First things first – I paid good money to buy The Secret Diary of Laura Palmer.
Wore a “Property of Twin Peaks” t-shirt, until it fell apart.
Traveled to the town where the show was shot and took the tour.
Paid for Showtime for four months just to watch The Return when it hit 26 years after Agent Cooper lost his mind.
So, I accept this film, a prequel which drags us through depression and horror for 134 minutes, and still doesn’t answer a damn thing.
David Lynch will do what David Lynch wants, and only a fool thinks otherwise.
Well-played, sir, well-played.
He can’t drive 55.
Seriously, cause the old lawn mower Richard Farnsworth is gunnin’ across the American frontier tops out at about five MPH.
He’s on the machine because his brother is dying, and, despite being unable to obtain a driver’s license, he’s set on traveling 240 miles to make peace.
Beautifully-crafted by David Lynch, throwing another curveball in a career of them by going the G-rated route, it benefits immensely from a cast who seem like real people, and not movie stars.
It was the final role for Farnsworth, capping a 62-year run on the silver screen, and a beautiful farewell.
You can’t touch this.
TV pilots come and go, some earning show orders, many vanishing forever, but one stands as the undisputed king.
Or, more appropriately, as the queen.
Twin Peaks changed everything about TV, and the revolution started April 8, 1990, when ABC let David Lynch wrap Laura Palmer in plastic.
The ensuing show, with two seasons, a polarizing movie, a diary (which I bought), then a third season 26 years later, will forever be the cause of arguments.
But return, re-watch the launch, and tell me it wasn’t the greatest pilot ever.
If you can, you’re either lying, or just wrong.
Ear’s to you.
A Vincent Van Gogh special — a hacked-off hearing aid, if you will — sends a naïve young man spiraling downwards into a world of Grade-A creeps inflicting death and damage in David Lynch’s surreal mystery.
Now, being a huge fan of Lynch, I am well aware the word surreal should just be assumed when you mention his name.
That being said, this dark delight goes to extremes like few others.
Whether it’s Dean Stockwell lip-syncing to Roy Orbison, or Dennis Hopper rampaging through the dark night, fueled by drugs and psychosis, it still hits like a sledgehammer.