lynchian

First off, man the 80s were full of nightmares. Such depravation, such deconstruction of the dream, such perversion of the romantic must have been daggers. And I can understand how the esteem suffered, how our breath of life was sucked from us during this tragically nihilistic era. But, you know, it was necessary, we effectually hardened. The naivete corrupted soon becomes sage learned.

Principally, I believe it's most opportune to avoid the cynical, culturally-debilitating habit of 'who's better, who's best'. This approach detrimental not only to the artisans in discussion, but to the audiences in reception. Of course, such subjectivity falls prey to fragility, but ambigiously or not, let's restrain such old-school debunking techniques to artist whom are not artist at all: manufactured empty flashers, meaningless aestheticians, and above all, work which does not inspire and evoke change in the human heart.

So, that being said, let's roll. Cronenberg and Lynch. Wait, another precursor before we trailblaze ahead: This may be a hurried observation seeing as I've experienced the entire Cronenberg catalogue, and have only experienced Lynch (during sporadic, sometimes unintelligible moments of my personal maturation where upon true understanding might've been hindered) through Elephant Man, Wild At Heart, Lost Highway, and Mulholland Drive. But, the following thesis accounts primarily using his seminal work, Blue Velvet, and in an effort for objectivity, I'll try keenly to compare early work with early work.

I prefer Cronenberg to Lynch. Until today, I've never been into Lynch, or the trendy, pretentious aura that surrounds him, not as much him as an artist, but the film-school pseudos that adore him - those that are titillated by attaching themself to any artifact seemingly abstract merely as compensation, to be snarky. This a generalization obviously not intended for all because I have a couple buddies that are up on Lynch whom are not at all this way. In actuality, they're similar to me: kinda perverse, kinda depraved. But, now, since watching Blue Velvet, although my preference hasn't wavered in regards to these auteurs, I now understand the Lynchian appeal.

I find Lynch and Cronenberg counterparts, almost in the same manner I see Almodovar and Cronenberg counterparts (except, Almodovar and Cronenberg are equivalents). On the metasurface, Cronenberg deals in the arena of body politics, the struggle between the flesh and the according evolution and perversion of higher intellect. But, more imperatively, his work, early and present, observe prophetically the perversion of the dream of reality, of a treacherous hyperreality unescaped, unconsummated.

Contrastly, in Lynch, we find emotion, a sprawling, romantic vision corrupted. In the Lynchian world, the reality has become the dream, and the dream has gone astray. His subversion expresses itself in the manufactured sentimentality of his tone, of the brooding satirical kitsch, of emotional paralysis. His brand of satirical kistch taking cinema over 20 years to transition pass. It's quite simple, Cronenberg is the intellect, the thinker. Lynch is the romantic, the feeler, and his childlike dreamery is one battling the perversion of his fantasy. Indeed, the artist is a product of their context, of their cultivation, and thus, Lynch is that of the American heart, of the naive poetry corrupted. Cronenberg is the more traditional European intellect, that naivete perhaps gone long ago. In technique and tone, Cronenberg's aesthetics are cold, voyeuristic, unpoetic. Both are necessary and both are appreciated, but I still prefer Cronenberg in this case, not only because of his elaboration of cause and effect, but bluntly for the reason he's more adept.