What, no cheese and crackers?

Twin Peaks

3.4: ...brings back some memories

(SPOILERS) If anything, the fourth episode goes even goofier than the third, before sobering up dramatically for the final scene. There’s at least one innocuous cameo here, Richard Chamberlain pulling the equivalent of George Hamilton in The Godfather Part III, but it’s most notable for the arrival of Naomi Watts and Robert Forster, and the return of Dana Ashbrook and David Duchovny. And… Michael Cera?

Wally: My shadow is always with me. Sometimes ahead. And sometimes behind. Sometimes to the left. Sometimes to the right. Except on cloudy days. Or at night.

Maybe the battiest thing in the third season to date, and that’s saying something, is Cera’s appearance as Wally Brando (born on the same day as Marlon), Andy and Lucy’s son, his appearance plays like an extended skit, with Lynch cackling away behind the camera, eager to see how long he can string it out. You pretty much get the impression that, when Forster’s Sheriff Frank Truman, Wally’s godfather, turns heel and walks off, Forster really has had enough. Cera’s doing a Brando shtick, dressed out of The Wild One, announcing he’s “decided to let them do as they wish with my childhood bedroom” and waxing philosophical about life on the road. (He also mentions the Lewis & Clark expedition, which is very significant to The Secret History of Twin Peaks). I found it hilarious, but it seems to have provoked the most Marmite reactions of anything Lynch and Frost have served up so far.

Lady Slot-Addict: Thank you, Mr Jackpot. Thank you.

Most effortlessly watchable is the continued adventure of Special Agent Charlie Babbitt, as Cooper finishes up in the casino having scored 29 mega jackpots, giving an old bag lady a few too (“Mr Jackpot, tell me which one”). I love Lynch teasing out scenes in a complete lack of hurry, such as Brett Gelman’s supervisor handing over the winnings and giving it the tough guy act (“That’s right, we’re watching you, Mr Jones”) while having absolutely no idea what’s going on. And then the reveal that Dougie somehow ended up married to Naomi Watts (Janey-E Jones), with a son(ny-Jim). By way of an equally baffled limo driver, prepared to wait outside the house with Cooper… well, forever if she hadn’t come out.

Janey-E: This is the most wonderful horrible day of my life.

It’s still unclear what trouble Dougie had got himself into, but Janey-E knows about it (of the winnings she observes there’s “Enough here to pay them back”), and she’s obviously used to Dougie being as inept as Coop currently is (the scene where he learns how to urinate is priceless). There are several cues to his greater quest (“You were tricked. Now one of you must die” he is told through the carpet), and there’s a memorable repeat of the Season Two finale’s mirror scene, but the biggest treat is his reaction to first pancakes and then coffee – if that won’t bring him back, nothing will (albeit his not-son is also doing a grand job)!

Back in Twin Peaks, the gag with Lucy and cellular phones doesn’t quite play, but it’s a good try. The twist with Bobby now being in the police is a neat one, although again, his breaking down at the sight of Laura’s photo doesn’t quite deliver (I’ve seen praise for the moment, but it fails to play as melodramatically as a similar scene would have in the original). Better is the ignorant deputy having no time for the eccentricities of the town, including Margaret (“I thought that log woman was a 10-96 and not even allowed–”; “I’m going to have a word with my pine cone”). And we get confirmation of more The Secret History of Twin Peaks information, that Cooper was the last person to see Major Briggs alive.

Gordon: There is room in this FBI for more than one beautiful woman.

Denise: That is so sweet.

The FBI side is also kicking into gear, with David Duchovny’s Denise Bryson – I hope there’s more of her in this, as Duchovny’s having a ball, and it’s good that Lynch takes to the character, Dennis/Denise having floated around when he didn’t have much to do with the series and it was generally at its lowest ebb – clearly aware of Gordon’s/Lynch’s thing for the ladies and only comfortable sending him off to South Dakota with Agent Preston when she knows Albert will be chaperoning (given Albert’s reaction to seeing Preston’s sashaying hips, maybe she shouldn’t have been).

Gordon: Albert, we’re in South Dakota. Cossacks are in Russia.

Albert: CAR SICK!

I’d been concerned about Ferrer’s ability to pick up Albert again, but that fades completely here (“We’re not going anywhere near Mount Rushmore”; “I brought a picture for you”), particularly his delivery on hearing that evil Cooper’s personal effects consist of cocaine, a machine gun and a dog leg (“What, no cheese and crackers?”)

The interview with evil Cooper is perfectly off, from the strained thumbs up to his slurred vocal pitch. But the yarn Cooper spins at least has a grain of truth; he says he has been working undercover all these years, primarily with Phillip Jeffrey (and that he’s left messages “so Phillip knows it’s safe”). Albert admits that, years before, he authorised Coop to give Jeffrey information concerning the bureau’s man in Colombia, and a week later the man was killed. Lynch and Ferrer are particularly riveting in this carpark scene – you could hear a pin drop – Lynch particularly notable for holding his own when generally in the past he has opted for sendup. Scenes like this emphasise the director’s masterful sound design; music is remarkably absent from the series, replaced by an unnerving background hum (the interview scene in particular) or even audible silence.

Gordon: I hate to admit this, but I don’t understand this situation at all. Do you understand this situation, Albert?

Albert: No.

Part of the pleasure of this season in its early stages is teasing expectation; of Cooper reconstituted and reintroduced to old faces, and of pieces of puzzle proving vital and others proving irrelevant. But so far, Frost appears to be ensuring Lynch steers a thoroughly engaged ship, and the consistency of this run is already more marked than even the first season, albeit as a very different beast. The ending, referencing blue rose, is a nod to Fire Walk with Me and Cole’s case categorisations (blue rose cases involve supernatural events, is the implication, unsurprising then that a big floating Major Briggs head should have mentioned the phrase in 3.3), but it would appear there’s also a human personification of this (“I know where she drinks”). Laura Dern’s character?

Agree? Disagree? Mildly or vehemently? Let me know in the comments below.

Comments

I just hope my death makes more cents than my life.

Joker (2019)
(SPOILERS) So the murder sprees didn’t happen, and a thousand puff pieces desperate to fan the flames of such events and then told-ya-so have fallen flat on their faces. The biggest takeaway from Joker is not that the movie is an event, when once that seemed plausible but not a given, but that any mainstream press perspective on the picture appears unable to divorce its quality from its alleged or actual politics. Joker may be zeitgeisty, but isn’t another Taxi Driver in terms of cultural import, in the sense that Taxi Driver didn’t have a Taxi Driver in mind when Paul Schrader wrote it. It is, if you like, faux-incendiary, and can only ever play out on that level. It might be more accurately described as a grubbier, grimier (but still polished and glossy) The Talented Ripley, the tale of developing psychopathy, only tailored for a cinemagoing audience with few options left outside of comic book fare.

You guys sure like watermelon.

The Irishman aka I Heard You Paint Houses (2019)
(SPOILERS) Perhaps, if Martin Scorsese hadn’t been so opposed to the idea of Marvel movies constituting cinema, The Irishman would have been a better film. It’s a decent film, assuredly. A respectable film, definitely. But it’s very far from being classic. And a significant part of that is down to the usually assured director fumbling the execution. Or rather, the realisation. I don’t know what kind of crazy pills the ranks of revered critics have been taking so as to recite as one the mantra that you quickly get used to the de-aging effects so intrinsic to its telling – as Empire magazine put it, “you soon… fuggadaboutit” – but you don’t. There was no point during The Irishman that I was other than entirely, regrettably conscious that a 75-year-old man was playing the title character. Except when he was playing a 75-year-old man.

So you want me to be half-monk, half-hitman.

Casino Royale (2006)
(SPOILERS) Despite the doubts and trepidation from devotees (too blonde, uncouth etc.) that greeted Daniel Craig’s casting as Bond, and the highly cynical and low-inspiration route taken by Eon in looking to Jason Bourne's example to reboot a series that had reached a nadir with Die Another Day, Casino Royale ends up getting an enormous amount right. If anything, its failure is that it doesn’t push far enough, so successful is it in disarming itself of the overblown set pieces and perfunctory plotting that characterise the series (even at its best), elements that would resurge with unabated gusto in subsequent Craig excursions.

For the majority of its first two hours, Casino Royale is top-flight entertainment, with returning director Martin Campbell managing to exceed his excellent work reformatting Bond for the ‘90s. That the weakest sequence (still good, mind) prior to the finale is a traditional “big” (but not too big) action set piece involving an attempt to…

Poor Easy Breezy.

Once Upon a Time… in Hollywood (2019)
(SPOILERS) My initial reaction to Once Upon a Time… in Hollywood was mild disbelief that Tarantino managed to hoodwink studios into coming begging to make it, so wilfully perverse is it in disregarding any standard expectations of narrative or plotting. Then I remembered that studios, or studios that aren’t Disney, are desperate for product, and more especially, product that might guarantee them a hit. Quentin’s latest appears to be that, but whether it’s a sufficient one to justify the expense of his absurd vanity project remains to be seen.

You're skipping Christmas! Isn't that against the law?

Christmas with the Kranks (2004)
Ex-coke dealer Tim Allen’s underwhelming box office career is, like Vince Vaughn’s, regularly in need of a boost from an indiscriminate public willing to see any old turkey posing as a prize Christmas comedy. He made three Santa Clauses, and here is joined by Jamie Lee Curtis as a couple planning to forgo the usual neighbourhood festivities for a cruise.

She was addicted to Tums for a while.

Marriage Story (2019)
(SPOILERS) I don’t tend to fall heavily for Noah Baumbach fare. He’s undoubtedly a distinctive voice – even if his collaborations with Wes Anderson are the least of that director’s efforts – but his devotion to an exclusive, rarefied New York bubble becomes ever more off-putting with each new project. And ever more identifiable as being a lesser chronicler of the city’s privileged quirks than his now disinherited forbear Woody Allen, who at his peak mastered a balancing act between the insightful, hilarious and self-effacing. Marriage Story finds Baumbach going yet again where Woody went before, this time brushing up against the director’s Ingmar Bergman fixation.

We’ll bring it out on March 25 and we’ll call it… Christmas II!

Santa Claus: The Movie (1985)
(SPOILERS) Alexander Salkind (alongside son Ilya) inhabited not dissimilar territory to the more prolific Dino De Laurentis, in that his idea of manufacturing a huge blockbuster appeared to be throwing money at it while being stingy with, or failing to appreciate, talent where it counted. Failing to understand the essential ingredients for a quality movie, basically, something various Hollywood moguls of the ‘80s would inherit. Santa Claus: The Movie arrived in the wake of his previously colon-ed big hit, Superman: The Movie, the producer apparently operating under the delusion that flying effects and :The Movie in the title would induce audiences to part with their cash, as if they awarded Saint Nick a must-see superhero mantle. The only surprise was that his final cinematic effort, Christopher Columbus: The Discovery, wasn’t similarly sold, but maybe he’d learned his lesson by then. Or maybe not, given the behind-camera talent he failed to secure.

When primal forces of nature tell you to do something, the prudent thing is not to quibble over details.

Field of Dreams (1989)
(SPOILERS) There’s a near-Frank Darabont quality to Phil Alden Robinson producing such a beloved feature and then subsequently offering not all that much of note. But Darabont, at least, was in the same ballpark as The Shawshank Redemption with The Green Mile. Sneakers is good fun, The Sum of All Our Fears was a decent-sized success, but nothing since has come close to his sophomore directorial effort in terms of quality. You might put that down to the source material, WP Kinsella’s 1982 novel Shoeless Joe, but the captivating magical-realist balance hit by Field of Dreams is a deceptively difficult one to strike, and the biggest compliment you can play Robinson is that he makes it look easy.

On a long enough timeline, the survival of everyone drops to zero.

Fight Club (1999)
(SPOILERS) Still David Fincher’s peak picture, mostly by dint of Fight Club being the only one you can point to and convincingly argue that that the source material is up there with his visual and technical versatility. If Seven is a satisfying little serial-killer-with-a-twist story vastly improved by his involvement (just imagine it directed by Joel Schumacher… or watch 8mm), Fight Club invites him to utilise every trick in the book to tell the story of not-Tyler Durden, whom we encounter at a very peculiar time in his life.

You’re never the same man twice.

The Man Who Haunted Himself (1970)
(SPOILERS) Roger Moore playing dual roles? It sounds like an unintentionally amusing prospect for audiences accustomed to the actor’s “Raise an eyebrow” method of acting. Consequently, this post-Saint pre-Bond role (in which he does offer some notable eyebrow acting) is more of a curiosity for the quality of Sir Rog’s performance than the out-there premise that can’t quite sustain the picture’s running time. It is telling that the same story was adapted for an episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents 15 years earlier, since the uncanny idea at its core feels like a much better fit for a trim 50 minute anthology series.

Basil Dearden directs, and co-adapted the screenplay from Anthony Armstrong’s novel The Strange Case of Mr Pelham. Dearden started out with Ealing, helming several Will Hay pictures and a segment of Dead of Night (one might imagine a shortened version of this tale ending up there, or in any of the portmanteau horrors that arrived in the year…

Now In Full Color, with a Happier Ending

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