Spoiler Warning in Effect

Fusing the nightmares of children to haunted parental grief in a gothic theater of the absurd, and welded to a grotesque fantasia in the industrial German expressionistic mold, David Lynch’s Eraserhead (1977) is the American director at his most pure Lynchian. It is the most personal and self-reflexive of all Lynch’s films, even in light of his claim that his ideas are the result of dream-like channeling. Maintaining this notion of vicarious channeling, the ideas are still tinged by his own experiences, interpretations, monetary/physical limitations and the subconscious. Accordingly, Eraserhead follows it’s own dream logic (or nightmare logic, rather) in an uncompromising manner, observing the horrific images that seep from Lynch’s subconscious feelings over parenthood, family, sexuality and industrial environment. The motion picture is a dark and wilfully obscure perception of life as ugly, awkward, menacing and unfulfilling as tainted by sexual desire and consequence. The pessimistic view is as much a personal reflection of Lynch inasmuch as it is reflective of an alien experience through the callousness and horror of the human world.

The fact that David Lynch has been so insistent on his films speaking for themselves, never really discussing his own intentions, leaves their exact meaning a mystery, caused by whatever forces or impulses that flow through his shell, creating a very supernatural quality to the aura of his work. The negation of intentions in creating something so evasive and nigh incoherent is a suspicious act itself but one all the necessary if, crucially, the work is genuinely the result of subconscious efforts and thereby not fully understood by the artist himself, which is then divergent to conventions. The knowledge of Lynch’s own personal life, particularly during the time of the film’s lengthy creation (five to six years of fragmented production), gives minor clues as to deciphering the film’s strangeness. Viewed in the context of Lynch’s own life, the film becomes hyper-personal and the suggestion of subconscious manifestations all the more evident. It is impossible to tell if there were any intentions at all on Lynch’s part in making Eraserhead and accordingly, the work can be interpreted however anyone desires to, but such is the way with most films.

The popular reading of Eraserhead seems to be that, sexual desire, if viewed as a love-less, artificial process, is a terribly monstrous and consuming experience that results only in the burdens of pregnancy and self-castration. If taken that the film is set in a post-apocalyptic world then there is an emphasis on artificial sexuality, which is an apparent eventuality in Lynch’s mind, suggesting a futuristic culture in which sexual consummation is no longer dependent upon physical means, and technology is it’s catalyst and master. Given the current, and relatively hyper, evolution of technology and the consequent designation of human disconnection, the film foreshadows a bleak world regulated by machination.

The Man in the Planet (Jack Fisk) represents the presence of mechanical evil: an encrusted creature gazing out a window whose only role is to regulate sexual reproduction by pulling sparkling levers, causing the sexual misfortune of the prototypical Lynch protagonist, Henry Spencer (Jack Nance). As the omniscient presence in Henry’s world, the Man in the Planet is viewed as a grotesquerie of the persistent industrial oppression, notably suggested by the setting of mechanized industry, but alternately, whose presence relies on the submission of the inhabitants of the planet. The film’s conclusion is, perhaps, a hopeful observation that totalitarian, sexually-artificial ordinance is dependent on the cooperation of its subjects, and hence Henry’s act of self-castration, or infanticide, destroys the Man’s control.

The power of sexual desire surfaces as Eraserhead’s dominating thematic element, linking the mediation of artificial sexual processes to the resulting consequence, for the power of the artificial manipulation is nothing if not for the natural, primal instincts of humans and male sexual hunger. Henry’s character suggests the dark eagle scout innocence of Lynch’s obsessed, idealized visions of deceptively perfect Americana. Part of this Lynchian archetypal alter ego is the continuing idea of uncontrollable urges despite innocent exteriors. With Henry, Lynch explores and projects this sexual frustration and feeling of desire from a patriarchal perspective. The initial image of Henry’s face gently floating above the planet symbolizes the idyllic innocence of youth and dreams from the picturesque whimsy of Lynchian middle-America nostalgia. An embryonic, sperm-like organism emanates from Henry’s mouth like a driving force of sexual urge and a loss of innocence. Desire is resolutely viewed as an unbecoming trait for human weakness but perhaps one that’s innate and accepted all the same. Henry’s mechanized act of sexual consummation is presented as just that: an involuntary spasm through the seditious manipulation of the Man in the Planet’s technological grip. Sexual desire, as such, is the result of something that exists as a natural defense mechanism programmed within the core of humanity to prevent extinction.

Programmed procreative inclinations is the natural catalyst to processes of developing and shaping families. Ergo, the Man in the Planet’s artificial intervention causes Henry’s girlfriend, Mary X, to become pregnant and bear a child. The representation of significant others in relationships is poignantly portrayed here, starting with the anonymity that the surname X suggests. The nondescript quality of a name like X speaks to the undiscriminating nature of programmed sexual desire and the cold meaninglessness of intimacy in procreation. Mary’s family is then depicted in a manner typical to a male suitor’s worst fever dream of potential family-in-law. The meeting of Mary’s parent’s is seen as hellishly awkward and explores the avenues of over-protective family units, the patriarchal presence viewed as almost clown-like, while sexualizing the matriarchal position.

In the amazing dinner scene, Henry is asked to cut up the mini-chickens that Mr. X has cooked, which startlingly instead squirts out a blood-like liquid and gyrates, causing Mrs. X to enter a bizarre sexual fury. The scene is the first of many to illustrate the stark, dysfunctional and insular sexual trauma contained within the house of a supposedly nuclear family, a theme that continues in a similar manner within Henry’s family. Dark trauma contained within the interiors of safe, child-like memory is preeminent throughout Lynch’s work, and Mary’s family suggests the shadow of family incest, such as a predatory relationship between fathers and daughters, as Mr. X smilingly gazes upon his daughter’s sexuality in chicken form placed before Henry. The representation of sexualized mothers is more overt as Mrs. X is turned on by the chicken: the embodiment of the sexual act itself between Henry and Mary. Mrs. X desires to be her daughter and have Henry for herself.

Subsequently, Henry’s own meager construct of a family is seen as problematic and suffocating because of its love-less union, monstrous child and temptation of infidelity. The artificial intervention of the Man in the Planet suggests that he has united Henry and Mary simply by means of creating progeny in a cold, love-less act. However, Henry does say that he loves Mary in one particular scene. Because the result of their mechanical consummation is a beastly mutant child the idea is, perhaps, that Henry simply thinks he loves Mary or that he says so to validate his sexual acts with her. The marriage is ultimately a failure and Mary returns home to the safety of prurient childhood memory. She leaves Henry with the ghastly child who symbolizes both this consummation of ugly, selfish desire and his frustrated need for more sexual gratification. Continuing scenes of the baby’s blood-curdling wail manifests the nagging and constant sexual urges mounting within Henry. A particular scene in which the child becomes grotesquely sick forewarns of sexually transmitted disease contracted through his repulsive urge.

Thus, the potency of sexual desire reoccurs once again as a primary thematic component, acting as the driving force in tearing families apart. Henry’s sexpot neighbor (Judith Anna Roberts) is an overly-sexualized object of desire who tempts the fidelity of Henry’s marriage. Eventually, Henry succumbs to extramarital engagement with the neighbor, which is envisioned as a passionate physical expression in a steamy pool of lust atop his bed. Sexual consummation is presented differently in this scenario, becoming something natural and dramatic, wildly contrasting to the artificial and physically non-existent encounter between Henry and Mary (whose very name has religious allusions that could take this in an entirely new direction). Nevertheless, the desire of infidelity is viewed with frightening consequence as well, prompting Henry to experience a dream of death of sorts. The dream begins with a deceptively innocuous song “In Heaven Everything is Fine” sung by a fantasy figure of solace, the Lady in the Radiator (Laurel Near), which quickly turns into a nightmare of sexual consequence. Part of the nightmare’s suggested consequences of infidelity and sexual desire is the regression into childlike behavior as Henry’s head pops off to be replaced by his own child’s cowering mutant face. Or perhaps the image represents the abashed nakedness of his sexual urges, as the phallic quality of the child’s physicality implies.

Crucially, Henry confronts his uncontrollable desires as he cuts open the child’s wrapping and finds himself killing the infant, who has become a nagging reminder of artificial creation, or creates the act of self-castration because desire has become too reprehensible and detrimental. Either way, the decision is envisioned as a chaotic process that blows a hole in the planet and throws the Man in the Planet into turmoil. The ghost of sexual desire vanishes and Henry is welcomed into white light and the arms of the Lady in the Radiator, symbolizing death in a way but more importantly, attained solace.

As mentioned before, Eraserhead constructs a reflection of the subconscious angst of Lynch himself when viewed in the context of his personal life at the time of its production. Youthful marriage and fatherhood overtaking Lynch at a very early point in his career hints at the dominating ideas represented. There is a horrific and fearful view of marriage as a union that is suffocating, irritating and crippling, which could stem from his first marriage. The result of the marriage, a child called Jennifer Chambers Lynch, seems the root for creating the beastly infant, a reminder of sexual urges, that haunts the innocence of his alter ego, Henry, who is even revealed to be a professional printer, which Lynch was himself at one time. The accepted fact that Lynch was also very put-off, or perhaps traumatized, by the industrial milieu of where he lived in Philadelphia brings to light the industrialized setting of Eraserhead. For the film, the environment becomes a character itself, almost sexualized, constantly saturated with throbbing, squeaking and thudding sounds of industrialized activity: the automated processes of creating artificial life.

It is important to note that the technical aspects of the film recall the visage of manic German expressionism married to noir and 50s horror with its stark shadows and high contrast lighting positioned over factory-like sets, strange creatures and dark men. The sound design is quintessentially post-modern in its use of harsh industrial ambient waves that flow through sporadic intervals of chamber muzak. It is additionally notable that Eraserhead initializes, and most thoroughly of all his films thus far, observes Lynch’s preoccupation with a zooming or push-in technique that explores the dark underpinnings of surfaces. Numerous times throughout the film, Lynch’s camera subjectively peers deep into holes, crevices and scans terrains as if they were alien worlds. The idea of an alien’s perspective is an appropriate designation for the worldview that Lynch presents here. It is an experience fascinated by the processes and absurdities of human society seen through the Martian eye. The result is an otherworldly work that observes human sexual desire and consequence that has been funneled through Lynch’s subconscious, tainted by his experiences and sung as a poetic nightmare of repulsion, concrete and fire.

(97/100)

Recommended:
Yes

Viewing Format: DVD
Video Occasion: Good Date Movie