There are few artists who make me feel as uneasy as David Lynch, and certainly none who can do it with such haunting beauty. Lynch has an unparalleled knack for generating subtle, ambiguous sensations that feel so familiar and are yet utterly indescribable, like feelings recalled from a dream I’d forgotten I’d had, from some time long ago. That’s why I find his horror so effective, often overwhelming; I can’t shake the feeling I’ve lived the experiences he’s showing me, that I recognise the dark, unknowable presence that stalks much of his films, always just out of sight. The Straight Story, Lynch’s 1999 biographical film about 73-year-old Iowan Alvin Straight who drove two-hundred and forty glacially slow miles on a lawnmower to visit his older brother, is unlike any of his other features, or at least not tonally. Rather than disturbing and uncanny, The Straight Story endearingly sentimental – like a two hour cut of all of the syrupy heart-to-hearts from Twin Peaks except played…. well, straight. I always had the sense that Lynch’s absurd, ironic portrayal of small-townsfolk with their larger-than-life eccentricities came from a place of genuine affection and respect, and The Straight Story would seem to confirm that hunch. The personalities we encounter among the cornfields of America’s midwest are quirky to be sure, and certainly a little exaggerated – the large old lady reclining in a deck chair with a small buffet of donuts, the commuter driven to hysterics by deer who keep throwing themselves in front of her car. But not by much. Spend enough time in small towns are you realise everyone is a little strange, yourself included. Eccentric as they might be, the folks in The Straight Story feel authentic. (See the game Beeswing for another excellent experience that nails the weirdness of ordinary people.)
The other thing that The Straight Story gets so painfully right is the quiet, ambivalent emptiness of rural life. It’s this that makes me feel so uneasy and conflicted. The golden sunlight on the beautiful countryside, the absolute stillness of everything; it’s that feeling you got on a warm and perfect evening that this could be your last night on earth and you’d happy with it, like being old before your time. There’s just something about seeing Alvin trundle along on his lawnmower next to fields and telephone lines that makes me feel contented, peaceful, nostalgic and somehow deeply, deeply sad all at once. It’s comfortable and it’s mundane, the country life on display here, but not in the way kind of feeble-minded way David Byrne wonderfully takes to task (though sometimes I feel the same way as him small towns too). Nope, this is different. It feels familiar – like a dream; or like home.
dreamsinpillowshots.wordpress.com 