In the middle of the pandemic, a high school senior needed to stay entertained. While I was beginning to think of college applications, I had stumbled upon a peculiar show that was streaming on Netflix at the time: “Twin Peaks.”
I do not know what prompted me to click on the icon of a young Kyle MacLachlan gazing curiously with his greasy black hair and sharp jawline. The show is a murder mystery—but it isn’t just that. It is a soap opera. It is a terrifying psychological horror, questioning the nature of evil in an imperfect world.
Little did I know the feelings I would experience when I heard Angelo Badalamenti’s main theme play across the opening credits. The unique blend of synthesizer, strings and keys set to images of the Pacific Northwest made me nostalgic for a time and place I had never experienced: ripples over a lake, a mill cutting lumber, that sign reading “Welcome to Twin Peaks: Population 51,201.”
It was this magical emotion of stepping into a fantasy—one someone might have felt watching “Star Wars” for the first time or witnessing Middle Earth come to life on the big screen. Except this world felt just one step away from our own: utterly absurd yet painfully realistic.
“Twin Peaks” was created by the late and great David Lynch, who recently passed away on January 15, alongside his creative partner Mark Frost. To say Lynch was influential would be an understatement. When everyone—from the actors who worked with Lynch to even NASA—is paying their respects to the artist, it means he was no ordinary individual.
Lynch, and notably “Twin Peaks,” have both been immeasurable influences on the world of art, reaching places one might not expect. There were countless parodies on shows like “The Simpsons” and “Sesame Street.” Shows like “The Sopranos,” “The X-Files” and “Gravity Falls” all cited the show as an inspiration. Even video games like “Alan Wake,” “Life is Strange” and “The Legend of Zelda: Link’s Awakening” pull largely on the series (with the creators of the latter having actually consulted Frost in the making of the project).
But above all, the series impacted many, myself included.
To summarize, the show is focused on the murder of Laura Palmer (Sheryl Lee), a teenage girl living in the small town of Twin Peaks, Washington. She was beloved by her community, and her death utterly shattered the presupposed tranquility of the town.
In response, FBI Special Agent Dale Cooper (MacLachlan) rolls into the town, joining forces with the local police to investigate. As the mystery slowly unravels, it becomes evident that Palmer was not the perfect homecoming queen viewed by the town and that her death may be linked to something far more sinister and supernatural.
The first two seasons of the show, airing between 1990 and 1991 would focus on this plotline, along with a dozen other subplots involving the eccentric townsfolk that populate Twin Peaks. Meanwhile, Palmer’s parents are both sent on diverging self-destructive spirals, leading them to become the tenets of some of the show’s darkest moments. And yet somehow, there is something so captivating about watching these characters on screen.
Regardless of how strange or tangential these various stories are, they added to the town’s color. While the second season became somewhat muddled (largely due to Lynch stepping away from direct involvement), the struggles of these characters–no matter how minute—were valuable.
Within that warm, orange color grade, there was a world viewers could escape to: a place where everything felt familiar and lived-in. Even so, Lynch never avoided the harsh realities. What set “Twin Peaks” apart from every other police procedural at the time was how it dealt with death.
While most detective shows would see a dead body as the “case of the week,” Palmer’s murder was never even supposed to be resolved. It would only be because of external pressures from the network. Still, the show revealed how a single death can tear the social fabric of a town, sending ripples across every facet of a community.
These themes drove home Lynch’s core philosophy about creating empathy. Every time the notes of Palmer’s theme slowly trickled into the background it made viewers feel a sense of yearning and mild sorrow. Creating that intimacy and familiarity with the show’s characters closed the distance between us as viewers and the stories of this cast.
The second season indeed ran into a problem of feeling drawn out and aimless in its middle episodes, but despite this, I cannot help but recommend new viewers to push through. While none of it tied to Lynch’s greater narrative, it allowed me to spend more time with the characters and their mundane obstacles.
Viewers could look at life and realize that most people around them are living the same experiences “Twin Peaks” depicts—the ordinary and preposterous. With how much people think of their own lives, it can be hard to think about anyone else. However, taking the time to empathize with someone, regardless of how bizarre or “normal” their lives are, can open hearts.
Consider, however, what happens when a show that elicited such real-world emotion would further shatter that wall between reality and fiction, ultimately out of necessity.
“Twin Peaks” was canceled after its second season, but it would not be the end. It would be followed by a prequel film, “Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me” and a 2017 revival titled “Twin Peaks: The Return.” Although both projects would initially receive mixed reviews for their strangeness and darkness, they have, in time, become known to be contemporary masterpieces.
Even so, they could not be farther from the original series. “Fire Walk With Me” showed Palmer’s last days. Audiences were horrified when they saw how the “perfect girl” was in fact involved in everything from drugs to prostitution. Moreover, it provided an unfiltered look at her vulnerability, eliciting real sympathy amidst the horrific tragedy of her death.
“The Return” came back to the series 25 years later, but everything had changed. From a small-town serial, it became an 18-episode limited series taking place across the country, with disparate narratives and an initially barely cohesive plot that would only make some grain of sense by the end of the season.
These two projects took a hard left turn on tone, foreshadowed by the last few episodes of Season 2 that Lynch returned to make. It makes sense why this is the case.
“The Return,” made in the era of modern television, looked like its contemporaries. It had a cold, gray aesthetic. When characters appeared, they appeared without announcement. Viewers could get excited to see returning cast members, but they just showed up, living a life more monotonous than two decades earlier. Palmer’s theme, which played so frequently in the original seasons, would not even appear until several episodes in.
This iteration was the exact opposite of most legacy sequels today. Rather than try to rely on recapturing the past, Lynch emphasized that it is quite impossible to do so at all. While movies kept trying to digitally de-age actors for the sake of capturing some sense of nostalgia, the actors of “Twin Peaks” looked nearly exactly how they did in real life.
The fantasy was lost because the world abandoned it. The pine-colored glasses had finally come off, and audiences realized that this was the world as it actually was. On top of that, everything had become more violent. Scenes of gruesome brutality occur frequently in “The Return,” but little time is spent dwelling on it. Even the smallest moments of sympathy were quick to pass.
Evil had blackened the world, and it had become much more cruel over 25 years. After so many years, the show’s reality had become a bit too much like our own.
“The Return” most notably featured an incredible triple performance by MacLachlan. Without providing spoilers, Dale Cooper ends up trapped in another realm and is trying to find his way back.
In his place, however, wanders Mr. C, a doppelganger of pure evil who only creates suffering for everyone he comes in contact with. Meanwhile, as Cooper’s consciousness has yet to arrive, his body wanders aimlessly, embodied by the clueless Dougie Jones.
These narratives were juxtaposed frequently, and despite my initial misgivings with an amnesia plot line, Dougie Jones quickly won me over. Despite his odd behavior, most characters were slow to point it out, and by his seemingly random actions, he inadvertently made the lives of those around him better. He saved a marriage, made friends with a few friendly mobsters, and even helped his boss expose insurance fraud in his company. Not only was it hilarious, but it brought a bit of light in the midst of a grim narrative.
One of the most critically-acclaimed episodes of television is the eighth episode of “The Return.” There is very little actual “plot” in the episode, but rather is best described as visual poetry.
It showed that the Trinity test for the first nuclear bomb blew a hole in space-time, granting evil access into our world. It was psychedelic, overwhelming and largely shot in monochrome. The spirits arrived in the form of woodsmen who roamed the streets, killing and spreading a message to call fellow demons to arrive on Earth. At the same time, however, the forces of good created a light—a beacon of hope in the form of Laura Palmer to be the driving force to fight against these monsters. Oh, and there was a performance by Nine Inch Nails cut into the episode as well.
It spoke on that thesis that even in the era of modernity where evil had become so prevalent in the world, there needed to be a belief in hope. Despite being the strange alien-like presence among his peers, Lynch ultimately was one of the most human artists in the industry.
That sense of kindness and empathy is what defines “Twin Peaks” and resonated with viewers like me on such an intrinsic level. Superficially, I became lost in these woods, obsessed with this quirky television show that seemed so iconic, yet shrouded to modern audiences.
When filling out my application to the University of Southern California, “Twin Peaks” was brought up as my favorite television show. “The Return” features a number of artists who perform at the end of each episode. Since watching it, Chromatics, Au Revoir Simone, Sharon Van Etten and the Nine Inch Nails have irreparably transformed my taste in music.
I own the entire series on disc, and I now jump at the chance to shove them in the face of any friends who have never seen the show.
The only thing I never was compelled to adopt was Dale Cooper’s love of coffee. I still prefer tea, but only through “Twin Peaks” would I have developed a level of appreciation for that smoky aroma.
Beyond this, what else could a show from the 90s offer to a Gen Z viewer? The answer: a perspective.
It is easy to feel hopeless when looking at the state of the world, but you can always find that light if you search and fight hard enough.
There’s a powerful quote in the second season from the mouth of Major Garland Briggs, a fascinating character whose appearance as a stoic military father is undercut with a personality more akin to a wise sage. When asked “What do you fear most, Major?” he responds “The possibility that love is not enough.”
Perhaps that was Lynch’s greatest fear—that in the face of great evil, if love can truly win. In looking at the alternatives, it might be the best thing we have. One can only grasp that faint hope tightly in venturing forth into an unknown future.
Of course, all of this interpretation could be wrong. Lynch was explicit when stating that there is a right and wrong reading of his work, but he’d rather not give an explanation of his own. Even so, in a world without Lynch, his message continues to live in the words and minds of those who experience his stories.
Rock on, Mr. Lynch. Rock on.