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"In heaven, everything is fine," but in Eraserhead (1977) nothing is fine. David Lynch's debut feature is grim, disturbed, mutated, claustrophobic, a world that appears to be unraveling-or, more accurately, decaying-before our eyes.
It is the vision of the paranoid transposed upon the screen; the fact that it remains extremely interesting ought, I suppose, to be worrying. But perhaps our eyes have become so desensitised that nothing, any more, will widen the iris.