I have to admit that in some ways, I feel a bit foolish and stumped by this self-imposed obligation to dedicated a blog post to the minute-long tape loop that is Six Men Getting Sick. It's an enigmatic, disturbing piece of work that would be easier to just skip over and move on to something more accessible and ordinary for my next review. But it's an important slice of surrealistic film, as it represents the earliest work of David Lynch in that medium, and the truth is, the more deeply I stare into this alienating tableau, the more I'm intrigued and charmed by what I see there. The challenge is to come up with the right words, and to avoid over-analyzing the clip, which genuinely feels to me at least a decade ahead of its time in its transgressive sensibility. Watching it makes me feel emotions and think thoughts that are usually best left unexpressed.
The project was developed by Lynch when he was a 21 year old student at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts in 1967. He gives a brief but informative introduction to the film, included as a supplement on Criterion's Eraserhead disc (which I think was carried over from an earlier release of this and his other short subjects), attributing its origin to a desire to see his paintings move after experiencing the phenomenon when a brief gust of wind caused a canvas he was working on to ripple slightly. Pursuing this odd inspiration, he learned how to do stop-motion animation, and created a screen with three-dimensional properties upon which to project the image. That dimensionality consisted of a few plaster casts of his head that were affixed to the surface, giving the animation its focal point and providing its most compelling sense of presence: the human face, in various stages of physical distress and discomfort.
Through a process that seems like it might have been a peculiar blend of tedium and inspiration, Lynch proceeded to create his painting in stages over the course of a semester, producing award winning results in the school's art competition that spring as he took home the Dr. William S. Biddle Cadwalader Memorial Prize. The sequence must have been quite impressive to behold in person. Accompanied by a blaring siren loop sounding alarm and emergency, and following a "5 - 4 - 3 - 2 - 1" countdown (at that time so synonymous with the moments preceding a NASA rocket launch), a screen measuring ten feet wide and six feet high displayed the image of six heads who quickly get connected to stomachs drawn immediately below them. Some of the figures appear to be wearing suits, the others might be nude, but within a few seconds, they're all tucked in up their necks under a black cloak. Their hands emerge in gestures of self-defense, covering their faces against a threat they perceive (though we the spectators are not immediately aware of it.) A sudden flood of red overtakes them like a plague. They seem to drown in it, and their stomachs fill up with a mix of the crimson fluid and green bile. Their hands continue to flail about, shielding their faces, in shame perhaps, or in horror, then holding their stomachs as they feel a surge of nausea overtake them. Flames erupt above their heads, and a fuse is lit. The black blanket turns to a magenta hue, and a massive blast of vomit erupts from their mouths. It's Six Men Getting Sick, and it's hard for me to turn away my eyes.
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