One more cup of cof­fee in Mul­hol­land Drive

Mul­hol­land Dri­ve is often cit­ed as David Lynch’s most ambigu­ous fea­ture film. But there is a scene in it that has always stood out to me for how clear­ly it illus­trates the writer/director’s long-stand­ing obses­sions with con­trol, pow­er and the creep­ing dread that lurks beneath seem­ing­ly ordi­nary sit­u­a­tions. I’m talk­ing, of course, about the espres­so scene, which for my mon­ey ranks as one of the finest – and most reveal­ing – in Lynch’s entire filmography.

A quick recap: The scene takes place in a drab, mahogany-pan­elled board­room some­where in Los Ange­les. Direc­tor Adam Kesh­er (Justin Ther­oux) has been per­suad­ed by his man­ag­er to meet with two twitchy Hol­ly­wood exec­u­tives and a pair of enig­mat­ic mob­ster sib­lings named Lui­gi and Vin­cen­zo Cas­tigliane (played by Lynch’s long-time col­lab­o­ra­tor Ange­lo Badala­men­ti, who also com­posed the music for the film, and Dan Hedaya, respec­tive­ly), who wield con­sid­er­able influ­ence over the film Kesh­er is hop­ing to make. As the scene unfolds, Lynch ratch­ets up the ten­sion, switch­ing focus from a terse dis­cus­sion about the cast­ing of the lead actress to the more seri­ous mat­ter of a man drink­ing coffee.

Need­less to say, this is not your aver­age joe – in fact, in the con­text of the scene, it’s equiv­a­lent to a tick­ing bomb in the trunk of a car or a wine bot­tle filled with ura­ni­um. A decep­tive­ly sim­ple, mas­ter­ful­ly deployed nar­ra­tive device that cre­ates an atmos­phere of sus­pense thick enough to make even Alfred Hitch­cock break into a cold sweat. The audi­ence is made implic­it­ly aware of the loom­ing threat of the espres­so from the moment a wait­er enters the room and presents the execs with a menu; their hubris pal­pa­ble as they fool them­selves into think­ing that their lat­est choice will meet Luigi’s exact­ing standards.

After a brief, frosty exchange in which every­one in the room might as well be speak­ing a dif­fer­ent lan­guage, the wait­er re-enters, cau­tious­ly set­ting down a cup and saucer – and, not before being prompt­ed, a nap­kin – next to Lui­gi. The cam­era clos­es in on Vin­cen­zo and then Kesh­er as they begin star­ing each oth­er down like they’re in a Mex­i­can stand-off. Sud­den­ly, the faint clink of chi­na draws Kesher’s atten­tion back to Lui­gi. Every­one holds their breath. Lui­gi gen­tly places the nap­kin in the palm of his left hand, picks up the cup with his right – extend­ing his lit­tle fin­ger as he does so to com­plete the well-rehearsed rit­u­al – and takes a short, deci­sive sip.

It’s not that the cof­fee isn’t to Luigi’s taste – he is phys­i­cal­ly repulsed by it, spit­ting it back out into the nap­kin in com­i­cal­ly exag­ger­at­ed fash­ion. He treats the serv­ing of such an unsat­is­fac­to­ry brew as a per­son­al affront, dis­card­ing the soiled nap­kin and scrunch­ing his face in dis­gust. Off-cam­era, one of the exec­u­tives, his voice strained with pan­ic, mut­ters ​“shit”. Then, as Lui­gi ris­es to his feet, Kesh­er breaks his stunned silence to ask (not unrea­son­ably) what on earth is going on. At the same time, Vin­cen­zo vio­lent­ly blows his nose, then blows his top. The cam­era tight­ens once again on Vin­cen­zo as he glares at Kesh­er, mad-eyed, before inform­ing him in no uncer­tain terms, ​“It’s no longer your film”.

There is so much packed into these six min­utes, so many small yet cru­cial details that nev­er fail to make me smile, no mat­ter how many times I watch the film: from Badalamenti’s omi­nous pinkie raise to Theroux’s baf­fled expres­sion when the offend­ing drink is vis­cer­al­ly regur­gi­tat­ed in front of him. Per­haps more than any oth­er scene in Mul­hol­land Dri­ve, the espres­so scene is the per­fect dis­til­la­tion of Lynch’s unique abil­i­ty to blend the mun­dane with the men­ac­ing. It is also deeply fun­ny. Com­ing from some­one who report­ed­ly con­sumed up to 20 cups of cof­fee a day, it epit­o­mis­es the self-aware­ness and wry sense of humour that made Lynch such a beloved figure.

In light of his untime­ly pass­ing, how­ev­er, the scene takes on a more poignant note. After all, here was a film­mak­er who, in his own imp­ish, inim­itable way, delight­ed in hold­ing a cracked mir­ror to Hol­ly­wood, reflect­ing its lop­sided pow­er dynam­ics and the arbi­trary judge­ments that can make or break a person’s career. Telling­ly, he would also direct just one more fea­ture film, 2006’s Inland Empire, post-Mul­hol­land Dri­ve. In a film billed by Lynch him­self as ​‘a love sto­ry in the city of dreams,’ the espres­so scene ulti­mate­ly serves as a sober­ing reminder of the stark dis­par­i­ty that per­sists between those who cre­ate art and those who con­trol it.

There was always the sense with Lynch that he nev­er quite fig­ured out his place in the Amer­i­can film indus­try (such as it is), but also that this suit­ed him just fine. Because, against all the odds, the shy kid from Mis­soula, Mon­tana still man­aged to craft a won­der­ful­ly rich, var­ied and, let’s face it, weird body of work – one that con­sis­tent­ly defied expec­ta­tions and pushed cre­ative bound­aries. David Lynch did things his way to the very end. That’s some­thing we can all raise a cup of java to.

To com­mem­o­rate the life and cre­ative lega­cy of the peer­less film­mak­er David Lynch, Lit­tle White Lies has brought togeth­er writ­ers and artists who loved him to cre­ate ​‘In Heav­en Every­thing Is Fine‘: a series cel­e­brat­ing his work. We asked par­tic­i­pants to respond to a Lynch project how­ev­er they saw fit – the results were haunt­ing, pro­found, and illuminating.