I was never a devotee, but a central feature of Lynch’s work long resonated with me: that folk are either overtly strange, or secretly strange. I don’t think the conceit is as true as it is funny, but I don’t think it’s entirely false either.
Both truer and funnier, though, is its corollary that the macabre is most at home in the mundane. The pristine geometry of clipped front lawns and fluttering apron strings drying in the breeze… Where’s the body?
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