David Lynch's 'The Alphabet'

Lynch's first film

'My wife Peggy's niece was having a bad dream one night and was saying the alphabet in her sleep in a tormented way. That's sort of what started The Alphabet going. The rest of it was just subconscious.'

David Lynch, interviewed by Chris Rodley

Over the last week or so, I've been revisiting some of David Lynch's work in television and film. I've watched some Twin Peaks over coffee with my flatmates, and introduced a friend of mine to Eraserhead. But at the same time I've looked into some of Lynch's other work in painting and photography. I'm struck by how the same obsessions recur throughout everything he does: his photographs feature familiar close-ups of industrial machinery, while his paintings portray the same abstracted characteristics of some of his films.

I've also investigated some of his shorter films, made while he worked as a student at the American Film Institute. The Alphabet struck me as particularly interesting, marking a departure from his early career as a painter as he began exploring the possibilities of images in motion.

One great aspect of The Alphabet is the way it illustrates some of David Lynch's early formative influences. And painter Francis Bacon certainly stands out. Bacon's colourful and abstract figures, the way he framed them on the canvas, and his often violent subject matter are all prominent inspirations in Lynch's early films. And it's fantastic to see David Lynch adapting ideas that have provoked him, as he begins to forge a sense of his own aesthetic - a look and feel to his work that is more personal and unique.

It's also interesting to see the role language plays in The Alphabet. It's not so much language as expression, but language as an ordered and foundational system. It's clear that the character in The Alphabet is troubled and distressed by the letters in the film, and echoes Lynch's view that learning is 'a menacing thing. It's imposed on you. It's necessary. But it's not pleasant. [...] The Alphabet is a little nightmare about the fear connected with learning.'

I think The Alphabet also makes perfect sense as the work of a man who is reluctant to express himself on the strength of words alone. David Lynch has always worked primarily through distinctive images, and many of his best films feature pivotal scenes where little if anything is spoken.

Conversation in his work is often seemingly irrelevant small-talk that feels incidental to the plot, while the narrative is propelled forward by other forces. Language, while always an important factor, often falls to second place against the physical expressions of the actors, the sense of place in a scene, or the mood conveyed by the music or the cinematography.

The Alphabet is available as part of The Short Films of David Lynch, an upcoming DVD release available in the UK for the first time. A new restored print of Eraserhead, with remastered sound, will also be available. Both are scheduled for release on 20 October 2008.

Francis Bacon: Tate Exhibition 2008

A retrospective of the Irish painter's work

'Francis Bacon is, to me, the main guy, the number one kinda hero painter. There's a lot of painters that I like. But just for the thrill of standing in front of a painting... I saw Bacon's show in the sixties at the Marlborough Gallery and it was really one of the most powerful things I ever saw in my life [...] The subject matter and the style [are] united, married, perfect. And the space, and the slow and the fast and, you know, the textures, everything. Normally I only like a couple of years of a painter's work, but I like everything of Bacon's. The guy, you know, had the stuff.'

David Lynch, interviewed by Chris Rodley

For the first time in over twenty years, Tate Britain is holding a major exhibition of Francis Bacon's paintings. For me, his work is the ne plus ultra of contemporary art; his paintings seek to portray and explore essence and sensation, and cut to the quick. His figures are assembled yet fragmented, troubled and beautiful and utterly compelling. I can't think of another twentieth century painter who has had such a powerful visceral impact. And it seems there are others who feel the same way. As David Lynch says, 'the guy had the stuff'.

The exhibition runs from 11 September to 04 January, and promises an exciting range of his work. The website has recently been updated, and features information about Francis Bacon and his career, alongside interviews with the late painter and the curator of the exhibition. There are opportunities to explore the exhibition online, plan your visit, and find access to the BBC's very own Francis Bacon archive. And, as though that wasn't enough, there's even a links page off-shooting to various websites and online Bacon resources. A fantastic place to spend five minutes or more. You can check it out here.

'like buried in snow'

'Suddenly, no, at last, long last, I couldn't any more, I couldn't go on. Someone said, You can't stay here. I couldn't stay there and I couldn't go on. I'll describe the place, that's unimportant. The top, very flat, of a mountain, no, a hill, but so wild, so wild, enough. Quag, heath up to the knees, faint sheep-tracks, troughs scooped deep by the rains. It was far down in one of these I was lying, out of the wind.'

Samuel Beckett, 'Texts for Nothing: 1'

It seems like a long time ago now, but I was once a boy scout. It's not that long when I think about it in perspective, but it feels like a long time. A very long time.

Whenever I tell people that I was in the scouts, I hear the same old assumptions; and, to be honest, I can't disagree with any of them. It strikes people as strange for a child to look for order and discipline in their free time, after spending the day behind a desk in school. But for me, joining the scouts was an opportunity to meet new friends and seek out adventure. That was its appeal.

It was in the scouts that I met one of my best friends. We bonded almost immediately through a shared sense of humour, and could appreciate the absurdity of the uniform and the badges. There would be activities every Friday evening, where we would learn new skills and share wisecracks, all the while preparing for the away-from-home activities planned in our calendars. Together we looked forward to the adventure weekends and camping trips that were to come.

One such event was a night hike scheduled in the autumn time. The whole troop met at a specific point, dropped off by our parents, and wearing our backpacks we head out into the valley in the dark. I walked with my friend, and we shared a sense of excitement while climbing a steeple and seeing the stars reflected in an anonymous lake.

'How long have I been here, what a question, I've often wondered. And often I could answer, An hour, a month, a year, a century, depending on what I meant by here, and me, and being, and there I never went looking for extravagant meanings, there I never much varied, only the here would sometimes seem to vary.'

'Texts for Nothing 1'

I often think of that night, even now. We passed the lake and entered a forest, no longer seeing the clear night sky above our heads, no longer seeing the moonlight. I can feel the cold on my skin, and remember buttoning my cuffs to avoid the draught. There was mud under foot, everyone following the two compass leaders with their minds on the camp so far ahead.

In some ways I think it was one of the longest nights I ever spent. But my friend made it feel short, as we passed the time together. We talked about the walk itself, and then moved onto impersonations of troop members, characters from films and television shows we liked. We talked about school, our brothers and sisters, and chocolate (both carrying ample supplies). And we planned what we would do with the next morning, heating beans over a camp stove.

'And in the way of sensation? My God, I can't complain, it's himself all right, only muffled, like buried in snow, less the warmth, less the drowse, I can follow them well, all the voices, all the parts, fairly well, the cold is eating me, the wet too, at least I presume so, I'm far.'

'Texts for Nothing 1'

When I think of the time before he died, one memory remains particularly strong. I think back to the night hike we shared, and the hill we faced halfway along our journey. My legs ached, and fatigue had set in. Knee-deep in grass, I complained to the sky and whoever would listen. I remember him smiling and rolling his eyes at me: 'Come on,' he said, 'we're almost there.'

Reading Samuel Beckett's first of the Texts for Nothing, I feel an almost overwhelming personal reaction. It's a story written when Beckett's father had long-since passed away, and seems to be located out in the country hills they shared together.

'[...] we walked together, hand in hand, silent, sunk in our worlds, each in his worlds, the hands forgotten in each other. That's how I've held out till now. And this evening again it seems to be working, I'm in my arms, I'm holding myself in my arms, without much tenderness, but faithfully, faithfully. Sleep now, as under that ancient lamp, all twined together, tired out with so much talking, so much listening, so much toil and play.'

'Texts for Nothing 1'

I still think of him often, now five years since he passed away, and wish he was still around.

I miss my friend.