We often assume that great art starts with a clear, essential vision.
Sure, details shift and evolve over time — art is always iterative. But for something truly great, there must be an essence in place before the first stone is laid. A soul, a daemon, an orbiting force for all the little imperfections that get smoothed out along the way.
“The sculpture is already complete within the marble block, before I start my work,” said Michelangelo. “I just have to chisel away the superfluous material.”
Take Breaking Bad. Originally, Jesse was supposed to die at the end of Season 1— until Vince Gilligan realized that his relationship with Walt was one of the most compelling parts of the show. Keeping Jesse alive completely altered the trajectory of the series. But, despite this change, the show’s essence — “From Mr. Chips to Scarface,” — was there from the beginning.
But it’s not always this way.
The late David Lynch’s Mulholland Drive is widely regarded as one of the greatest films of the 21st century.
Here’s the strange part. It was originally conceived and filmed as a TV pilot for ABC. The network initially approved the script, only to reject the final project, leaving the project in limbo. 18 months later, Studio Canal stepped in with a few million to turn it into a feature film.
Lynch wrote and filmed an entirely new third act, one which completely recontextualized the first two, and the Mulholland Drive we know today was born.
This is really weird. The pressures of TV writing — open-ended storylines and character arcs designed to sustain multiple episodes — fundamentally differ from the self-contained demands of film, where resolution is key. Retrofitting material into a new conclusion is often a recipe for disaster (see Spectre’s attempts to co-opt the villains of the previous Daniel Craig Bond films).
But for Lynch, it worked. In fact, as anyone who has seen the film can attest, it worked perfectly. The finished film feels so cohesive, and the third act so cosmically perfect, that it seems unimaginable that the opening two acts were written without an ending in mind.
Here’s Lynch on how he wrote the ending — possibly the most Lynchian quote ever:
“Since this started out to be a television pilot which doesn't have an ending, an ending had to come somehow. And I didn't have any ideas for this ending. And one night, I sat down in a chair, and I closed my eyes, and ideas came. It's all ideas. So, the ideas came, and then I knew what it was. Now, these ideas that came, weren't just for the ending. They were for the beginning and the middle and the end, a whole shifting. Then we went back and shot for several more weeks to finish the film that needed an ending because it was not a TV show anymore. But ideas came one night, from 6:30 to 7:00, in they came."
Seemingly dead projects can rise again in new forms.
Flipside — the film we (Infinite Films) produced last year — explores exactly this idea, with director Chris Wilcha repurposing a career’s worth of creative failures into something new and triumphant.
This happens everywhere, not just in art. Slack began as an internal chat tool for a failing game company. Twitter emerged from the ashes of a podcasting startup.
A project that seems lost isn’t always dead. Even if you have no idea where you’re headed, give it time— the ideas will come.
If you enjoyed this, check out last week’s installment: The Creativity Diaries #1: Alfred Hitchcock
