Dear David,
In 2019, I was tasked with blocking traffic for the Ithaca Bike Walk in upstate New York. I stood there for about 4 or 5 hours next to a guy I didn’t know too well at the time. Now, I consider him to be one of my closest friends. With hours of aimless standing ahead of us, Paul and I got to talking. We swapped stories for awhile, making friendly chit chat. Then we finally reached the topic of our favorite films and tv shows. That’s when Paul began to tell me about you.
You gotta watch Twin Peaks.
I had heard about the show of course, it felt like one of those classics that everyone always sort of knew about. It’d always been on that watchlist in the back of my mind, a sort of unmotivated mental note to “check that one out sometime.”
Paul described the show and your other works for about an hour, as I can recall. Your films have long had a profound impact on him. I remember that I kept asking for explanations about the plot lines he was describing, but he refused to give them. Of course, I understand why now.
Despite Paul’s efforts, I didn’t end up consuming your work for another four years. I can’t really say why. It was a grave mistake though, that much I know.
It’s 2023 now and I’m in Los Angeles. I haven’t found any new films or television that have really sparked a creative fire in me for a long time. I don’t think I fully understand the feeling, but it's draining me. On the phone with my best friend Kurstin, I offhandedly say: “maybe I’ll finally start watching Twin Peaks like Paul’s been telling me to.”
It was almost as if he had heard me, as I received this text the next day:
Indeed I was.
Watching the pilot episode made me feel like someone had just smashed my brain open with a hammer. My world was now damn fine black coffee, cherry pie and fishes in the percolator. I was struck by how off kilter everything about it felt. The unconventional dialogue, the charming yet strange inhabitants of Twin Peaks and of course the question on everyone’s tongue: who killed Laura Palmer?
But most of all, I was struck by how the show always denied my quest for a straight-forward answer. Most other media I had consumed at that point was always willing to validate me. They’d keep the mystery or suspense, but also gently assure me that my thought processes were on the right track. By the time I got to the season 2 finale, I felt like I had a million different interpretations and thoughts running through my brain. Was I right? Was I wrong? Or did that even matter at all?
I had to see more of your work.
I of course finished Twin Peaks. I had my heart ripped out by the phenomenal Sheryl Lee in Fire Walk With Me, then filled in more parts of the puzzle with The Missing Pieces, and then capped it all off by watching The Return. Those final few minutes truly had me at a loss for words.
I continued through the rest of your filmography, not necessarily in order:
Wild at Heart made me feel alive and gave me the urge to pull over on the side of the road and dance manically.
Blue Velvet reminded me of my hometown, and the feeling of discovering that the sheen of goodness I viewed the world with back then was breaking.
Of course I don’t have children, but Eraserhead felt like someone holding up a mirror to the time of my life I’m in now: young, hectic, and drowned in feelings of waywardness.
Lost Highway confounded all my senses, but just like Fred and Pete, I couldn’t help but be entranced by Renee/Alice.
Watching Inland Empire made me feel, much like Laura Dern, as if I was a woman in trouble.
Dune was a WILD ride, though unfortunately, I can’t tell you that it's one of my favorites…but its still entertaining! Admittedly, I’ve watched it a few times. I found an old unopened VHS copy of Dune at a video store a few months ago. It felt like hitting the jackpot. I know it’s not one of your favorites, but goddammit is it fun. There’s certainly nothing else like it.
And of course, I watched Mulholland Drive. I’m sure people asked you about that film the most, but the first time I watched it felt almost like a religious experience. I texted Paul the second the credits stopped rolling so I could discuss immediately. I felt like it was telling me so much. About the industry, about dreams, about love, about acceptance and about myself. I felt truly seen watching this movie. I can’t explain it, but it definitely reached me at the right time in my life. The Club Silencio sequence might just be one of the most profound, beautiful scenes in all of cinema.
Watching your filmography was like going through film school again. I’d never seen anything like it before. I didn’t know storytelling could be so weird and playful. That I didn’t have to explain myself with every choice. Film didn’t have to be just one thing, one story or theme, it could be filled with multitudes. And maybe not everyone would understand it, but that’s ok, its your art and you don’t owe anyone a detailed explanation. I could play around with bizarre visuals that could mimic an entire conversation between characters. And when I did use dialogue, it could be as free as I want. You opened my eyes to endless and not yet discovered possibilities in cinema.
I devour any behind the scenes footage of you directing that I can find. What a lesson in filmmaking. I appreciate how encouraging and gentle you are with your actors and crew. I’m only getting started in this industry, but its been hard to find people that bring the genuine care and heart onto set in the way I’ve seen you do.
I know I’m not the first, and I certainly won’t be the last, to shower your films with compliments and praise and tell you how your work changed their lives. But when I found out you had passed, I felt destroyed. Even thinking about it now takes me back to that empty feeling I felt for about a week after. The world feels smaller knowing you’re not in it.
Your films made a great impact on me, but you yourself also made a big, if not bigger impact. You’ve taught me a lot. You were always unabashedly yourself. You didn’t mince your words, you fought for what you believed in, and protected your peace. You were uncompromising. I want to be just like you. If I get even a little close one day, I’ll count myself lucky.
I love how you refused to give answers to your work, to explain. As you once said: “the film is the thing.” You took joy in the visual medium, not just handing out exposition dumps to give our characters and story depth. Every audience member picked up on something else, or left the theater with a different emotion coursing through their veins. And if they asked for an elaboration, you would simply say no.
And that’s been the best part of your work. We’ll never truly know what you were thinking with every frame or line of dialogue. But each one of us who were lucky enough to experience one of your films, knows for themselves what the film means. And isn’t that something? Your films will live on in a thousand different ways, and that’s exceptionally beautiful if you ask me.
It’s strange, because I never knew you. And you never knew me. Yet I felt as if I did. Watching back your films now, I feel like I can hear your voice guiding me through the story, asking me to look between the lines. I visited one of your old favorite spots, Bob’s Big Boy in Burbank the day after your death. Hundreds of others had already been gathering there, forming a shrine on the Big Boy statue out front. It was filled with lots of black coffee, cigarettes, Pabsts and donuts. I left my own little note I hurriedly wrote on a napkin there for you. In the following days, hundreds more tributes would cascade around the statue.
I wish I could’ve met you in person. Perhaps over some coffee and donuts, just to tell you how much you mean to me. How even this long open letter professing my undying love could never really be enough to explain the impact your storytelling has made on my life. I’d want to talk about film, what your favorites are, who inspired you, how you write, etc. But much like your films, maybe those answers will also need to remain a mystery.
Thank you for telling your stories. Selfishly, I wish you could’ve told more, but I understand. You changed cinema, and we’re forever indebted to you. We miss you.
With love and admiration,
Ciara Naughton
I hope you all watch this edit I found of David’s filmography below, not just for a look back on his art, but for the words he shares that I feel are very important for all of us to hear.
Until next time:)