I just finished watching Eraserhead, and I can say that I got it! I can explain the whole thing, except for the fact that the margins to this blog are a little too narrow...
No, but seriously—what an inscrutable film, even for David Lynch! Here are my own thoughts on the movie, after having seen it for the second time in 15 years:
The film, as a whole, is extremely sexual. The number of phallic symbols throughout is astronomical. I think this is neither accidental, nor overdone.
The film is also incredibly disturbing, though it's hard to say why. The "score" (mostly sound effects with some music) hovers between haunting and wrenching; along with the visual imagery, it succeeds with, rather than suffers from, the sparse dialogue. The result is captivating, a little nauseating, and... well, disturbing.
Henry experiences the struggle that many men have as they "settle down". He has a girlfriend, whom he confesses to love. They have sex, and end up with a baby. (I say "end up" advisedly, as Henry is generally portrayed as a victim to his cold, industrial, bizarre surroundings.) The baby is hideous, completely alien, and yet Henry finds himself identifying with it more and more (to the point of his head being replaced by the alien baby's.) It cries incessantly (as babies are wont to do from time to time), drives Henry's wife crazy, and eventually drives her away. The baby foils Henry's attempts to seduce his lusty neighbor. At the end of it all, as Henry stumbles upon his neighbor courting another lover, the baby cackles wildly, taunting Henry as if the baby meant to torment his life. What new father hasn't looked at his child, at his new responsibility, and secretly convicted it as an outsider, bent on tormenting him and ruling his life?!
The girl in the radiator is Henry's fantasy. She existed before he knew of his child, while it was just him and his radiator in the dingy apartment. She exists throughout his relationship with his wife—she is the sole light when even his wife is depressed in his dark world. When his wife leaves him, the girl in the radiator does a dance for him. But as worms (keenly reminiscent of sperm) fall to her stage, she steps on them, reminding him of the shame done to his manhood by his wife's leaving. Finally, as he cuts his final tie with his "responsible" life by cutting through his baby's swaddling rags and killing it, he embraces his girl in the radiator and all is white and right in the world.
I think there's more, but it's very hard to tell. This is a bizarre movie, one of the weirdest I've seen. I think I actually like it somewhat better than some of Lynch's other movies; it has a purity that is lacking from some of his other, weird-just-to-be-weird works (coughTwin Peakscough). But, like others, I just can't quite be sure what to think. So... what do YOU think?
I don't have a lot of energy to write much, but I thought I should at least give a quick update to my last real rant. (Warning: that might not be work-safe, as I use the word "testicle". Ah crap, now THIS one might not be work-safe either. Oh well.) I just completed the vasectomy reversal surgery this morning!
I found a doctor here in San Diego that offers financing. They are few and far between—the other one I was considering was in Tucson, Arizona—so it was a bit of a drive. But if everything else goes as well as this morning went, it will have been well worth it. The experience with general anesthesia was surprising... and relieving. (Much more thanthe surgery itself, I was worried about the risks associated with general anesthesia.) Overall, I feel wonderful today. Exhausted, sore in the legs and back... but wonderful.
So that's all for now. It's not a terribly long road to recovery, but it will surely feel like forever, if you know what I mean. And I think you do. ;-)
"I'm a writer, I can't help it." This reminded me a bit of the line from the movie, Throw Momma From the Train: "A writer writes—always." (I can still see Billy Crystal and Danny DeVito repeating it together.) But it didn't come from a movie; Jim Watkins mentioned it over dinner one night at Gospelcon 06. A number of us were sitting in a Hawaiian-themed dinner, munching Jamaican jerk shrimp and crab cakes, and talking about blogs.
Blogging has always been a love-hate thing for me. I was the last of my friends to actually put my blog together, but I enjoy the venue. I update my blog less frequently than most of my peers, but I tend to update with a lot of heavy information on the occasions I actually write. I hate having it out there, floating along as yet another ship in the sea of blogging irrelevance—but I can't seem to close up shop either.
I have plenty to say (as anyone with whom I spend more than five minutes can confirm!) but can't seem to find my voice to say it. More than anything, I find that when I eventually carve out the time, whatever I wanted to say has lost most of its significance and timeliness. (I really need to just finish that post on The Passion of the Christ. ;-) Seriously, it's easier to IM, talk to my wife, even (shudder) talk on the phone... why bother writing it all down?
I guess ultimately, when I actually write it down, I do so because it's cathartic. It's good to talk, to chat... but it's also good to construct my thoughts, to really analyze them. It's good exercise (since, you know, work is so wretchedly mundane... or something...).
It's also instructive for me, down the road, to see just where I've been. I have the tendency to forget the details of where I've been; I remember the road, but forget the potholes. I remember the restaurant, but not the ceviche. And in the end, life is in the ceviche, rather than the unassuming restaurant decor with the plastic, faux-gingham tablecloth covering the table that doesn't quite balance.
So I'll continue writing. Maybe not every day, or every week, or... maybe not regularly whatsoever. But it's worthwhile enough that when I do get the wild notion of spilling my guts, I'll have an outlet in which I can do so. So stay tuned... only don't hold your breath for the next post.