I've Tried So Hard to Be Good

The Elephant Man Retrospective

Art by NEW WORLD UNDERGROUND

The Elephant Man is something of an anomaly in David Lynch’s filmography. It stands as his only biographical film about a real, historical figure, and it is arguably his most well-received work, earning multiple Academy Award nominations and a lasting reputation as one of the greatest biopics ever made.

Upon watching, it’s easy to see why. While traces of Eraserhead’s DNA remain, the black-and-white palette, the cacophony of industrial machinery, the fleeting dream sequences, The Elephant Man is far more grounded. Lynch took the task of telling this story with the utmost seriousness.

That seriousness makes the film fascinating within his career. Then best known for Eraserhead and his signature surrealism, Lynch demonstrated early on that he could not only craft a movie embraced by the mainstream film industry but also handle a delicate, sensitive subject, a severely disfigured historical figure, with humanity and beauty. While I adore nearly all of Lynch’s later works, with their surreal, mysterious takes on Americana, it’s hard not to wonder how his career might have diverged had he pursued more projects like The Elephant Man rather than Blue Velvet or Twin Peaks. He famously struggled to fund his films throughout his career. Would that have persisted if we’d seen more works in the vein of The Elephant Man or The Straight Story? The fact that he stayed true to his own path makes his later struggles admirable, but this film’s calibre still suggests an alternate career was possible.

What unfolds over the two-hour runtime is one of the most moving films ever crafted. You embark on the same journey as Frederick Treves did all those years ago, gradually realizing that John Merrick is not, as once assumed, “an imbecile,” but a softly spoken, sensitive, deeply religious man.

John Hurt’s performance as Merrick is nothing short of spectacular. If you aren’t immediately drawn to him and moved by his plight, I’d question your humanity. His portrayal avoids cheap sentimentality and instead instils a profound sense of dread, you’re desperate for nothing bad to happen to him. At the same time, you feel both wonder and horror at his very existence.

The scenes where Merrick slowly warms to his new friends are among the purest, most innocent, and joyous moments in cinema history. Whether he’s exclaiming how beautiful his mother was or fawning over small gifts offered to him, it is intoxicatingly beautiful to witness.

In stark contrast, the moments where he faces cruelty, mockery, exploitation, or even outright physical abuse, feel like having your heart torn out. Few films provoke such a visceral reaction. The makeup design only amplifies this, standing out as a highly accurate representation of Joseph Merrick’s visage, as confirmed by photographs of the real man.

John Morris’s score is equally vital to the film’s impact. Its whimsical refrains and dizzying circus motifs create an atmosphere that feels like classic cinema. Paired with the black-and-white cinematography, it tricks the viewer into believing the film was made decades earlier. Without Anthony Hopkins anchoring it, you might mistake it for a film from the 1930s rather than 1980. The result is timeless, closer in spirit to classic Hollywood than to anything else produced in the 1980s.

The film’s emotional grip only tightens as it builds to its climax: a bittersweet celebration of life, love, and song. By the time Adagio for Strings begins, perhaps its greatest use in any film, you are changed. Not dramatically, but in a subtle, undeniable way.

You’re touched by John Merrick. By his spirit, his story, and his heart.