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I fair recently saw David Lynch’s “Blue Velvet” on the mountainous hide (and in widescreen) for the first time. Having seen it now in its fresh aspect ratio, I can’t possess to go serve to my pan-and-scan videotape. Thank goodness that it’s coming out on DVD. “Blue Velvet,” quite simply, is the best film of the 1980’s; the only film that comes halt to it is Scorsese’s “Raging Bull.” “Blue Velvet” was so ahead of its time when it was first released befriend in 1986. In fact, it remains so today, judging by the bewildered faces of people who were at the revival showing I attended. The film precedes “American Beauty” in blowing the doors off of the closet that Suburbia keeps its skeletons in, telling the myth of a young college kid who, after finding a severed human ear, gets caught up in abolish and mayhem in his hometown of “Lumberton USA.” Lynch goes to stout lengths to situation up his picture-book depiction of small-town American life (complete with incandescent red fire trucks, white picket fences, and blue skies) before taking a wrecking ball to it. Like he did in his debut, “Eraserhead,” Lynch shows us what we gawk like (tedium and all) but purposely twists our opinion of it, like a furious optometrist giving us the evil eyeglass prescription. Apart from the dazzling directing, “Blue Velvet” boasts an trustworthy cast that delivers each line with patented Lynch-quirkiness. Kyle MacLachlan plays Jeffrey Beaumont like a modern-day Dante, travelling through the Inferno he never knew his hometown was. Isabella Rosselini is spectacularly disturbing as Dorothy Vallens, a lounge singer whose husband and son have been abducted. Her character is a first: a femme fatale who is more hazardous to herself than anyone else. And in what may be one of the top ten tour-de-force performances of all time, Dennis Hopper, as oxygen-huffing crime boss/hedonist Frank Booth, makes you laugh one itsy-bitsy, and cringe with horror the next after realizing that such a person probably does exist. You may not agree that “Blue Velvet” is the best film of the 80’s but you’ll have to do some digging to accumulate one more current. It is a contemporary film noir classic that deserves to withstand the test of time like older noir classics such as “Double Indemnity” and “The Grand Sleep.” So far, it appears to be holding up. It’s a odd world and “Blue Velvet” (both the film itself and the fact that it was made) is solid proof of unbiased how queer it can be.
Although I was once inclined to agree with Roger Ebert’s dismissal of “Blue Velvet” as a hideous albeit skillful montage of pointless images and effects, I’ve had to do a 360 turnaround after seeing it on DVD and reconsidering it in relation to some similar texts. The film certainly makes sense in comparison with a quest account such as Hawthorne’s “Young Goodman Brown” and in light of Freud’s ideas about cherish as well as Nietzsche’s thoughts on the Dionysian self. It’s also a film that pays constant homage to Hitchcock’s best work, notably “Rear Window” and “Psycho,” in its preoccupation with spectator psychology.
The most well-known lines occur early in the film when the protagonist, Kyle MacLachlan, tells Laura Dern that he needs to investigate the mysterious circumstances surrounding Isabella Rosselli because “knowledge requires risk” but with the possible reward that “you might learn something.” By the extinguish of the sage, MacLachlan’s character should have learned a lot, but here’s where Lynch flinches, remarkable like Robert Altman in the conclusion to “The Player.” MacLachlan emerges neither a sadder nor wiser man from his rite of passage and his descent into the gloomy corners of the psyche. Instead, Lynch cynically reprises the film’s innocent opening with its hopelessly artificial, Pollyannish, pastoral idyl that is most likely the preferred reality of the American mainstream movie consumer. At the same time, he preserves the tenuousness of such a naive vision with the shot of an insect impaled on a robin’s beak and with a soundtrack that subjects the theme song to a disturbing treatment out of some internal, subterranean sound studio.
The film’s meanings are inexhaustible, though a few vital details should not be missed. Jeff confronts, first, mortality (his father stricken by a life-threatening stroke), then a severed, decaying human ear. The ear, the organ of hearing, is also the sense that fully awakens only in the dim, granting access to the Dionysian, deep intuitive wellsprings of the self. But the ear we perceive on cover has become a diseased, useless instrument in a “sunny” culture whose thought of music is Bobby Vinton’s version of “Blue Velvet.” Rossellini’s alternative version of the song, with all of its sensuous, alluring darkness, will blueprint MacLachlan in to the same degree that it repells girl friend Dern (difference this relationship with that of Jimmy Stewart and Grace Kelly in “Rear Window,” where Kelly becomes increasingly drawn to the voyeuristic and “ghoulish” activity initiated by Stewart) . Soon MacLaclan will ogle the worship substitutes embodied by both Rossellini and Hopper–the sadism and masochism, fetishism and scopophilia that, like it or not, are demonstrate in every son and daughter who has inherited from birth and learned from upbringing the pleasure/pain principle that underlies even the most well-intentioned, “selfless” savor (the absence of any shown feelings between MacLaclan and either parent is another tip-off to the basis of his attraction to the dominitrix/sex slave character played by Rossellini) .
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As for the “villain,” the foul-mouthed Dennis Hopper did not seem so terrifying or repelling to me on this viewing. If anything, he’s less the personification of outrageous than another version of afraid, overcompensating macho desire, perhaps better seen as a projection of the searching MacLachlan than as anybody’s nemesis.
Lynch must know the risk, and even contain in the necessity, of coming to terms with the feelings of a darker but far from inauthentic self. MacLaclan tells the naive, shielded and venerable Dern from the beginning that it’s extremely perilous business. But the alternative is a Salem where everybody is “worthy,” a Lumberton where people bag sick but never die, a Disney fantasy that can exist only in artificial movies. I mild judge that “Blue Velvet” (in fact, most any other film since 1980) is eclipsed by his possess “Elephant Man,” where the camera takes us into the eye-hole and interior world of John Merrick, whose world we search for is also ours. But “Blue Velvet” is a more personal film, revealing not simply the mind of its creator but capturing a distinctively American experience.
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