves a potently relevant comment in an interview over auterism in 1972. He
makes note of that fact that high-brow critics would review films perceived
publicly as worthy of criticism, while low brow critics would review films
deemed “second string”, although in terms of auteur theory, both are valid
specimens for analysis. He goes as far as to say that “Part of the idea of
auterism is perversity”[8].
This perversity applies to Eraserhead in
terms of both its lurid visual content as well as David Lynch’s indulgence in
his own subjective context of which the film exposes without any proper
explanation.
Andrew Sarris devotes three categories
to auteurism, referred to as “premises”. The utility of using the term
“premises” is that it doesn’t restrict studies of auteurs to only those who
entirely fulfill the three sections. He uses the metaphor of the premises being
circles that contain each other, and a filmmaker can move in between these
circles, partially or wholly fulfilling one, two, or all three premises. This
is beneficial to a filmmaker like Lynch and to a film like Eraserhead because its status in the three premises is somewhat
unorthodox or not complete. More attention will be given to this point upon
applying the film to the three premises. Sarris’ first premise is “is the
technical competence of the director as a criterion of value”[9].
Lynch’s status in this realm wavers, as Eraserhead
was an amateur work. The final film product is unmistakably professional
looking, and there is strong aesthetic quality and beauty to the film. However,
the typical prototype of an accomplished and professional auteur fulfilling the
first premise is contradicted when looking over the means of production for the
film. Sarris quickly notes that an auteur (because these premises can be
mutually exclusive) can have achieved mastery of “mise en scene” (a symbol of
the third premise, to be discussed later) before achieving mastery in technical
competence.
Eraserhead
corroborates
this viewpoint, which Sarris asserted by citing Luis Bunuel, “Bunuel was an
auteur even before he had assembled of the first circle. Technique is simply
the ability to put a film together with some clarity and coherence. Nowadays it
is possible to become a director without knowing too much about the technical
side”[10]. It wouldn’t be inaccurate to say that David
Lynch and his crew learned to make movies while making Eraserhead. The crew consisted of a handful of people, some of whom
lived on the set provided by the American Film Institute. Catherine Coulson,
the assistant director, was originally brought on as actress for a scene Lynch
would never shoot. Her jobs would range from makeup and hairstyling to
recording live audio. Lynch was a prop master, key grip and foley artist in
addition to directing and producing. Perhaps one inadequate aspect of production
was the script[11].
Although story content is entirely intentional, plot structure in terms of
proper scriptwriting is practically non-existent. A true script never existed
for Eraserhead¸ but rather a short
treatment and outline that would be storyboarded before each night of filming.
Looking back over Sarris’ professed requirements
for the first premise, the notion of “clarity and coherence” is brought into an
interesting light when associating it with Eraserhead.
The film both defies and conforms to this premise. It is not a clear or
coherent film in terms of content. It is, however, clearly and coherently
executed. When something is unclear in Eraserhead,
it is meant to be unclear. Nothing is hard to understand due to a failure to
explain things. It is, rather, a refusal to explain things that results in
ambiguity and absurdity. There is a prominent affirmation of this premise that
exists in the production of the film, and that is David Lynch’s authority as a
director, particularly in terms of his direction of actors. This quality,
ironically enough, is a necessity due to meagerness in shooting. Because the
film was shot with such limited resources in both lighting equipment and amount
of film stock, camera and actor moves had to be very precise. In
retrospectives, Lynch and Jack Nance often discuss the strict and painstakingly
rehearsed blocking of the set. One comment made by Lynch in an interview goes
into detail about this blocking process. He says “There was a period of time
when we would rehearse—me and Jack in that room—and just work things out. And those
rehearsals took a long, long time.
Not only was it important for the film, but Jack loved details. And so we would
almost break it down into, like, quarter-inch moves”[12].
Production of Eraserhead is defined
by lack of professional means and abundance of dedication (an obvious necessity
for a film that took over four years to complete). In these respects, Lynch
fulfills the role of a mise en scene auteur while lacking all the assumed
faculties of a technically competent auteur, like that of Bunuel. However,
aspects of technical competency are still present in his methods despite being
in an unorthodox fashion due to the film’s grassroots nature.
Sarris’ second premise, and arguably
what is thought of most when referring to auteur theory, is the personal style
of a director. Sarris asserts that “a director must exhibit a certain recurrent
characteristic of style, which serves as his signature. The way a film looks
and moves should have some relation to how a director thinks and feels”[13].
The reoccurring characteristics that exist in a filmmaker’s general oeuvre are
the driving force behind the audience’s inclination to categorize auteurs. This
“recurrent characteristic of style” is analogous to a literary author’s
“voice”. It is what draws readers to the body of work and not an individual
story, and it creates fan bases. Lynch’s body of work is marked by an eclectic
quality, and the notion of a director’s thoughts and feelings raised by Sarris
is particularly relevant to the work of Lynch, which relies on questions and
mood. Lynch’s feelings are obviously unusual, as what he considers beautiful and aesthetically suited to the film image differs from mainstream standards.
He says, “Certain things are just so beautiful to me, and I don’t know why.
Certain things make so much sense, and it’s hard to explain. I felt Eraserhead, I didn’t think it”[14].
This attitude applies to Lynch’s work in general. The narrative is often guided by feelings and atmospheres that logically (somewhat ironically, as feelings
and mood are not supposed to be logical) flow into one another. If a symbolic
image can achieve a visceral effect with the audience, then Lynch will often
use that over a portrayal of events that have direct relevance to the plot.
Even in his more mainstream works metaphorical
images can be identified, such as the image of John Merrick’s mother in The Elephant Man. She appears in
hallucinatory sequences, singing to John, to bring hope and warmth to the bleak
situations that John encounters. This is reminiscent of the Lady in the
Radiator from Eraserhead, who plays a
nearly identical role both in terms of her presence in the narrative (a
hallucinatory, ambiguous apparition) and her thematic implications (warmth and
hope). The beginning of the quote by Lynch goes along with his penchant for the
repulsive. Lynch finds pathos in deformity and mutation. It can be said with
accuracy that the infant in Eraserhead
serves as a kind of antagonist because it is the source of Henry’s immediate
problems and even appears malicious at times (gurgling and giggling maniacally
when Henry is in distress). When Henry dissects it, however, the extremely
violent bodily reaction and horrifying death it suffers forms a complete
reversal in the viewer’s perception of it, at one moment a burden and then a
tragedy. The tragedy and the emotional authority of deformity is repeated often
throughout Lynch’s films, the most obvious example being the protagonist of The Elephant Man (the fact that the
story is true completes this effect, as well).
Deformed or aesthetically abnormal
characters can embody other traits too. The Giant in Twin Peaks is partially associated with the sympathetic
representations of the two former as he is benevolent, wise, and clairvoyant.
Of course, the infant isn’t an entirely sympathetic character, as for most of
the film he is quite antagonistic. The somewhat zombified vagrant in Mullholland Drive has this quality, but
he is also related to The Giant because of his otherworldly, superhuman nature.
Each of these deformed characters seems to hold an unusually rare or superhuman
ability of sorts. The infant is able to discern events far beyond the
comprehension of a child its age, and his antagonism seems to be channeled from
Henry’s own paranoia and discomfort. John Merrick is shown to have astonishing
eloquence and emotional depth in spite of his distance from the human form and
ability to express. The Giant and the vagrant occupy separate planes of reality
and foreshadow later events with uncanny clairvoyance. Abnormal looking
characters and the visceral and emotional weight that they carry are but one
example of how David Lynch incorporates pathos and sympathy into the repulsive.
Although Lynch is often described as a
surrealist filmmaker (and rightfully so), his frequent use of dark comedy is
often overlooked. Many of his films have a steady vein of humor in them that
arise out of dark circumstances. In analyses of Eraserhead, it often goes unmentioned that there are several
deliberately funny sequences. Lynch himself speaks fondly of the scene where it
takes a ridiculous amount of time for the elevator doors to close on Henry,
confirming that the scene was intended to be funny. In fact, he describes the entire first half of
the film as “a black comedy, a strange comedy […] It has to be a certain kind
of comedy to make a switch into fear”[15].
Lynch finds the use of dark humor convenient because it provides smooth segues
into the serious and dark cores of his narratives. Another scene of comedy and
morbidity in tandem takes place in Mullholland
Drive, where a hitman, due to a misfire of his gun, must assassinate an
entire floor of employees to cover his tracks. The humor is incredibly dark,
and it helps to avoid any contradictions when it comes to the fact that these
hitman are murderers and lead the main characters to very grim fates. This
switch that David speaks of, which is present in Eraserhead, Mullholland Drive¸
and several others, is both a part of the surrealistic trademark of his films
and coincides with the notion that his films are fluidly evolving displays of
moods and atmospheres.
In terms of directorial style and not
just recurring narrative motifs, Lynch is well known for having his scenes play
out in a way that will cause maximum visceral reactions. Charlotte Stewart
(Mary X, Eraserhead) aptly states
that Lynch “lets scenes go beyond the point of comfort”[16]
when discussing the scene where her character tugs under Henry’s bed for her
suitcase for an unusual amount of time. The oddly humorous elevator scene
discussed before is a good example, but in that case it is a discomfort that
results in amusement. There is an abundance of uncomfortably extended scenes
that are meant to express abject horror or disgust in Lynch’s work. The
profanity laden rants of Frank Booth in Blue
Velvet are intentionally gratuitous and seemingly unending so that his mere
presence in a scene will ignite panic and tension. The audience knows that it
takes very little to set Frank off and that once his temper is ignited, he does
not often back down, which will make the scene long and grueling. Another scene
in Blue Velvet features Ben (Dean
Stockwell), a cohort of Frank’s, singing Roy Orbison’s “In Dreams” in its
entirety, creating a scene that becomes both hypnotic and disturbing due to its
length. In Mullholland Drive, the
humorous scene with the hitman keeps going and going, which leads to the amusement
of the audience through defied expectations. There are also a number of
extensive sexual scenes, both between Betty/Diane and Rita/Camilla as well as
between the two actresses and their respective co-stars. Almost all of these
scenes come unexpectedly with great fervor and passion, and it is this sexuality
(and romance) that drives the passions of the characters and motivates them
(Betty’s desperation to get the part, Diane’s desperation for Camilla, etc.).
Finally, in terms of style, Lynch often
focuses on characters that may live in populated and normal areas but create
and perceive a world that is isolated and unpleasant. In Eraserhead, Lynch characterizes Henry’s world as “between a factory
and a factory neighborhood. A little, unknown, twisted, almost silent lost spot
where little details and little torments existed. And people were struggling in
darkness”[17].
People are often struggling in darkness in a Lynch film, and sometimes that is
due to the reality of their world, sometimes it is fabricated, and sometimes it
is imposed. For Henry, his industrial, dreamlike landscape is inescapable, and
other characters suffer from similar behavioral oddities that he does. Henry is
constantly aware of the darkness that surrounds him and seems unfamiliar with it,
as evidenced by his constantly confused and apprehensive expression. Despite
its alien quality, his world is a reality shared by people who experience
similar psychological maladies as him. There are two films, for example, in Lynch’s filmography
that contain characters who have darkness imposed on them. These are The Elephant Man and Blue Velvet.
There is a major difference between
these two films, however, and that is that one has darkness imposed from a
place where darkness already exists explicitly. The other has darkness imposed
from a secret and undiscussed place, where the normal state of things is
positive and pleasant. In The Elephant
Man, John Merrick’s purity is under assault from society, particularly the
society of England. This culture is portrayed as immoral, insensitive, and
generally abysmal. The two competing forces are civilization, which Lynch portrays as corrupt and malicious, and purity, which comes in the form
of a man who knows no civilization or significant relationships with people. Blue Velvet portrays a civilization that
is not totally amoral despite being a much more graphic and crime-ridden film.
One of the main thrusts of the film is the notion of suburban society, white
picket fences and picturesque qualities, containing a sinister and depraved
underbelly. Accepting this notion is to accept that the good truly does exist.
However, people do not belong to either one exclusively. Frank resides in the
darkness but goes into the realm of goodness to take Dorothy and her family
hostage. He thereby infects Dorothy at the very least (from what is observable)
with his darkness, making her dependent on his abnormal sexual fetishes (mainly
sexual violence). Now Dorothy resides somewhere in between both sides, and the
darkness that has been imposed on her she now transfers to Jeffery (she insists
he hit her during sex). In Mullholland
Drive, Betty/Diane lives in one of the most populous cities in the country,
yet her scope is barren and unrealistic because she has created an illusion for
herself to cope with her insecurities and losses. To repeat, characters in
Lynch films often live on the outskirts, but whether those outskirts are real
or proverbial varies, and the proximity of those outskirts to normalcy varies
as well, depending on thematic content.
These are a few, among many, trademarks
of Lynch’s personal style. Sarris’ second premise is likely the one that Lynch
most purely fulfills, and it is the cause of Lynch’s cult fan base (typical of
many directors considered auteur). While Lynch, depending on certain points in
his career, is not always fully (or traditionally) fulfilling the premise of
technical competence (although it should be restated that his films still look
quite finished and professional) and takes a rather unusual approach to the third
premise, Lynch’s fulfillment of the second premise is locked and reliable. In
regards to the third premise, the terms of Andrew Sarris, as has been the
pattern, should be clearly stated.
Sarris’ third premise is that of
“interior meaning”, sometimes referred to as “mise en scene” (since mise en
scene is an abstract concept, then a director “being” mise end scene presumably
has achieved sufficient understanding and ability to execute mise en scene).
The ultimate definition of “interior meaning” is not made clear, so speculation
and personal opinion will suffice for the proceeding analyses. For simplicity’s
sake, interior meaning will hereafter be defined as the theme, goal, or message
of the individual film of an auteur director. It expresses a perspective held
by that director. What Sarris does determine, is that interior meaning is “extrapolated
from the tension between the director’s personality and his material. It is not
quite the vision of the world a director projects nor quite his attitude
towards life. It is ambiguous, in any literary sense, because part of it is
embedded in the stuff of cinema and cannot be rendered in non-cinematic terms”[18].
Several components are worthy of
interpretation in this statement. The most obviously relevant would be Sarris’
description of the interior meaning as ambiguous. Lynch’s style alone is marked
by ambiguity. Followers of art cinema crave the open ended nature of his films
because they lead to interpretation. Therefore, what follows is an ambiguous
interior meaning as well, because the theme is intentionally encrypted. As far
as “the stuff of cinema” goes, it would seem that the complex and subjective
medley of images and symbols that is used to encrypt an interior meaning is
being referred to. Of course, this encryption is lighter with auteur directors
who work closer to the mainstream. It is generally accepted, for instance, that
the imagery, story, and symbols (the stuff) of The Godfather are the encryption for an allegory of capitalism. The
more provocative component is the assertion of the tension between a director
and his material. A question is raised here, that question being, does an
auteur director feel ambivalence towards his film in order to become an auteur?
Is there tension between Lynch’s personality and Eraserhead? It doesn’t appear to be so upon first glance due to
Lynch’s typical deliberateness. Including the “personality tension” aspect the
film with the partial absence of the director’s world view and attitude on life
(which Sarris follows with), however, reveals these questions to be
affirmatively answered. Close study of Lynch’s particular responses to how the
film was meant to be received reveals a perspective that exists inherently in
the film, and that is both an endorsement of Lynch’s thoughts and feelings and
a refusal to impose those very sentiments on viewers. The interior meaning, in
other words, is absolutely and entirely subjective. In terms of what message or
goal is being produced, that outcome belongs to Lynch and Lynch alone, and
therefore the void must be filled with the viewer’s subconscious experience.
In terms of that interior meaning which
belongs to Lynch, the outcome was crafted with purpose. Perhaps the most
convincing evidence of this is Lynch’s painstakingly rigid attention to mood
and atmosphere. He says that “Once you create a world, no matter how strange it
is, you have limitations and you have to stay within them. And if you break
them, things fall apart”[19].
Once the notion becomes realized that Eraserhead
is, in fact, not experimental but purposefully designed, the interior meaning
that serves Lynch is confirmed. In fact, the film is an amalgam of Lynch’s
subjective experience, some of which he is willing to explain and some of which
he guards fiercely. One aspect of the film that is privy to viewers and critics
is its atmosphere’s relation to Lynch’s feelings about his own surroundings. He
says that “[Eraserhead] is sort of a
Philadelphia film. Philadelphia to me is a city filled with fear, and it’s sort
of a decaying, violent, fearful place”[20].
Lynch’s feelings about his home and the feelings that were generated by his
subjective experience of a specific city contribute to the mood of the setting
of the film. Other pieces of the film, such as the Man in the Planet (an
undeniable symbol due to his lack of relation to any of the characters or events of
the narrative) are remarked by Lynch to have specific meaning and relevance to
the story, although upon that specific piece he will not give an explanation.
Overall, the void that Lynch creates in
the space of interior meaning is a generous act. He doesn’t allow his ego to
dictate how a film will be interpreted. The power he gains as a director is
something he gives back to the audience, maintaining early on that “[Eraserhead]’s an open feeling film.
It’s anything goes. If somebody sees it and wants to make a political film out
of it, they can do that […] It’s not fair for me to say ‘oh, you didn’t get it’
because the film is so abstract”[21]. Perhaps a simpler way of putting is to
quote Charlotte Stewart, the actress who portrays Mary X, once again. She makes
an analogy, saying, “if you go to museum, and you’re going room to room, and
you’re looking at beautiful art… you really shouldn’t try to figure it out”[22].
At the end this contradicts the goal of this analysis, because figuring Eraserhead out has to be assumed as the
primary goal. What needs to be clarified, then, is what this analysis is
attempting to determine. There are two options. Is it trying to determine the
theme or the function of Eraserhead?
The answer, unquestionably, is function. A movie that intentionally lacks
interior meaning except to that of its creator provides a function to the mind
of those who watch it. Lynch describes Eraserhead
as a “dream of dark and troubling things”. This dream is something to be
interpreted through the individual viewer’s subjectivity, a very uncommon
outcome for that of an auteur. And as for that dream, Chris Rodley asks Lynch a
question in an interview for his book, Lynch
on Lynch. The question is, “Is Henry dreaming up the film, or is he being
dreamt?” Lynch’s answer: “See, that’s something I can’t say”[23].
NEWSPAPERS/PERIODICALS
Andrews, David. "No Start, No End: Auteurism And
The Auteur Theory." Film International (16516826)
10.6 (2012): 37-55. Film & Television Literature Index. Web. 9 Dec. 2014.
Barrett, Gerald. "Andrew Sarris Interview:
October 16, 1972 (Part One)." Literature Film Quarterly 1.3 (1973): 195. Film & Television
Literature Index. Web. 9 Dec. 2014.
Jones, Kent. "Critical Condition." Film
Comment 50.2 (2014): 40-45. Film & Television Literature Index. Web. 9 Dec. 2014.
AUDIO/VISUAL
SOURCES
Lynch, David. David
Lynch and Frederick Elmes Interview. By Tom Christie. 1979. DVD
Lynch, David, dir. Eraserhead Stories. 2001. DVD.
Pretty
as a Picture: The Art of David Lynch. Dir. Toby Keeler.
Perf. David Lynch, Jack Nance, Charlotte
Stewart, and Catherine Coulson. Fine Cut Presentations. 1997. DVD.
Coulson, Catherine. Catherine Coulson Interview. By Criterion Collection. 2014. DVD
Stewart, Charlotte. Charlotte Stewart Interview. By Criterion Collection. 2014. DVD
Roberts, Judith Anna. Judith Anna Roberts Interview. By Criterion Collection. 2014. DVD
Elmes, Frederick. Frederick Elmes Interview. By Criterion Collection. 2014. DVD
BOOKS
Lynch, David, and Chris Rodley. 2014. Lynch on
Lynch. London: Faber and Faber, 1997. N. pag.
Print.
Sarris, Andrew. "Notes On the Auteur Theory in
1962." 1962-63. Film Theory and Criticism. 7th ed. New York: Oxford UP, 2009. 451-54. Print
[1] Lynch, David. David Lynch and Frederick Elmes Interview.
By Tom Christie. 1979. DVD
[2]
Andrews, David. "No Start, No End: Auteurism And The Auteur Theory."
Film International (16516826) 10.6 (2012): 37-55. Film & Television
Literature Index. Web. 9 Dec. 2014.
[3] Andrews, 2
[4]
Jones, Kent. "Critical Condition." Film Comment 50.2 (2014): 40-45.
Film & Television Literature Index. Web. 9 Dec.
2014.
[5] Andrews, 3
[6] Andrews, 3
[7] Andrews, 5
[8]
Barrett, Gerald. "Andrew Sarris Interview: October 16, 1972 (Part
One)." Literature Film Quarterly 1.3 (1973): 195. Film & Television Literature Index. Web. 9 Dec.
2014.
[9] Sarris, Andrew.
"Notes On the Auteur Theory in 1962." 1962-63. Film Theory and
Criticism. 7th ed. New York: Oxford
UP, 2009. 451-54. Print
[10] Sarris, 453
[11]
Lynch, David, dir. Eraserhead Stories.
2001. DVD.
Pretty as a Picture: The Art of
David Lynch. Dir. Toby Keeler. Perf. David Lynch,
Jack Nance, Charlotte Stewart, and
Catherine Coulson. Fine Cut Presentations. 1997. DVD.
Coulson,
Catherine. Catherine Coulson Interview.
By Criterion Collection. 2014. DVD
Elmes,
Frederick. Frederick Elmes Interview.
By Criterion Collection. 2014. DVD
[12]
Lynch, David, and Chris Rodley. 2014. Lynch on Lynch. London: Faber and Faber,
1997. N. pag. Print.
[13] Sarris, 452
[14] Lynch, David. Chris Rodley.
1997.
[15] Lynch, David. Christie, Tom.
1979.
[16]
Stewart, Charlotte. Charlotte Stewart
Interview. By Criterion Collection. 2014. DVD
[17] Lynch, David. Rodley, Chris.
1997.
[18] Sarris, 453
[19] Lynch, David. Christie, Tom.
1979.
[20] Lynch, David. Christie, Tom.
1979.
[21] Lynch, David. Christie, Tom.
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[22] Stewart, 2014
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