Hypnotic
whodunit: MacLachlan and Ontkean team up to track down a murderer The body of a high
school, wrapped in plastic, washes up on the lakeshore near a small town
in the Pacific Northwest. An FBI agent teams up with local sheriff to
investigate. The victim, they discover, has been leading a secret life.
So, it seems, is nearly everyone else in town. In outline, ABC´s
heralded new series Twin Peaks sounds like an amalgam of familiar TV genres.
A touch of true-crime docudrama, a dash of Columbo, a jot of Knots Landing.
But in the darkly idiosyncratic world of director David Lynch, terms like
murder mystery and soap opera don´t begin to tell the tale. Twin
Peaks, which debuts Sunday as a two-hour movie, is like nothing you´ve
seen in prime time - or on God´s earth. It may be the most hauntingly
original work ever done for American TV. It is also something
of a miracle. Imagine: one of the world´s most perversely offbeat
directors persuades ABC to let him try a prime-time series. He shoots
a pilot with virtually no interference. The network bigwigs look at the
result, realize that it will probabyl befuddle many viewers, then decide
to air it anyway. The programmers even consider -horrors!- showing the
two-hour pilot without commercials. (Cooler heads prevail; the show will
have ads, though fewer than usual.) It´s enough to restore one´s
faith in television. The surpassing strangeness
of Twin Peaks is not easy to pinpoint. Despite a few grisly touches, the
show has little to offend in terms of sex and violence. Its distinctiveness
is almost purely a matter of style. The pace is slow and hypnotic, the
atmospher suffused with creepy foreboding, the emotions eerily heightened.
The news of Laura Palmer´s murder inspires spasms of grief in everyone
from the girl´s mother to the crew-cut school principal, who burst
into tears after announcing her death over the p.a. system. In other hands,
this might be melodramatic; in Lynch´s, it has the scalding intesity
of a nightmare. Then there
are the Lynchian touches of off-kilter characters and sideshow weirdness.
A woman with an eyepatch has an obsession with drapes. Visitors to a bank
vault find a stuffed deer head lying on the table "It fell down,"
notes a bank officer blandly. The boyish FBI agent (Kyle MacLachlan) dictates
every detail of his day into a cassette recorder and gets misty-eyed over
Douglas firs and snowshoe rabbits. "Know why I´m whittling?"
he says to the sheriff at one point. "Because that´s what you
do in a town where a yellow light still means slow down, not speed up."
Twin Peaks spins out
a whodunit that may or may not be solved by the end of the show´s
seven-week run. (For a European video version of the pilot, Lynch shot
an alternate ending that seems to solve the crime. In it, the actors walk
and speak their lines backward, and the film is reversed.) But the two-hour
movie, which spans the 24-hour period after discovery of the body, stands
superbly on its own. More than a dozen characters are introduced - all
of them connected, each dwelling in a private world - from the widowed
owner of the town sawmill (Joan Chen) to the the dead girl´s hopped-up
boyfriend (Dana Ashbrook) to the serene sheriff (Michael Ontkean), whose
name, for no particular reason, is Harry S. Truman. Whether Twin Peaks
will work as a continuing series remains to be seen. The second episode
(co-written by Lynch but directed by Duwayne Dunham) shifts into more
conventional gear as the murder investigation begins to unfold. At worst,
Twin Peaks could turn into an aesthete´s version of "Who shot
J.R."? At best, it will be mesmerizing. Few filmmakers would
seem less likely candidates for TV than Lynch. His first feature, Eraserhead,
was a dreamlike horror story about a couple taking care of a monstrous
mutant baby. Blue Velvet, his bizarre 1986 black comedy, started with
a severed ear and descended into sadomasochistic horror. Trained as a
painter, Lynch has written song lyrics and directed a performance piece,
Industrial Symphony No.1, featuring a midget sawing wood and dozens of
baby dolls lowered from the ceiling. At 44, Lynch has a
Boy Scout´s cherubic face and nice manners. His conversation is
filled with wholesome jargon like "thrilling" and "cool."
But eccentricities lurk just beneath the surface. He always keeps his
shirt collar buttoned to the top because "I have this thing about
my neck. It´s just an eerie feeling about my collarbone." For
seven years he drank milkshakes every day at a Bob´s Big Boy in
Los Angeles. "I´d have coffee, sometimes six cups, along with
the shake, and I´d have sugar in my coffee," he says. "But
then I would be pretty jazzed up, and I´d start writing down ideas.
Many, many things come out of Bob´s." Lynch, who has been
divorced and is now involved with actress Isabella Rossellini, was born
in Missoula, Mont. His father, a research scientist for the Department
of Agriculture, moved the family several time around the Pacific Northwest
before settling in Washington, D.C. Lynch found high school "worthless"
but put up with it, then went to art school in Boston. After a brieg sojourn
in Austria, he moved to Philadelphia to study at the Pennsylvania Academy
of Fine Arts. "Philadelphia,
more than any filmmaker, influenced me," says Lynch. "It´s
the sickest, most corrupt, decaying, fear-ridden city imaginable. I was
very poor and living in bad areas. I felt like I was constantly in danger.
But it was so fantastic at the same time." He lived across the street
from the city morgue, where he was fascinated by the empty body bags hung
on pegs. "The bags had a big zipper, and they´d open the zipper
and shoot water into the bags with big hoses. With the zipper open and
the bags sagging on the pegs, it looked like these big smiles. I called
them the smiling bags of death." He tried filmmaking
as an extension of his painting. Lynch´s first work was a "film
sculpture," a one-minute animated loop in which six people get sick
over and over while their heads catch fire. A painter who saw it commissioned
Lynch to make another animated film. Lynch bought a camera and spent two
months shooting before he realized the camera was broken. "It was
one long piece of blurred film," he says. "But it was the weirdest
thing; I wasn´t one bit depressed." Lynch moved to Los
Angeles in 1970 and spent five years making Eraserhead. The film became
a cult hit and led to his first mainstream film, The Elephant Man. Lynch´s
next project, the big-budgeted sci-fi movie Dune, was a critical and commercial
disaster, but Blue Velvet brought him widespread critical acclaim. A couple
of aborted projects later (including a script for Steve Martin called
One Saliva Bubble), Lynch is finishing a new film, Wild at Heart, starring
Nicolas Cage and Laura Dern. Lynch and his partner,
former Hill Street Blues writer Mark Frost, developed Twin Peaks by drawing
a map of the fictional town. "We knew where everything was, and it
helped us decide what mood each place had, and what could happen there,"
says Lynch. "The the characters just introduced themselves to us
and walked into the story." The pilot was written in only nine days
and shot in 23. Lynch was apprehensive about the restrictions of TV but
found the experience satisfying. "I didn´t feel we compromised,
and I felt good." Will TV audiences
feel just as good about the mutant soap opera he has concocted? Frost
hopes the series will reach "a coalition of people who may have been
fans of Hill Street, St. Elsewhere and Moonlighting, along with people
who enjoyed the nighttime soaps." ABC entertainment chief Robert
Iger admits the show will be a hard sell (especially in the time slot
opposite Cheers on Thursday nights.) Says he: "A lot of people have
said Twin Peaks is the critic´s dream. But is it the viewer´s
nightmare? I would hope that the answer is that it isn´t." Lynch seems confident
that viewers will catch on. "These shows could cast a spell,"
he says. "It´s sort of a nutty thing, but I feel a lot of enjoyment
watching the show. It pulls me into this other world that I don´t
know about." Well, if he doesn´t know about it, what
are we outsiders to do? Nothing but sit back and succumb to the spell. - Reported
by Denise Worrell / Los Angeles
Snowshoe rabbits, spasms of grief and dark secrets in the Northwestern
woods.
TIME, April 9 1990.