I feel like, after watching Blue Velvet, and a number of David Lynch's other works (such as Twin Peaks and Mulholland Drive) that I can safely say he is a frustrating director. Now, I don't mean frustrating in that stupid modern art rally-cry kind of way - the "ah, it's just too fucking subversive and crazy fantastic for you to handle". I mean frustrating in a way that says "the quality of the film is dictated by a sloppy seesaw of styles".
It seems like in much of his work, Lynch is attempting to bridge the gap between consciousness and subconsciousness, where dreams meet reality and reality don't much like what ensues in the resulting collision. He attempts this balance, but always ends up cheating on reality for his true mistress, dreams (and the repressed desires contained within them). I wouldn't have nearly as big of a problem with Lynch if he fleshed out ideas exclusively in his 11th hour, ghoulish worlds, but he stumbles over himself by simultaneously filling in the shoes of a hackneyed drama coach.
Blue Velvet provides a lot of clarity on this point. The film's narrative about Jeffrey, a young man who finds a severed ear in a field, leading him to get involved with a distressed older woman and a circle of criminals, already has fundamental problems at work. Jeffrey's motivation to look into such strange circumstances is never really justified. There are no scenes that establish Jeffrey as a compassionate social servant or an overly curious junior sleuth, he's just kind of winging it the whole time. You would think that as the film progressed perhaps some insight would be shined down upon Jeffrey's intentions, but they remain vague and pedestrian throughout. Why? Because Lynch was far too interested in watching Dennis Hopper writhe on top of Isabella Rossellini, shouting "Blue velvet!" and "Don't you look at me!" to care that much about the protagonist.
And rightfully so. I didn't really give a shit what happened to Jeffrey or why he was there in the first place because I was distracted by the excellent scenes involving a pitch-perfect Dennis Hopper as the deviant sexual maniac, Frank Booth. Whether it's his unnatural fondness for the song, "Candy Colored Clown" by Roy Orbison, or his faintly homoerotic intimidation of Jeffrey, Frank is what saves Blue Velvet from becoming a giant waste of time. You could replace Kyle MacLachlan's Jeffrey with a paper lunch bag that has a frowny face drawn on it and not notice much of a difference. However, taking Hopper's Frank out of the equation would unhinge the film entirely.
The night-time hijinks of Frank and his crew provide a welcome tear away from the flaccid, melodramatic relationship forming between Jeffrey and an equally unnecessary love interest, Sandy, who is portrayed by Laura Dern's nose. I mean, Laura Dern. It was hard to even care about the affair forming between Rossellini's Dorothy and Jeffrey, even though there is a fantastic sequence where he hides in her closet only to be found out and forced into taking off his clothes. But ultimately, she's sucking the dick of a paper bag with a frowny face, so the emotions you should carry away from it don't last, only the image of it stays with you.
All in all, Blue Velvet goes quite well with my David Lynch hang-ups. In a sense, you could liken his strengths and weaknesses to a director obsessed with special effects in his or her movies. The effects may slap you in the face with their awesomeness but when someone asks you about the story, you respond with, "what story?" The main difference is that Lynch's "special effects" have enough intelligence and permeating presence that they create stories in and of themselves. So, why, Mr. Lynch, even bother with white-bread, by the numbers drama? It only gives off an uneasy, after-school special vibe in your case. Just stick to making pretentious short films about rabbit humans, selling naked pictures of your girlfriends for $500 and making blues albums with ridiculous titles like Crazy Clown Time.
