I worked with David Lynch in the mid-1990s. I considered him a friend. We met on the set of Lost Highway after he cast me as an extra in a scene with Richard Pryor playing the proprietor of a car wash. I was to “stalk” and “squawk” in the background, but because it was raining and they weren’t going to film the entire sequence that day, I was cut… yes I was CUT from the movie… I was out of the picture… and, instead, to solve the inconsistent wetness of the pavement, Lynch replaced me with some weirdo holding a garden hose.
I was really impressed. Not only was it funny, strange, unsettling, both deadly serious and full of possible implications and equally farcical and silly on its face, but it was REPLACING SOMETHING I WAS SUPPOSED TO DO.
I don’t bow often because I don’t have superiors. David Lynch was an exception.
At this point in my life, I didn’t need to be an extra or a gofer on a Hollywood movie set. I’d been around, in front of and behind the camera, and I wasn’t getting anything out of this other than proximity to Mr. Lynch. The pay was negligible, I wasn’t interested in the other actors, and, like all movie sets, it’s incredibly boring and uneventful unless you’re one of like seven people who have to work incredibly hard all day and are constantly on the verge of a panic attack or, at the very best, acting with honor and grace as a general does during war. It’s really that serious.
I never saw Mr. Lynch lose his temper at anyone. That’s not true—he laid into some people. But they deserved it. They didn’t give him enough time. Richard Pryor, he ate up so much time because he was sick, and Mr. Lynch and most everyone understood and acted accordingly, but there was one grip—a local hire—who made some jokes a little too loudly. I saw Mr. Lynch take him into a room; I went up to the door and could hear him berating the guy and firing him. I’ve read that Patricia Arquette experienced something similar on a different part of the Lost Highway shoot, but I wasn’t there—I was editing Rum’s Paradise Hotel, my aborted directorial debut written by Rooster and starring Bennington.
He’s an actor now, or at least trying to be. I think Bennington could make a lot of people believe he was someone else, but a great actor? Oscar? No. I could do it, Rooster could, but not Benny. He’s too temperamental, and I realize many famous Hollywood actors are temperamental, but Bennington’s also a rooster, or, as you say in slur, “chicken.” Our kind are not recognized by the Academy or any voting branch of the entertainment and arts awards in America, nor the globe over. We think we could maybe reach people in India but honestly Bollywood cinema confuses me and I’m scared to go there. I’m scared to leave the United States. Roosters and hens should be able to win Academy Awards and play retarded people and appear on Variety’s Actors on Actors and go on talk shows and do tons of cocaine backstage with hangers-on and dangerous sycophants just waiting to get into your wallet or your pants.
Joke’s on you, asshole, I’M NOT WEARING ANY PANTS!
I will miss Mr. David Lynch. I wish I could see him again. Only in dreams… only in dreams… only in dreams… wait, I’m singing the Weezer song… only in dreams… damn, it’s good… never mind… Roy Orbison can wait…
—Follow Monica Quibbits on Twitter: @MonicaQuibbits