When you hit play, Lynch gazes out at you. Well, not actually at you—most of the time he’s looking directly above the camera, presumably at an interviewer, or at the space up and to the left that people look to when they’re trying to remember something. He sits at a desk, either caressing a rarely used sketch pad or watching a scene from one of his movies. His fingers flutter like they’re ears of wheat being harassed by a breeze when he’s talking about something delicate, and when he mentions ideas, his hands wave like he’s asking an invisible orchestra for vibrato. At times, he scrunches his eyes tight, extra tight, particularly when talking about tension or negativity. He smokes cigarette after cigarette, and you can hear the effects of a lifetime of chain-smoking on his breath—the low wheeze as he inhales is at least as scary as anything in his movies.
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