He enters, a dishevelled version of himself: the rockabilly hair caving at an angle, the buttoned-up white shirt not as neat as it might be, silvery stubble on his chin. "For me, film is dead." What ever happened to David Lynch? "I'm through with film as a medium," he wrote in a book published two years ago. Mulholland Drive – an unparalleled triumph in my view – was released in 2001 since then he's made some entertainingly loopy shorts and Inland Empire, a three-hour ode to impenetrability that was shot on digital video and struggled to find a distributor. Lynch has just brought out a lavish retrospective set of DVDs, which includes (among other things) material from his student days that he found in a foot locker, a brand new sound mix of Blue Velvet, Eraserhead, The Elephant Man and deleted scenes from Wild at Heart – all of which makes one wonder where he's been in more recent years. I have come to meet David Lynch, who lives, works and meditates here – the bunker includes offices, an outdoor painting studio and a home. Once inside, its geography is impossible to decipher. Beyond this, the place is all skylights and high slit windows – a bright but viewless series of rooms with severe angles and unpredictable shifts, blind corners around which are an empty kitchen or an empty meeting room with a single lightbulb drawn in chalk on a blackboard. In an attempt to penetrate the bunker (I have an appointment, after all) I mistakenly walk into an empty recording studio, where a state-of-the-art mixing table spans several metres and a blank cinema screen covers a wall in front of it. Up a steep, strange, snake of a street and sheer, straight steps is a set of concrete buildings clinging onto the side of the Hollywood Hills.
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