It felt fitting that my city was burning when I heard the news Thursday that David Lynch had died at 78. Few filmmakers grasped the complexities of Los Angeles better than Lynch did and fewer still seemed so at home with its distinct, otherworldly mix of beauty and disaster, sunshine and noir. Los Angeles is where, after all, he shot “Eraserhead,” his feature directorial debut about — well, how to describe this sui generis art film in which a lady lives in a radiator and a baby looks like a slimy, fetid bobble-headed alien. Yet now David Lynch is gone and another part of this city seems to have disappeared with him, and I am bereft.
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