David Lynch (1946-2025)

        You can only begin something like this with the bumble acknowledgment that you always knew this day would come. Last year it was announced that David Lynch had emphysema and had all but retired from directing. Yet, the reason why you were forgiven for thinking this day wouldn't happen is that Lynch almost immediately shot back when that news leaked that he will never retire and entertained the idea of shooting remotely for the first time. You believed (and were probably correct) that he would be creating up until he stopped breathing. Whether it was film, painting, making a cardboard barn with his daughter's class during COVID or just simply observing the weather, you assumed that Lynch would always be cooking something creative up in that beautiful mind of his. 

My first knowledge of a Lynch movie was Dune, his fascinating failure of an attempt to mediate between a large studio genre film and an "un-filmable" sci fi text. I still have action figures of Sting and Everett McGill. I didn't see it in the movies but when it was finally available at home (I think I saw it HBO) I tried watching it and fell asleep, several times. I've come to love Lynch's Dune (even if Lynch himself never warmed up to it) but it is/was hardly the film to cement a life-long love to Lynch's films. I was 14 when Blue Velvet was released. My father, who never had an appropriate understanding of what films would be good at which age, recommended I watch it (much like the father in Noah Baumbach's The Squid and the Whale) with the caveat that I not tell my mother. To be honest, besides certain scenes (Dean Stockwell lip syncing to "In Dreams," the closet/rape scene, the ear and ants) the film didn't make a dramatic impression upon me the way David Foster Wallace writes about how it made an impression upon him and all his friends. I was too young and, though I don't often talk about films this way, the film was too adult for me at 14. 

Twin Peaks (as evidenced by the theme of this blog) is my favorite Lynch. Specifically, Twin Peaks: The Return is my favorite Lynch. The title of this blog "A Nest to Ease Our Suffering" comes from Michel Chion's book on David Lynch, describing the town of Twin Peaks as well as the series Twin Peaks. As I've said before, Twin Peaks is more than two TV shows and movie, it's a cosmology. It puts forth an ethics about the universe and the people who find themselves there. You can think of the cosmology in literal terms within Twin Peaks: the White Lodge, the Black Lodge, the Woodsmen, the owls, the aliens...all of the metaphysical beings who inhabit our world. Yet, the cosmology actually resides in the aforementioned ethical stance: as dark as things get, and they sure get dark in Twin Peaks, there's never the absence of light. That lightness often comes from a sense of community, however, most importantly, that lightness comes from love. Laura Palmer represents that symbol of love not because she's good or moral but because the world has broken her as a result of its own brokenness. That's why the ending of Twin Peaks: the Return seems so dark: Dale Cooper can't allow Laura's brokenness to be redeemed by simply being acknowledged (literally by an angel at the end of Fire Walk With Me). Special Agent Cooper must use the force of the law to retroactively stop the crime from ever having taken place. But, as Lynch seems to be asking, which crime? Laura's appearance first comes with the spectral horror of nuclear war. Bob is belched out of an evil monstrosity created by the bomb. Laura is the counterbalance to that destruction.

During Twin Peaks run Wild At Heart  was released in theaters. I saw it multiple times in the cineplex. One time I brought an exchange student who was staying with me as well as my friend Dave and his exchange student. That wasn't a good idea. To be honest, in retrospect, Wild At Heart is one of my least favorite Lynch movies. Between some of the more familiar motifs of Twin Peaks, ubiquitous after its surprise popularity, and the lurid moments of Wild at Heart, a Lynchian style took hold. In the process of writing this remembrance I bought, and then subsequently watched, Wild at Heart on Blu-Ray. My opinion of the film has changed. Yes, the first half is fueled by cars, sex, lurid noirs and giallo bloodshed. The second half, however, is a deeply sad film for most of its run. Like Eraserhead, its sadness comes from the main male character's realization that he's brought life into the world and is deeply afraid that he won't succeed in caring for this new life. The sadness in Wild at Heart also comes from Laura Dern's character Lula, not just if she will be a good mother--not make the mistakes her own mother has and continues to make--but whether Sailor will be able to see himself as a good father and consistent companion. The happy ending, which is not in the original novel, is literally a deus ex machina: Glenda the good witch (played by Lynch's avatar of redemptive love, Sherryl Lee) has come down to earth in order to tell Sailor to fight for love.

I, like so many others initially, had a mixed feeling about the second season of Twin Peaks on ABC (obviously I have changed my mind about this) and, like so many others, was confused, insulted and inspired by the season two finale. When Fire Walk With Me was released in the theaters, I went to see it three times on the opening weekend. That's the other thing about Lynch movies: because I knew movies such as Lynch's don't come around to the cineplex that often, I would try to see them in the theaters as many times as possible. I still do this at my local AMC whenever something like Crimes of the Future or Beau Is Afraid shows up: I want to see these visions at the size the filmmakers intended, while demonstrating to the corporate gods at AMC that people will go see these films if they put them in their theaters. Fire Walk With Me is a difficult movie to write about. As a Twin Peaks fan I'd be lying if I didn't say I was disappointed with the film when it was released. The pre-Laura Palmer stuff in the movie seemed to be the ultimate version of Lynch the hermetic filmmaker: the lady in the red dress at the beginning (my sister's girl) was the embodiment of Lynch's obstinacy in refusing to decipher his films and TV episodes for an increasingly hostile audience, all with a wink to the camera. The spirits weren't contained to just Bob, Mike and the arm: now there was a whole room above a convenience store where apparently a whole community of evil spirits lived. David Bowie had a southern accent. Kyle MacLachlan seemed completely done with the character of Agent Cooper (which he was) and the whole thing seemed desultory. The Laura Palmer sections, despite being brilliantly acted by the original Twin Peaks cast (mostly), seemed exploitative. Things that were hinted at in the television show could now be represented in an R-rated film. Since Lynch oftentimes reminds me of Hitchcock, Fire Walk With Me felt like Hitchcock's Frenzy, Hitch's attempt at an X rated film. I find Frenzy to be ugly and unpleasant, and I felt similarly about Fire Walk With Me for a long time. I feel differently now, but I will probably save that for another entry on that film itself. 

When Lost Highway came out in the theaters I saw it six times instead of three. Recently re-watching Wild at Heart I couldn't help but see Lost Highway as a sequel of sorts: Barry Gifford wrote the novel Wild at Heart is based upon and co-wrote the screenplay for Lost Highway with Lynch. Imagine Sailor and Lula, seven years later, no longer young, infatuated with one another and running from Lula's mother, rather middle-aged, unhappy and running from their own identities. Lost Highway is a film I will write about separately, however I will just say that there are times when I think the first fifty or so minutes of this film might be the best thing Lynch has done (full disclosure: I also feel this way about the pilot and second season premier of Twin Peaks, the final third of Mulholland Drive as well as the eighth episode of Twin Peaks: the Return). The rest of the film, ultimately, not so much. I think of all of Lynch's films, Lost Highway seems the most dated. This isn't necessarily a critique: I think a lot of the contemporary landscape (both in terms of film and the culture at large) Lost Highway is reflecting only became dominant because of Lynch's influence in the late 1980s and early 1990s. Yet, there's something about the use of music (a sometimes amazing soundtrack to be sure), snuff films, arguments over traffic laws, Marilyn Manson, Balthazar Getty, etc that seems so indebted to an in an idea of transgression that marks the 90s.

I saw Mulholland Drive in Berlin which was too perfect and at the end of the film someone in the audience whispered "silencio" after the film ended because we were all silent after what we had just seen. If Twin Peaks: the Return isn't a film (I think it is but I'm not doctrinaire about it) then Mulholland Drive is Lynch's best film. I only saw it once in the movie theaters because of both geographically and emotionally where I was in my life. I was living with my partner at the time in Berlin, thus making the sell of seeing the film multiple times in the movie theater a harder sell. I have seen it many times after at home. It's a film that only gets deeper with each re-watch. It's both the culmination of any number of things which Lynch has been obsessed with over the years (sexuality, identity, Hollywood, noir, fantasy's dominance over reality until it ends) as well as a new examination of why these things capture both him and the viewer. 

There isn't much after that: I never got to see Inland Empire in a movie theater: it played on night in Rochester, New York at the Dryden Theater at the Eastman Museum, but I had a sick newborn and was pretty much housebound. I eventually bought the DVD the day it was released, but the film never really made a deep impression on me. It's a brilliant display of Laura Dern's generational acting talent, as well as a fascinating example of a director willfully making his film look ugly, but of all of Lynch's films Inland Empire seems abstract and disjointed: ideas for another, more coherent, film (which, to be fair, is also kind of the plot of the film itself). The announcement that there would be another season of Twin Peaks brought exultation and fear. Why would Lynch, who always seemed to be moving forward, return to Twin Peaks again. Because this was a peak time for various companies to revive profitable intellectual properties, there was a fear that Lynch was trying to get some richly deserved capital from all that he had given the television landscape (especially in the era of streaming). Would Twin Peaks: the Return just plop us down in front of re-heated cherry pie and coffee? Was I genuinely excited for this? Did I want Lynch spending his dwindling productive years making 17 hours of Twin Peaks? 

I, of course, should not have doubted Lynch's reasons for doing The Return. I think The Return is a summation of his life's work in film. There are images, like shaky stars filmed on a black background to simulate falling through reality itself, that show up both in Lynch's first proper short film the Grandmother as well as The Return. The aforementioned eighth episode can be seen both as a representation of the creation of good and evil in Twin Peaks and Twin Peaks while also being a representation of the creation of good and evil in a post-WWII world. Once we created weapons which could kill 10,000s of people at once, a deep spiritual crisis was engendered, with the children born after that event (like Lynch himself) forced to swallow (literally) the unholy monsters birthed from the post-war dream of reason. The ending of The Return is (now literally) Lynch's final statement on his most beloved characters: Dale Cooper and Laura Palmer. Of course, this being Lynch and identity being mutable in his universe, Dale isn't Dale and Laura isn't Laura. It doesn't matter, though. Change the names, the surroundings, the stories and these are still our special agent and dear Laura being saved from the jaws of whatever darkness calls out from the void. Yet, this time, the void is in Dale. He's the one leading this new Laura to another uncertain destruction. But, like a person at the end of his life suffering from dementia and memory loss, Dale can't be certain what year it is. And when our moral compass, the gravitational pull of everything that's right and good in Twin Peaks is so uncertain as to be unmoored from time, space and any connections and responsibilities contained therein, becomes the void itself, no amount of praying to our special agent in the land of the one eyed jack is going to matter. 

And, yet, that wasn't David Lynch's last statement. There apparently is a Netflix short movie where he argues with a monkey that was filmed after The Return? And, of course, there are the copious youtube videos he made over the last decade, the most famous of which are his weather reports. There were also music recommendations, arts and crafts and just general words of encouragement often in very difficult times. If Lynch's films and television shows were accused of being hermetic and difficult, these little videos from Lynch's corner of the world were the opposite: open and inviting, marveling at the simplest experiences and ideas. He also wrote a big memoir which I still haven't gotten to yet. It will be the first book I read when I move into my new place. Lynch also became a bit of a meme generator. One of my favorites is Lynch explaining that he's just eaten two cookies and drank a coke and the final frame of the meme has Lynch just staring off into the distance, wondering, marveling at the fact that he was able to exist at the same moment cookies and cokes and Bob's Big Boy and diner coffee and cherry pie and the mysteries of love and the Platters and Otis Redding singing "I've Been Loving You Too Long" and Elvis and Jack Nance and Laura Dern and Kyle MacLaughlin and Dennis Hopper and Roy Orbison and Chris Issac and transcendental meditation and so many other things. And we were able to exist at the same moment as David Lynch. Wow. 

Perspicacity, Season Two, Episode Five

Perspicacity is the ability (faculty, power, Kraft) to mentally understand clearly. For example, "Leo Johnson doesn't currently even have the perspicacity to take the standard CST competency test." Therefore, Leo Johnson doesn't have the mental clarity to take a competency test. Perspicacity is a weird word to use in this context, but, within the context of Twin Peaks and Twin Peaks, it isn't unwarranted. Perspicacity moves beyond simply grasping something, suggesting, in its etymology, having an insight into something. From what we've seen of Leo Johnson, it's questionable that, being comatose notwithstanding, he would have the perspicacity to assess anything. Renè Descares in his Regulæ ad directionem ingenii states: "We should totally focus the vision of the natural intelligence on the smallest and easiest things, and we should dwell on them for a long time, so long, until we have become accustomed to intuiting the truth distinctly and perspicaciously." Perspicacity is linked with intuition (German Anschauung) that there is the act of seeing, of observing, yet there is also a concomitant act of intuiting, of obtaining knowledge independent of seeing, looking. This is different than simply looking at something to deduce information, this is the act of intuiting something only through perception beyond the eyes, looking within for knowledge and truth.

The idea of being able to intuit something beyond sight is a recurrent theme in Twin Peaks (think of Cooper's "Buddhist" method of discerning the killer in episode three, season one), as well as the idea of sight and perception being a mis-perception ("the owls are not what they seem"). The episode begins with the tension between seeing and perceiving: Cooper, while upside down, is able to find Audrey's letter letting him know she's being held captive at One Eyed Jacks.  It's only when he is able to see the world anew (upside-down) while doing his "yogic practice" that he has the perspicacity to discern the letter. It's been hiding in plain sight since the end of season one, but its only with a change of perspective (tricking the eyes into seeing the world reversed) that it could be discovered. 

The word perspicacity is introduced in the episode during the double-header criminal hearings taking place at the Roadhouse. We have already been introduced to the judge and his administrative assistant in the previous episode. The first hearing involves whether or not Leland will have bail set before his trial for the murder of Jacques Renault. This doesn't require any perspicacity on anyone's part: Leland has confessed to the murder and will most likely be released before trial because, as Sheriff Truman points out in Leland's defense, he's a well liked member of the Twin Peaks community who just suffered the trauma of his daughter's murder. There is, of course, another layer of perspicacity that has not been utilized insofar as Leland, like the owls, isn't what he seems. Once again, kudos to Ray Wise who, upon hearing the judges verdict that he will be released on his own recognizance, gives the audience a perfectly psychotic Leland/Bob smile. No one there has the perspicacity to see who Leland really is at this point. 

The second hearing involves Leo Johnson's capacity to stand trial for the murder of Leland's daughter Laura Palmer. Leo is then currently in a coma, in the process of being exploited by his wife and her boyfriend for insurance money (there is a scene involving Shelly, Bobby and Mr, Pinkel (sp ?), played beautifully by the late, great David Lander (aka Squiggy from Laverne and Shirley)) and the idea that anyone might think him competent to stand trial, perspicacity or not, seems unbelievable. The character who utters the world perspicacity is Leo's lawyer, Jack Racine, played by Van Dyke Parks. Van Dyke Parks isn't really an actor, he started his career in Hollywood as a child actor but, if he's known at all, he's known as a songwriter and producer, most famously working with Brian Wilson and the Beach Boys on the unreleased album Smile, as well as releasing a number of records under his own name. Parks gave Wilson and the rest of the Beach Boys, with Smile, a perspicacity to understand what their band was doing to uphold a certain idea of post-war American culture. I won't get into the essential complexity that is the Beach Boys here, however, Parks arrival as their de-facto songwriter changed their music fundamentally. The pre-Pet Sounds albums, more or less, embodied a post-war optimism replete with symbols representing materially that optimism: cars, bikinis, root beer, surfing, unlimited capital and fun, fun, fun until...well, you know.

Pet Sounds, one of the greatest albums ever recorded, was the result of a very perceptive man in his early 20s asking whether those material pleasures were enough to sustain him. Physical and emotional unguardedness could not be purchased at the car dealership, nor at the root beer stand. The metaphysical certainty of someone being there for you wasn't as sure as the warmth of the sun, the speed of your little Honda, the visual pleasure of California girls. Such metaphysical crises usually lead to drug use, the initial high of perceiving good vibrations everywhere, only to be let down by the limitations of such vibrations. Interestingly, as Brian Wilson was coming down, he partnered with a lyricist who had his own ideas of how to make the most American of post-war bands allow a crack in their particular image. The main refrain of "Heroes and Villains" is "Heroes and villains/ just see what you've done." Within the context of the song, the only evidence we have for what they've done is murder an "innocent girl" from "the Spanish and Indian home" in a "rain of [...] bullets" that "eventually brought her down." 

Van Dyke Parks' father, Richard Hill Parks, was the chief psychiatric officer in the Dachau Liberation Reprisals (the same camp where my grandparents were liberated), responsible, one assumes, for psychologically assessing the allied soldiers who killed fifty to seventy SS guards after the liberation of the Dachau concentration camp. Based on the lyrics he gave to Wilson for "Heroes and Villains" as well as lyrics on his own solo albums, there's a transglobal and trans-historical fascination with the colonial and genocidal events of both the 19th and 20th centuries. The law and reconning Parks' character is confronting in Twin Peaks isn't so lofty nor impactful, yet contains a kernel of the larger questions of law and vengeance echoed in the far greater crimes we've historically committed. Regardless of how we feel about Leo Johnson (the drinker, the abuser, the rapist, the hit man) there's a violation of basic human law in forcing a comatose man to stand trial for a crime he may or may not have committed. 

Within the episode what is the district attorney's rejoinder to this argument? "The trial does more than punish the wrong doing, it also brings a feeling of justice and retribution to the community. The murder of Laura Palmer is the sort that can wound an entire town." Independent of the individual's right to be spared perceived justice because of his perspicacity (here to mean whether or not he's conscious or unconscious), the collective need for punishment and retribution takes precedence over whatever individual right the accused may have. The social cohesion of Twin Peaks requires a scape goat (here literally because, regardless of what one feels about Leo, he is innocent of Laura's murder) so that the town can heal. The one figure we haven't discussed yet is the judge who, without a jury to offer a verdict, must be both the conduit of law as well as the community (of which, it should be noted, he is not even part). Here's where perspicacity comes into play again: the judge, in his deliberations, merely confers with Cooper and Truman to reach his verdict. No evidence is presented in either case: there's no question that Leland killed Renault and, therefore, the question is merely whether or not Leland is trustworthy as well as important enough to the community to be released before trial. In Leo's case, they're not assessing any evidence presented before them (although Cooper, the character who places the greatest faith in perspicacity, assures the judge that Leo is not the killer), rather whether Leo has perspicacity enough to begin the process to assess this evidence. 

Interestingly, the judge himself asks the sheriff for "the temperature of the town" in assessing his verdict. Truman, who, perhaps even more than FBI agent Dale Cooper represents that which is "most just," tells the judge that while the town is shook, it wants "the right man" to be charged with Laura's murder. Punishment is always spectacular (the "spek-" of spectacular is etymologically related to the "spic-" of perspicacity), but why? It's spectacular to remind the citizen (in the town, in the city, in Twin Peaks) what measures will be taken for transgression. It also is spectacular to create a sense of who is outside the community itself. The judge, he who must ultimately be blind and/or as objective as a properly calibrated scale, first asks the police what the "feeling" of the town is like. No judicial verdicts can be rendered objectively without first assessing that the very non-objective community of others think. Not that Harry Truman would say this, but what if he had told the judge the town was at a breaking point? That they absolutely needed a responsible party for Laura Palmer's murder? Would the judge have determined that Leo in a coma should stand trial? 

This isn't the only point in the episode in which the "town" must become a metaphor, a placeholder for some other discourse. Later on we see Deputy Andy on the phone with the doctor's office finding out that while he previously had a low sperm count, he now has brought his sperm count up to a "normal" amount. Andy, who isn't particularly blessed with perspicacity, doesn't understand what the doctor is telling him so the doctor's office offers the following metaphor: "before you were three men in a fishing boat, now you are a whole town!" The town is sacrosanct: a metaphor beyond all metaphors. It represents, in one scene, the ultimate arbiter of justice mediated through the law. In another scene it represents potency, procreation, the survival of the species (it's hinted, though not made explicit, that Lucy, Andy's long-standing romantic interest, has lied about visiting her sister and has, rather, sought an abortion for a child who may or may not be Andy's...this is a soap opera after all). In a show entitled Twin Peaks, the town is a fundamental metaphor, a metaphorology, in which all things related to the reality of the show may be subsumed. I think the appearance of Van Dyke Parks and his thorny, dark understanding of the "American dream," suggests that everyone involved in Twin Peaks may not romanticize the town as much as everyone involved in Twin Peaks does. 

Odds & Endings

Quick note: Before I jump back into my episode by episode discussion of Twin Peak's second season (episode watched and notes taken!) I wanted to post a mix of Twin Peaks related writing I somehow did in the last couple of years (I genuinely have no memory of writing these notes), focusing on a number of things related both to the Return, the series as a whole and David Lynch's other films (specifically, Inland Empire). Since Lynch has suggested that he can only direct remotely (if it all), it seems like a good time to assess Twin Peaks within the larger context of his work. It seems more likely than ever that Twin Peaks will be considered his major, career spanning work that offers a Lynchian cosmology of our universe (as understood by one very creative subject). Hope you enjoy these little reflections. 

The Final Scene of Twin Peaks the Return and Late Style 

The final images we have of the town Twin Peaks (one of the most iconic locales ever to have been on television) are crushing in their banality. It shows the viewer a perspective of the town never seen before: entering over a rickety bridge—perhaps the same bridge that Ronette Pulaski walked across in the pilot episode—a car approaches a cross-street that might be located anywhere in suburban America. Gone are the waterfalls, the fog enshrined Great Northern Hotel, the humble yet iconic Sheriffs’ Station. Gone too are the haunting images of everyday objects swaying ominously in the breeze: the stop light, the trees. As the car finally reaches its destination, we’ve seen that particular street before: it’s the street where the Palmers’ house is located. But even here something is off, flat: the house which had provided so much of the horror of the series (both inside and out) looks positively dull in its suburban street lighting. 

Even the two figures who emerge from the car are both (possibly) literally and (at least)  figuratively different from the characters we have come to know and care about greatly: Dale Cooper (who may also not be Dale Cooper but “Richard”) and Laura Palmer (who is named Carrie Page) are returning to the Palmer house to reunite Laura and her mother. However, as we have known throughout the entire series, these iconic figures are older, more tired and more uprooted than their original incarnations. The context of this final scene, in which Twin Peaks looks nothing like the Twin Peaks we’ve come to know, the natural aging of the actors’ bodies and faces conveys how lost they are. Laura isn’t Laura, the Palmer house isn’t the Palmer house and, in a very real sense, none of the characters can go home again. What makes this tragic ending especially poignant is that Kyle MacLachlan (who gives the performance of his career) continues to play Cooper as if we were back in season one. He’s so certain of his plan to restore the order caused by Laura’s murder 25 years earlier, that you can see the pain of realization on his face as he slowly becomes aware that Sarah Palmer no longer lives at the house and might never have lived there. Of course, Lynch being Lynch, he can’t leave Twin Peaks (or Twin Peaks) in such a depressingly ordinary predicament: a voice inside the house (most likely Sarah’s) yells “Laura” and Sheryl Lee (as Carrie Page) looks up and screams in familiar Laura Palmer fashion. Just then all the lights go off in the house and the improbable third, and possibly final, season of Twin Peaks is over.

Deus ex ibis notwithstanding, the final scenes in the town of Twin Peaks are part of a larger thematic within the show: the passage of time and mortality. There are many long-dead characters that haunt Twin Peaks: the Return: Bob (Frank Silva, who passed away shortly after the original series); Major Briggs (who also passed away long ago); Pete Martel (Lynch’s long-time friend and collaborator Jack Nance). There are also the haunting figures within the series who are visibly ill and passed away shortly after the production was finished: Albert (Miguel Ferrer, who passed away from cancer) and the Log Lady (Catherine Coulson, who appears to have filmed her scenes while undergoing treatment). The Log Lady’s death is dealt with in the plot itself, in what turns out to be the most moving sequence of the third season. There is also the very large specter of Phillip Jeffries that haunts the whole series. Jeffries was played in Fire Walk With Me by David Bowie, and by all accounts David Bowie had planned to appear in some of the series. Sadly, Bowie passed away before his part could be filmed, but his very absence in the series mimics his very real absence in the larger cultural landscape. And I can’t help but think that Bowie would have been amused to see Lynch turn him into an industrial sized kettle. 

So, why does Lynch end Twin Peaks this way? After finishing the final hour last night, I couldn’t help but turn to the notion of late style that first Theodore Adorno and then Edward Said addressed in their work. David Lynch is 71 years old. He certainly has many more years in which he can continue to make films and tv series. Louis Bunuel, arguably Lynch’s favorite filmmaker, would make two of his greatest films after 71: The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoise and The Obscure Object of Desire; Hitchcock, another influence on Lynch’s style, made Frenzy at the age of 73. Even Billy Wilder, whose Sunset Boulevard plays an essential role in the plot of the third season, made several films after the age of 71 and had expressed a desire to make films up until his death in 2002. Yet, Lynch mentioned in the publicity leading up to the start of the third season that not only would this be his last return to Twin Peaks, but that this might be his last filmed project. After the warm reception he received for the third season, Lynch has been walking back some of those comments, even suggesting that he might be up for a forth season. However, this means little for the third season itself: regardless of what goes on after the lights go off in the Palmer house, the landscape of Twin Peaks has forever altered. The two most important characters of the show, Laura and Dale, are nothing more than the walking dead at this point. Lost on a suburban street that neither one really recognizes (and it, by extension, doesn’t recognize them either), they are completely out of their context and the context of the show. If the register of the phrase “the owls are not what they seem” for most of the show’s run suggested mystery and metaphysics, the play that comes with the mythological and the animal, by the end of the series “the owls are not what they seem” seems like an all-too-human fact of dissimulation than the play of the divine. In which case, the owl’s not being what they seem appears more appropriate for the register of anxiety than wonder. 

In discussing the idea of late style in the third season of Twin Peaks two quotations come to mind from Adorno and Said respectively: "The maturity of the late works of major artists does not resemble the ripeness of fruit. They are commonly not round but furrowed or even torn. They often lack sweetness, and their bristly, austere husk resists straightforward tasting. They do not possess the harmony that a neoclassical aesthetics is wont to demand from art. They exhibit more of history than of growth." (Adorno, “Beethoven’s Late Style” 293) 

Compare this passage to the following passage in Said’s late style book: "Each of us can readily supply evidence of how it is that late works crown a life time of aesthetic endeavor…[b]ut what of artists lateness not as harmony and resolution but as intransigence, difficulty, and unresolved contradiction? What if age and ill health don’t produce the serenity of ‘ripeness is all'?" (Said, 7)

The difficulty in applying Adorno and Said’s category of “late style” on Lynch is the question whether or not one can apply the categories of “harmony,” “resolution” or “straightforwardness” to Lynch’s work (the way one could to the distinction between Beethoven’s fifth symphony and the late string quartets, for example). Thus, the question would be, would the category of late style apply either to all of his work (thus rendering the temporal “late” in late style meaningless for Lynch) or none of it. 

Yet, if there is a late style in Lynch, it has become discernible in his recent works. Inland Empire, the last “film” Lynch directed, certainly seemed to be a change. Even Lynch’s most non-narrative works, perhaps most recognizably Eraserhead, flirt with an internal narrative logic. We could summarize Eraserhead as the story of a young man who accidentally becomes a father and then has to live with the anxiety that comes with this role. And, indeed, cataloguing all of Lynch’s other films, they all could be easily summed up by their plots, regardless of how inessential those plots might ultimately be to the overall feel of the film. Inland Empire was different insofar as Lynch himself didn’t really know where the film was going, wrote scenes shortly before they were shot and interpolated scenes from other, extant works (the rabbit sections) into the ongoing film. The result is Lynch’s most disjointed film to date, a sequence of disassociated dream-like scenarios, all anchored by Laura Dern’s heroic performance. From the perspective of late work, however, Inland Empire seems to be an exemplary film, grasping for an “objective” plot that would put all the pieces together. 

In many ways, it presages Twin Peaks: the Return.  

“Through the darkness of future past…” 

I’ve been thinking a lot about the opening line to the poem that gets endlessly repeated throughout the show. It’s linguistically knottier than it first appears: through the darkness of future seems understandable enough—the opacity of being able to see future events—the addition of past at the end throws us off temporally. What is a future past? Is it something like the future perfect tense? Something that will have happened? As in: in 25 years Dale Cooper will have been sitting in the Black Lodge for a long time. If you watch the international version of the pilot you will see the subtitle “25 years later” before the start of the pilot’s end, what will eventually be the ending of episode 2 (the dream sequence). So, in a sense, Twin Peaks already starts off in the future perfect tense. However, even if you see the sequence within the context of episode 2 you will already notice that Dale Cooper looks much older. So we’ve always been given glimpses of a future that is already past (especially if you consider the ending to somehow be before the beginning (“what year is it?”).  Think about Nadine Hurley waking up from a coma and believing herself to be 16 again. Think about that transformation within the context of the story Ed tells of their honeymoon, when he shot her eye out hunting. Nadine will have already been a one-eyed 16 year old, eyeless from a honeymoon she will have already taken but will have no memory of.

Final episode rewatch in 2021 thoughts: 

The tension between narrative closure (the scene in the sheriff’s office) and desire. Subjective desire is at odds with narrative closure, this has always been one of the central points of Twin Peaks: Lynch had little interest in solving the murder of the first series. 

Moving out from that: there is a structural similarity between Twin Peaks and Lacan's Seminar XI—we can intellectually understand something like Spinoza’s universe, a totality. The “meaning” of the world—even something as abstract and allegorical as the white lodge/black lodge, Bob, the Fireman, Judy, etc.—can be grasped cognitively, yet not subjectively. Desire trumps understanding. You can even show how that very subjective identity is tenuous at best (“I, he, it—or thing that thinks,” Richard/Linda/Dale/Dianne etc.) and the residual desire of the subject remains (the möbius strip?) 

This is the scene in the sheriff’s station: as the narrative literally wraps up—Dale Cooper’s announcement “I hope to see all of you again!”—the camera pauses on Cooper’s recognition of Dianne, triggering a superimposition of Cooper’s face over what ought to have been the ending of the Mr. C/Cooper/Bob story. This residual image of another story remaining as the main narrative moves towards its end is both ghostly (Cooper’s face haunts the actions in the frame) as well as a very much material hinderance in being able to make sense of what’s going on.

The viewer understands this imposition as the imposition of desire onto the plot. Desire is that—like the blue rose—cannot be realized because of its imaginary nature. The plot of Twin Peaks attempts to become broader as it moves forward: the penultimate episode reaches a kind of metaphysical peak with the introduction of Jowday, as an ultimate “evil” that feasts on human unhappiness. While it would appear that this metaphysical entity cannot be represented other than through allegory, Jowday seems to be represented most plainly in the eighth hour with the detonation of the hydrogen bomb. 

Yet, as the story of Twin Peaks seems to deal with the previous “ultimate evil” of Bob, this metaphysical battle is interrupted by the much more physical/psychological topography of desire. We may seek the completed hermeneutics of monism, but we live in the world of human desire. 

Are we back at the beginning of Freud's Civilization and Its Discontents? Yes, but with a modification offered by Lacan: we may very well live in a world with metaphysical entities like Jowday, Bob, the Fireman (really a stand in for gods, goddesses, angels, etc), but human desire—and under the rubric of desire we might be able to include the phrase “the past dictates the future”—makes such understanding impossible. 

Metaphysics collapsed in the subjective unconscious. The thing that metaphysics and psychoanalysis have in common is that “we live in a dream” as constitutive. We are not who we think we are and reality is not what we think it is. 

Just want to point out that all those scenes of Major Briggs talking to Bobby, all those scenes of Albert telling Sheriff Truman about his path...that's season two. That's what you're arguing is inferior. It's time for me to return to this space. It's time for me to set the record straight. 

What Year Is It?

Publishing this on the 31st anniversary of the Twin Peaks premier on ABC.

Sorry for the long delay in getting this out. Pandemic, moving, life and whatnot.

Speaking of moving, I was in going through a stack of papers that I discovered this, the original impetus for starting the blog. In 2017, utterly confounded by Twin Peaks: the Return, I made this “timeline” to somehow figure it out. Looking at the timeline today, it’s more puzzling than the show it’s trying to describe. But, as a kind of reset before going forward, I thought it might be fun or helpful to try and explicate it for myself as much as for anyone else.

In order to begin, let’s start at the end (which seems appropriate for Twin Peaks). The entire series ends with the following line of dialogue (actually, the series ends with Laura Palmer’s iconic scream, but that is the beyond-meaning of which we cannot properly speak or interpret):

“What year is it?”

It’s a good question. In order to understand what year it is at the end of the series we have to map out what year it is when the series begins. So at the very top of the paper we have the irl years in which Twin Peaks has been broadcast, filmed, distributed, published and released (1991-2017). At the bottom of the page I have the years in which the narrative of Twin Peaks takes place. Two notes on this: one, and this will be important later on, there is one scene in Twin Peaks: the Return that takes place in 1945. This is significant and ought to be included in the narrative timeline of Twin Peaks, yet almost as a supplement. Two, as I mentioned in a previous blog post, I am not including any of the books in my analysis. I’m aware that Mark Frost starts his narrative with Louis & Clark. I will not be doing this. So, these two notes aside, the narrative of Twin Peaks begins with the murder of Theresa Banks in 1988 and ends in 2016.

Whereas the horizontal movement of the timeline is chronological, there are any number of points in the timeline that point to moments in the future and past constructing affinities and and loops within that timeline. For example, in the movie Fire Walk With Me, Laura Palmer has a dream wherein she sees Annie, trapped in the Black Lodge at the end of the original ABC series, lying next to her in bed, bloodied. Annie tells Laura that the good Dale is trapped in the Black Lodge. Of course, this is a warning regarding an event which, chronologically, has not happened yet. It’s a warning from the future, which constructs a temporal loop between that moment and a moment which takes place after the end of the series. That the circularity of the temporality shared by these dead and soon-to-die women at the hands of men is not insignificant.

Reading down the side of the timeline, on the left side there are color coded descriptors of each show or movie: red for Twin Peaks (ABC), Fire Walk With Me in aqua blue, and Twin Peaks: the Return in blue gray. Even clarifying which iteration of Twin Peaks corresponds to which part of the timeline can be tricky. Going back to the previous example: though the scene between Laura and Annie takes place in Fire Walk With Me before Laura Palmer’s murder—the animating event of the original series—it’s inexplicable without the events of the original series, therefore Fire Walk With Me’s narrative incorporates events from both before and after the original series.

What becomes more confusing, if we see all of Twin Peaks as a total work as it has recently been sold (interestingly titled Twin Peaks A-Z—a title that alludes to one of Lynch’s earliest short films the Alphabet), then scenes from Fire Walk With Me are repeated in Twin Peaks: the Return, but not as memories but as experiences that are happening simultaneously. So if you were to map out on a timeline when each of the films take place, you’d have something like: Fire Walk With Me depicts events before the ABC series, immediately after the ABC series—Mr. C has already escaped the Black Lodge—and events that are part of future events in The Return (after Cooper enters room 315).

Lest this appear as a magic trick Lynch imposes on Twin Peaks after the original series, it’s worth noting that the original series has a very similar moments of narrative and temporal disruption: In episode three, we see Cooper’s dream wherein we are told the events are taking place 25 years later. No one actually believed those events would be given a context twenty five years later…but 25 years later (both in the show’s time AND our time) we do see Cooper, much older, and Laura Palmer sitting in the Black Lodge. Much like the dream in Fire Walk With Me, events from the future are transmitted through dreams which create temporal loops. (In one of my favorite little details of the whole series early on The Return reiterates the scene in the Black Lodge with Laura whispering the name of her killer, again, in Cooper’s ear. Instead of boy scout like enthusiasm to be let in on the secret, this time the older Cooper, realizing he’s never getting out of the loop of dead Lauras whispering their horrible secrets in his ears, winces and seems genuinely disgusted at what she’s telling him).

Continuing along the left side of the page, there are three other color codings for the three television seasons of Twin Peaks (in this sense the movie doesn’t play a role). On the one hand, this ought to not play a role independent of the narrative presented. Occasionally TV series will go backward and forward in time (I’m thinking of Lost) from season to season, but Twin Peaks seems unique in that each season represents stylistic differences that actually do impact the temporality of the show. This is most obvious in the differences between the original ABC series and the Showtime reboot. But I would argue that even the stylistic differences between seasons one and two have an impact on the narrative.

The original eight episodes that comprise season one unfold with each episode representing one successive day after Laura Palmer’s murder. Other than the aforementioned dream which takes place in the future, one awkward flashback between James and Laura, and, of course, the videotaped picnic from one week earlier, all of the events in season one take place over the course of one week, plotting which serves the murder mystery element of the story well. People have praised the pacing of the first season and have attributed that to Lynch’s active involvement with the show. Yet, when Lynch had total control over the story in Fire Walk With Me and The Return, he leaned heavily on elements first introduced in the second season.

Though there are narrative elements and plotting similar to the first season, already in the first episode of the second season, the 24 hour day is stretched almost beyond recognition: the opening scene with Cooper and the Giant/old man is purposely interminable, with Lynch filming the “world’s most decrepit bellhop” in real time as he shuffles out of the room, down the hall, back down the hall to Cooper’s room, and finally back to the slowly bleeding Cooper, to whom the bell hop gives a thumbs up. It’s the appearance of these supernatural elements: the giant/Fireman, the old woman and her son, the owls, Leland’s white hair, Philip Gerard slipping into the synthesized voice of Mike to identify Bob—suggests that there is a temporality not of this world. These are some of the very excessive elements that turned off viewers and might have eventually gotten the creators to dismiss it. But the chronological temporality promised in the first season’s murder mystery story is undermined by the second season’s increasingly atemporal cosmology. Oddly, between the two seasons, it’s the second season that seem to most closely reflect Lynch’s interests in both the atemporality of the unconscious and the meditative mind.

Clearly, for anyone who’s watched the Return, the non-narrative style of the filmmaking coupled with an even more byzantine iteration of the cosmology already developed in the second season and the movie (along with its missing scenes) has a more direct impact on the narrative—or at least what one can discern from it. Or, to put it another way, the third season of Twin Peaks makes the first season look like Columbo. So, it is important for any analysis of the entirety of Twin Peaks not only treat the TV series and the film as two distinct entities, not only treat the ABC show and Showtime series as two distinct entities, but, I would argue, each season of the show and the movie must be seen as distinct entities as well. Hence the desire to write a blog about the second season.

Moving along horizontally again, I have placed a series of events from the story that are significant in linking to events that will happen or have happened in the narrative. Another note: when I constructed this timeline, I limited my rewatch to those episodes/movies directed by Lynch. Obviously, in my rewatch I’m watching all the episodes from season two, but there’s an argument to be made that the most significant events happen in his episodes and the larger cosmology is largely in place in all of Lynch’s episodes. One could argue that the animating event of the Twin Peaks narrative is the murder of Teresa Banks in 1988. It’s mentioned in the first episode of the ABC series and it’s depicted in the credit sequence of Fire Walk With Me. Her murder links to the murder of Laura Palmer at the end of Fire Walk With Me and the beginning of Twin Peaks. The murder scene at the end of Fire Walk With Me links with both Maddy’s murder in the middle of season two and the repeat of Laura’s murder at the end of the Return, with Cooper and Laura now looking on.

Moreover, the figures from the Black Lodge we see in Fire Walk With Me will appear again for the first time in episode three of the ABC series. So there is a second temporal loop set up between the emergence of the Black Lodge in the narrative around the time Theresa Banks is murdered, Cooper’s appearance in the Black Lodge after Laura is murdered in Fire Walk With Me, Annie’s warning to Laura that Cooper’s in the Black Lodge after the ABC finale, and the inexplicable fact that Cooper does not remember the Black Lodge after the dream in the third episode of the ABC series, as if he had never been there. Although no one is murdered (unless Annie is murdered and it’s her corpse that is speaking to Laura in Fire Walk With Me) in the final appearance of the Black Lodge in the ABC series, there is then a connection between the first emergence of the Black Lodge in Fire Walk With Me, the appearance of the Black Lodge in Cooper’s dream, its appearance in the ABC finale and then its reappearance in the Return 25 years later.  

One other significant event for the temporarily affecting the narrative of the show is the character of Philip Jeffries played by David Bowie. Though he only has a small role in the movie, he is a significant character in the overall cosmology, and reemerges in the Return as a piece of industrial machinery. Within Fire Walk With Me, however, Philip is the first character that seems caught in a temporal loop, which produces the first Doppelgänger—at least temporally, Cooper’s first Doppelgänger, Mr. C, had already emerged at the end of the ABC series—as one Philip passes under the security camera while the other enters Gordon Cole’s office.

There’s much to say about Laura Palmer’s murder: it is the impetus for the narrative from our temporal perspective (we, the viewers, don’t find out about Theresa Bank’s murder until Laura’s already dead), it is also the point in which our möbius strip folds in on itself. Laura’s murder is both has and, from the perspective of the Return’s ending, has not happened yet. It is also echoed, with explicit homage to Vertigo, in Maddy’s murder in the middle of the second season. Lynch uses the narrative device of the möbius strip in a number of his films: think of the “Dick Laurant is dead” moment from Lost Highway or Club Silencio from Mulholland Drive. It’s where the character we have been following sees or hears him or herself from the outside. Much like the non-Euclidean shape for which it is named, the ability of a person to see themselves from the outside is logically impossible, though, in one of the beautiful aspects of film, spatially it can be represented. Moreover, within the analogical world of Twin Peaks, I’m not certain that seeing yourself automatically results in a Doppelgänger. Rather, what is produced when the möbius strip of identity shows up in Lynch’s works, is a temporal disruption. It means the character or characters are about to experience their temporal loop again.

This temporal loop also applies to Cooper’s arrival in the town of Twin Peaks which occurs once at the beginning of the ABC series and then, again, at the end of the Return. It’s this temporal loop and the repetition of the murder and arrival in Twin Peaks that disjoins time for Cooper by the end (hence the initial “what year is it?” Question).

The final discreet event on the timeline I wish to address is Cooper’s original imprisonment in the Black Lodge at the end of the ABC series. Lynch has said in more than one interview that Cooper’s imprisonment in the Black Lodge was punishment not only for his character who had lost his way, but the creators and Lynch himself who felt that the original aim of the series had been lost. Of course, Cooper’s appearance in the Black Lodge at the end of the ABC series recalls his original visit to the BL in the series (episode 3’s dream) and will anticipate his various appearances in the BL in Fire Walk With Me (which take place prior to the events of the ABC series…you see how confusing this gets?) In both of those other instances, however, he seems to go in and out unless, as is suggested by the dream appearance in episode three, these are only glimpses into his 25 year imprisonment between 1991-2016. It’s significant that Cooper isn’t immediately released from the BL after 25 years but must stay there, reemerging in the world as both the fool and the devil. As the references to archetypes show, there is a greater emphasis on spirituality and growth—influenced by Lynch’s interest in TM no doubt—than the rather dark view of the original series and film. Dougie is a genuinely funny and moving character who is allowed the boring, joy filled familial life that Cooper claims to have wanted before entering the BL.

As for Cooper himself, he also continues on after the reemergence and defeat of Mr. C., but arguably has learned nothing from his imprisonment, because he continues down the same path of rescuing Laura from murder—an impossible task according to the laws of temporality. It may appear as if the möbius strip allows you a return to an event, but it’s only a single strip of time folding back in on itself. Laura will be murdered. You will fail to stop it. The only thing you will insure is that another girl gets murdered. What year is it?

More Abstract Stuff:

Above the timeline there are what I would call “modes” of reading. I think there are multiple and varied modes of reading and these are not the only ones. First, as is true with Lynch’s films in general and murder mysteries as well, psychoanalysis has proven an historically significant mode by which to interpret Twin Peaks. Leland Palmer and Cooper represent two forms of the father for Laura: Leland the perverse father who is ever present, violent and, by shedding his human skin when need to, omnipotent. He watches her when she doesn’t know and reads her diary when she isn’t home. Cooper represents the father as Law, as order and, throughout most of the ABC series and Fire Walk With Me, as a compassionate and empathetic father.

But Lynch, like Hitchcock before him, blurs the lines between the two fathers. Cooper pops open Laura’s diary in the pilot episode without a key. He gleefully inserts his tweezers into her dead, blue fingers. In his search for truth and justice, he interrogates  Ronette Pulaski just as she emerges from a coma and, most significantly, he can’t prevent women from dying every time he attempts the wrongs embodied by something as ineffable as the Black Lodge. We are conditioned by the narrative to see Leland Palmer, his daughter’s rapist and murderer, as a somewhat innocent victim of Bob’s manipulation only to be reminded that the real crime that he committed wasn’t enacted by a spirit. Whatever commitment Cooper holds to the Law cannot continue beyond the logic of cause and effect. When he emerges from the Black Lodge only to continue solving the murder of Laura Palmer—who isn’t even Laura Palmer any longer—the logic of the Law embodied by Agent Cooper breaks down.

This is where Morality, the mode of interpretation above psychoanalysis, comes in. This is not to suggest that psychoanalysis subscribes to a morality—psychoanalysis only asks for interpretation, understanding and hopefully something like normality for one’s life—but the psychoanalytic topography of the narrative (the crime of a father raping his daughter) suggests moral culpability and failure for the viewer. The Peyton Place-like narrative of a small town with secrets often of a sexual nature, mirrors the Freudian argument that coexisted along side of the repressive culture in 1950s America. Freud’s own thoughts about this repressive structure underlies his Civilization and Its Discontents among any number of other texts. We can also see this in the special agent who cannot recognize his own desires and flaws. While clearly not as culpable as the rapist father, nevertheless falls trap to his own moral failings. There is also the old psychoanalytic trope, represented by the double as well, of the face that the monster shows to the world and the interior life. Both Leland and Cooper show faces to the world that are at odds with the men they are interiorly and are judged accordingly.

Though Cooper is imprisoned at the beginning of Twin Peaks: the Return, much of the show follows another duplicate of Cooper—his Dreifachgänger—Dougie, whose simplicity, stupidity, but, as is evident in his interactions with his son and wife, deeply loving being, appears as the opposite of Cooper’s other duplicate, Mr. C. But Dougie is also different than Cooper himself: in a radical suggestion: it isn’t the FBI agent, on the side of the Law and “good,” who represents the Ethical side of the show. He even changes the hearts of the Vegas crime boss brothers, the Mitchum Brothers. He generously, if unknowingly, uses his magical powers to enrich others. He seems guileless and clueless as to the functioning of “good” and “evil,” unlike Cooper who, upon waking from his coma, proudly declares his continued allegiance to the FBI.

On the lower right side of the page, I have color coded some of the genre conventions the show exhibits even though, as has been pointed out, it doesn’t quite stick to any of them. For the ABC show the dominant genres featured are melodrama (self consciously mocked in the Invitation to Love segments) and murder mystery. What doesn’t get talked about as much, simply because it resists some of the understanding we place on the first two genres, is the supernatural and science fiction genre echoes that the ABC show—especially in the second season—exhibits. Moreover, and related to both the supernatural and science fiction, Fire Walk With Me and The Return have moments that evoke the horror genre and its conventions. This is most explicit in the scene early on in The Return where two young lovers, mid-coitus, are attacked by the creature which emerges from the clear box they’re observing. Obviously, if we extend the horror genre to the more proper thriller genre, then Bob’s story fits in as well. Finally, though not a genre, Twin Peaks: the Return, to a much greater extent than either the ABC series or Fire Walk With Me, uses surrealism and non-narrative filmmaking in a much more explicit way.  The apex of this is the eighth hour of the Return, one of Lynch’s finest works in any medium.

A quick final note related to this episode that has to be the main reading of the third season: in the top right corner of of the timeline I have written “World Historical Time.” What is undeniable about the ABC show and Fire Walk With Me, there’s nothing that really tethers us to the contemporary world. Though made in the late 80s and early 90s, TP evokes 1950s America more than anything. This has placed Twin Peaks in the larger canon of “post-modern” texts that use history as a playground, borrowing from past symbols, narratives and tropes in constructing itself. The Return isn’t like that. World historical time, not its post-modern bricolage, erupts, literally, in the very real nuclear test at Los Alamos in 1945. What does it mean for this show, so interested in a multi-decade American culture pastiche, to place its origins squarely in such a notable, “real,” historical event.

As the cosmology of the Twin Peaks universe expanded over the second season, Fire Walk With Me and the third season, it became harder not to see the show as science fiction or supernatural fiction. One of the aspects of this type of reading that would need to be elucidated is the movement from mystery/melodrama/horror/science fiction/supernatural fiction along both the temporal horizon as well as the interpretive axis (i.e. is there something about the moral register that lends itself to the genres of melodrama and murder mystery, and is there something about the ethical register that pushes us both in a less narrative, more uncanny and unreal direction. I’m using “real” here to suggest, as with much of Lynch’s work, there is a rejection of realism to evoke something more subconscious. This is where I believe Lynch’s own interests in Transcendental Meditation might be significant. I don’t feel like I know enough about his own beliefs in this arena to comment yet.

Final notes:

In the underside of the temporal bubbles I have placed two different modes of interpretive systems. The ABC show, perhaps because of both its failure to temporally place it in its own time as well as its story about American society, labor, the FBI, etc, Twin Peaks can be read as an allegory—a story, here the murder of a girl in a small town, which stands in for another story. Again, as I’ve mentioned earlier, I’m wary to include books like The Secret History in my analysis, but it seems clear, from a fast read through, that Frost, if not Lynch, saw the Twin Peaks narrative as a larger allegory for the U.S. and the settling of the Pacific Northwest.

The Return invites a different interpretive system. Hermeneutics has always been a feature of Twin Peaks: before the revelation of Leland Palmer as Bob in the ABC series, it was up to the viewer to piece together the clues in order to figure out what was going on (not just solving the crime). Who is the giant? The attempt to understand this question, as if the hermeneutics of the enterprise weren’t clear enough, it is the ring off of Cooper’s finger that is stolen, only to have the completed circle returned to him when he has solved the crime. Though the ABC series had its share of inexplicable moments, the story itself (“FBI agent comes to small town to solve the murder of a high school student’) is pretty understandable. Starting with Fire Walk With Me and definitely continuing in The Return, understanding the basic plot of the narrative becomes an interpretive task. I’ll take a rather banal example: at the beginning of The Return we boxes of shovels being delivered to Dr. Jacobi in his trailer. We have no idea why they are being delivered or what use he has for them. It only isn’t until later that we see him spray painting the shovels gold. Then, a little while after that, we get the full story that he is painting the shovels and selling them to actually promote his radio talk show. This is one of the less surreal moments that function like this. For all of the confusion of the original show, Lynch and his associates still often worked within the traditional television forms of establishing shots, shot matches, etc. In the Return this all goes out the window for a narrative in which each scene is a fractured part of a whole that only becomes more explicable (although not always) the more information the viewer is given.

Yet, unlike the nod to hermeneutics and interpretation the original ABC show had, there is no complete circle to Twin Peaks: the Return. To return to the beginning, as it were, if the last line of your complete work—as the title Twin Peaks: A to Z would suggest—is “what year is it?” You haven’t completed any hermeneutic circles of meaning and interpretation.

Happy Twin Peaks Day!

https://youtu.be/ij7vIYSaqFU 

Executive decision: this blog will now be celebrating the 31st anniversary of Twin Peaks. Still Season Two, tho...stay tuned!

Hey all!

Just a quick post to say I'm hoping to resume the blog this week, picking up where I left off in season two. Hope everyone is healthy and safe during this dark time, and I hope to continue looking at the nest to ease our suffering.