Fun
Frisky
Nostalgic
Intense
Adventurous
Choked Up
Curious
Romantic
Weird
Like many hardcore TV nerds with an internet connection, I’ve already watched the first four episodes of the new Twin Peaks. I’ve done my research on David Lynch‘s absurdist TV universe. I’ve read the thinkpieces that have popped up across the internet landscape faster than a virus spreading. I’m on top of this Twin Peaks thing and yet I don’t know what the hell is going on in this new season. And I fucking love that.
Are there two Cooper doppelgangers? Why does one look like an evil Bruce Campbell and why does the other just look like a pudgy Kyle MacLachlan? What was the freaking deal with Phyllis? What was the big glass box trying to find? Who was funding it? How does it work? Why are the Log Lady’s digits in Hawk’s phone? What’s with all the number games? (340? 15? 3? WHAT?). What’s with, well, everything at the beginning of Episode 3? How did Bobby Briggs end up doing…that…with his life? WHAT IS GOING ON? Does anybody know? I don’t think so? Chances are there’s never going to be one scene that unlocks the whole series like a Rosetta Stone. That’s okay. In fact, it’s why Twin Peaks is so damn good.
Despite appearances, Twin Peaks is pretty much the anti-Lost. Meaning, it’s a show to be experienced like art, and not solved like a Sunday crossword puzzle. Oh, sure, there are strange numeric clues and grisly murders to solve. Like life, Twin Peaks is a veritable smorgasbord of questions, but don’t go looking for answers. If you’re too busy trying to piece it all together, you’ll miss the emotional currents and quirky flourishes that breathe on their own.
Twin Peaks is once more bucking convention. In the 1990s, the show brought an auteurist eye to the small screen. Its legacy was to push television writers to think a little deeper about their projects. Mythologies were built, darkness crept in, and a cinematic sensibility wiggled its way onto the boob tube forever. In the weeks leading up to Twin Peaks‘ return, there was a deluge of fawning pieces and essays about the show’s legacy. It would seem that television has spent the last 25 years trying to catch up to Twin Peaks and now they’re going to have to start once more at square one. Twin Peaks is still its own beast. The new series is as far away from the mainstream as it was two and a half decades ago. I mean that. The first four episodes alone make up the most daring, bracing, cinematic, and just plain weird show I’ve ever seen.
When we appraise other shows, whether as fans or critics, we often look at the architecture of the series. Do the narratives work? Do mysteries get solved? Are conflicts resolved? Is it well-paced? Do characters evolve? Is the dialogue realistic? Are the performances natural? What does the show say about the human condition? You can’t really do that with Twin Peaks. It seems to exist as a living, breathing, fully-flawed organism. Like Pallas Athena, it leapt fully grown from someone’s brain. So the rules don’t apply. The pleasures of Twin Peaks are found in the experience of it. That is how you understand it — in your own personal way. Lynch doesn’t have something specific he wants to say. Rather, he offers us suggestions. It’s up to us to determine what it all means.
People have visceral, personal interpretations of the work because that’s Lynch’s intention. It provokes thought and challenges our perceptions. At least, that’s my take. That’s why I’m okay not understanding how every frame fits together in a cogent story. I’m happy to just ride the waves of pure art Lynch and his team have pushed my way. Because that’s what Twin Peaks is: art. What you think of Twin Peaks is probably going to be a reflection of what you value.
So, no one really knows what’s going on in Twin Peaks and everyone does.
