Mr. Sophistication (pt ii)
let's just say I'm driving this buggy
What is our working definition of violence in a society so in debt to the exchange of power that violence presents? In this context, the art we create is trapped in an intellectual crossroads between escapism and realism, with increasingly less time devoted to world-building and fantasy in favor of comfort and answers. When someone sets out to write and direct their own screenplay, they must make countless decisions concerning the ethics of filmmaking, especially regarding violence: who’s the perpetrator, who’s the victim, what to show, what not to show, etc. These are not always conscious decisions, and it’s practically inevitable for these choices to be informed by pressure from financiers and audiences. And it’s further complicated by the fact that even getting a movie made requires the director to wield power over their staff. Throughout filmic history, some of the most lauded directors have caused interpersonal harm in the interest of creation, and the degree to which we take these transgressions into account tends to be arbitrary, depending on many mitigating factors not limited to race, class, working status, whether or not they’re still alive.
Context is the stuff that all film is borne out of, whether it be an explicitly political picture or simply an expression of a cultural mindset that continues to change form with each passing second. Art is powerful, yes, but not so powerful that the viewer’s moral code is put in peril when faced with problematic art. What better way to test one’s own convictions than to seek out art that might either challenge or affirm them? Rather than focusing on separating the art from the artist, I’m interested in exploring the circumstances behind the necessary hypocrisies of cinema. Because there will never be a way to end abuse in the film industry declaratively, we must sit up and take special notice when film attempts to shed light on the subject, warts and all.
Think about Mulholland Drive’s Cowboy, who just so happens to have been played by film producer and David Lynch collaborator Lafayette Montgomery — that’s right, get yer tinfoil hats and Pepe Silvia bulletin boards out for this one. Montgomery was such a non-actor that he needed his script printed out and taped onto other lead Justin Theroux’s face. Theroux plays Adam Kesher, a Hollywood filmmaker and persistent smart-aleck. After he gets cucked by Billy Ray Cyrus (no, I’m not joking), both his landlord and his girlfriend Cynthia are informed by strange men that Kesher’s line of credit has been closed. Even more alarming, Cynthia relays to Adam that he should drive out to a deserted corral off the highway tonight to meet with “somebody called the Cowboy” hoping that this man can help get to the bottom of his financial emergency. Kesher agrees to meet the Cowboy that evening, though not without making some jokes about bringing his ten-gallon hat and six-shooters.
Cowboy: A man's attitude... a man's attitude goes some ways. The way his life will be. Is that somethin' you agree with?
Adam: Sure.
Cowboy: Now... did you answer ‘cause you thought that's what I wanted to hear, or did you think about what I said and answer ‘cause you truly believe that to be right?
Adam: I agree with what you said, truthfully.
Cowboy: What'd I say?
Adam: Uh... that a man's attitude determines, to a large extent, how his life will be.
Cowboy : So since you agree, you must be someone who does not care about the good life.
Adam only realizes the gravity of the situation when the two meet, long after the ominousness was made clear to the viewer. The Cowboy instructs Adam which woman he must cast in his film-within-the-film with his go-ahead: “This is the girl.” Keep in mind, there is no explicit threat made upon Adam or anyone involved in the movie’s production, and the Cowboy even emphasizes Kesher’s agency in all other casting decisions. Despite this, there is a palpable exertion of control via not only the implicit financial coercion but the Cowboy’s unique threatening aura. At one point, the Cowboy asks Adam how many people drive a buggy; when he answers “one,” the Cowboy asserts, “So, let's just say I'm driving this buggy. And if you fix your attitude, you can ride along with me.” Montgomery might not be an actor, but he is a producer, and he’s demonstrably adept at performing this insidious sort of power play.
Mulholland Drive is the second of Lynch’s Hollywood trilogy, a series of films dealing with abuse and labor trafficking in America’s mainstream film industry. Naomi Watts gives the performance of her career as Betty Elms, a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed newcomer to California looking for her big break. Before we watch her audition, we watch her rehearse her audition side with Rita, her newfound amnesiac soon-to-be-girlfriend. This wholesome scene renders her actual audition for the role that much more unnerving, with all of the men in the room leering over Betty’s boundaries, changing her performance to one more timid and submissive than the one she had practiced. Her audition is received warmly, and her journey as an actress continues from there with her happy-go-lucky affect not yet sullied. But the sexual predation still permeates everything.
Working as long as he has and watching the film industry shapeshift over decades has given Lynch intimate knowledge of the systems of power keeping the business going. All things considered, his reputation remains sterling despite his disturbing and violent content. In 2017, Naomi Watts described him as a “therapist of sorts,” detailing how she was on the verge of quitting the unforgiving business before Lynch cast her in Mulholland Drive. “I wasn’t getting parts. I was giving myself away. My soul was being destroyed. I was never able to walk in a room and own it by being me. David changed that. It was having someone actually make eye contact, ask questions he was truly interested in, take the time to unveil some layers.”’
Watts also revealed that she did not want to film the masturbation scene, her visible discomfort and self-abuse being grounded in reality. Lynch had set up a private tent to accommodate Watts so they could film the scene without the rest of the crew watching her, but she still harbored resentment for having to push through at all. “The thing with David is he just keeps you going, you want to please him because he’s after something really true and you don’t want to give up” (Perez). Indeed, he stumbled upon something true in this instance, and Watts herself has continued to give Lynch unequivocal praise for both his art and his warmth as a person since both Mulholland Drive and her show-stealing performance in Twin Peaks: The Return in 2017.
With that in mind, I don’t want to infantilize Watts and suggest there was a larger pattern of abuse between the two of them rather than an instance of such. However, it still stands out as alarming considering the film’s knowing commentary on the power imbalance between filmmakers and cast. Yes, his work is surreal and nonlinear, but that doesn’t mean that Mulholland Drive’s core conflict exists in a vacuum. Lynch’s methodology here is undeniably harmful on an interpersonal level to Watts. Still, it remains apparent through his work that he believes abuse in the industry is something to be taken seriously. The looming threat of exploitation is the common antagonist of the Hollywood Trilogy, an evil so strong Lynch cannot replicate it with just one face, one jump scare, or one movie. It begs the question: is it possible for a Hollywood director to effectively dramatize abuse of power without replicating it to some degree?