Article linked below is an interesting perspective on the Twin Peaks return. Not one I share but still interesting. That last sentence though… perhaps there’s something in that… perhaps that’s exactly the point…
“Twin Peaks: The Return has no soul. It’s trapped in The Black Lodge with Agent Cooper.”
Like that young, horny dummy hired to watch a giant contraption of glass and steel without asking what it’s for, I am content to watch that glass box and see what appears. Unlike him, I get to stay safe on the other side of the glass… but Lynch is one of the few directors who can make me feel like I’m not. Not safe, and not on the other side of the glass.
I would listen to Angelo Badalamenti’s Twin Peaks soundtrack over and over again on my Walkman. I would listen to the tape of Agent Dale Cooper giving wistful notes into his handheld recorder for his secretary Diane to transcribe and fall asleep to his love of pine trees, coffee, and cherry pie laced with observations and clues about the murder. I would play the sheet music to Laura Palmer’s Theme on the piano every morning before school as a dirge for my day. I would pore over the October 1990 issue of Sassy which featured a fashion spread directly inspired by the show and dig through storage boxes of my mother’s clothes from the sixties and pull out her woollen pleated plaid college skirts and pair them with combat boots and get pushed up the school steps from behind and get called a dyke for wearing something other than pegged jeans and Hard Rock café t-shirts. I would read The Diary of Laura Palmer alone in the bathtub and learn about pleasure and pain.
This is a beautiful read. Twin Peaks was similarly important to me as a teenager, however, I’m not sure I could write about (or even know about) why that was the case as insightfully as this author.
I do remember that I used to leave the Twin Peaks soundtrack playing on repeat on my CD-player in my room while I was at class. It created some kind of safe space for me I think … knowing that that existed – that privacy, that atmosphere where strangeness and melancholy and dreaminess were allowed because they were unwitnessed. Perhaps I felt like I could leave those aspects of myself in that room during the day to concentrate on being what I needed to be, out-and-about in public at school… I’m not sure. It was comforting, that’s all I really know for sure.
After sleeping (albeit fitfully) on episodes one and two, the strangest television I’ve ever watched, something occurred to me. No, not a Dale Cooper-esque revelatory dream of dancing dwarves or Tibetan inspired prophecy. Rather, something I learned after multiple viewings of Lynch’s 2001 film Mullholland Drive: any single scene makes little sense, but taken as an experiential whole, it starts to reveal Lynch’s artistic intent. So, bear with it.