It’s a goddam bad story, isn’t it, Hawk?

Twin Peaks

3.12: Lets rock.

(SPOILERS) I have to admit, this is the first episode of the run that felt merely “okay” to me. Not bad in any respect, but having little to really distinguish itself. You have to think Lynch stuck in that one sliver of a scene of Dale-Dougie playing ball (or rather, having a ball bounced off his head) because he realised Kyle McLachlan would be otherwise absent.

Instead, it’s almost The Gordon Cole Show. Repeated business with his hearing aid, and with some floozy (Bérénice Marlohe) he picked up in the hotel bar (leading to another mirthfully extensive sequence as she very laboriously prepares to leave when Albert calls by; this is evidently the kind of carry on Duchovny’s Denise was warning Cole about, in very meta fashion, way back at the beginning of the season). And Albert delivering some extensive exposition Tammy should surely be partially aware of, having compiled The Secret History of Twin Peaks, regarding the Blue Rose as a follow-on group from Project Blue Book.

Notably, Lynch and Frost are most definitely taking the interdimensional rather than extra-terrestrial path here, with Philip Jeffries, Albert, Coop and Chester Desmond (poor old Chester) – but no Windom Earle – on a quest to find answers to Blue Book anomalies that could not be reached “except by an alternate path”. Tammy’s induction, in a red-draped room, drinking quality vino (this is the new coffee of Twin Peaks, clearly) is accompanied by some of Chrysta Bell’s most oddball performance choices yet, as she attempts to express her enthusiasm in a manner that would make you squirm for her acting coach, if she had one.

Gordon Cole: What do we know, that we haven’t asked her about?

There’s also Diane’s cryptic text message (Q: Las Vegas? A: THEY HAVEN’T ASKED YET), the co-ordinates revealing, surprise, surprise, the town of the title, and, most disconcertingly, Diane uttering, Man from Another Place styl-ee “Let’s rock” in response to being deputised.

Ben Horne: I loved that bike that my father got me.

The second most significant chunk of the episode consists of the Hornes. Jerry finally gets out of the woods. Ben expresses regret over his grandson’s actions like a man struggling to look concerned (although he does stump up for the operation bill), and most importantly, finds his way to giving Sheriff Truman Coop’s Great Northern key, to give back to Harry (why not, there’s about as much chance of seeing the latter again as the real Coop).

Audrey: You’re not going to tell me what she said?

And then there’s Audrey. She’s back… and she’s a real bitch? Is this Lynch playing sadist with his once-prized Peaks totty? Now she’s middle-aged and heartless, reduced to some sort of marriage of convenience with Charlie (Clark Middleton, who I know best from Fringe), her “spineless no-balls loser” of a husband. What exactly is going on here is at least partially inscrutable, but Audrey’s waving her infidelity with Billy under her Charlie’s nose, who retaliates with audible silence when she demands to know the contents of his phone conversation with Tina (Billy’s other half).

First Albert’s notable silence, now Charlie’s. A running theme? I half-expected a reveal that Audrey now has one leg (post-bank explosion), but thus far the explanations for how she got to where she is are entirely elusive. Also referenced: Paul and Chuck? Keep watching, and we’ll hear about more people we’ve never met.

Yes, I had a similar lack of a frame of reference for the bar scene at the end – Heineken aside – between Abbie (Elizabeth Anweis) and Natalie (Ana de la Reguera), discussing how Angela is off her meds and hoping Clark doesn’t fuck this up, and the arrival of Lynch regular (going back to Wild at Heart) Scott Coffey, as Trick, showing up shaken after a traffic altercation. At least there’s the comforting return of the Chromatics.

Sarah Palmer: I don’t feel good!

The rest is kind of piecemeal. Sarah Palmer gets freaked out – no one does freaked-out quite like Grace Zabriskie – with an extended meltdown in the supermarket when confronted by some newly arrived beef and turkey jerky and later rejecting Hawk’s offer of assistance in whatever way she needs (that ominous shot of the turning ceiling fan in her home, and Hawk thinking he heard someone else inside is almost as eerie as Lynch’s sound effects). Hutch and Chantelle put an end to the warden, much to the distress of his wee bairn. Doctor Amp is doing the vamp for liberty (“It’s working for me, Doctor Amp”), and Carl advises neighbour Kriscoll (Bill O’Dell) not to sell his precious red stuff (“Keep your blood”). Tres chic, tres bon, or turnip farm? I expected Let’s rock to rock a bit more than it does, with that title.

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

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How would Horatio Alger have handled this situation?

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To survive a war, you gotta become war.

Rambo: First Blood Part II (1985) (SPOILERS?) I’d like to say it’s mystifying that a film so bereft of merit as Rambo: First Blood Part II could have finished up the second biggest hit of 1985. It wouldn’t be as bad if it was, at minimum, a solid action movie, rather than an interminable bore. But the movie struck a chord somewhere, somehow. As much as the most successful picture of that year, Back to the Future , could be seen to suggest moviegoers do actually have really good taste, Rambo rather sends a message about how extensively regressive themes were embedding themselves in Reaganite, conservative ‘80s cinema (to be fair, this is something one can also read into Back to the Future ), be those ones of ill-conceived nostalgia or simple-minded jingoism, notional superiority and might. The difference between Stallone and Arnie movies starts right here; self-awareness. Audiences may have watched R ambo in the same way they would a Schwarzenegger picture, but I’m

He’s so persistent! He always gets his man.

Speed (1994) (SPOILERS) It must have been a couple of decades since I last viewed Speed all the way through, so it’s pleasing to confirm that it holds up. Sure, Jan de Bont’s debut as a director can’t compete with the work of John McTiernan, for whom he acted as cinematographer and who recommended de Bont when he passed on the picture, but he nevertheless does a more than competent work. Which makes his later turkeys all the more tragic. And Keanu and Sandra Bullock display the kind of effortless chemistry you can’t put a price tag on. And then there’s Dennis Hopper, having a great old sober-but-still-looning time.

You were a few blocks away? What’d you see it with, a telescope?

The Eyes of Laura Mars (1978) (SPOILERS) John Carpenter’s first serial-killer screenplay to get made, The Eyes of Laura Mars came out nearly three months before Halloween. You know, the movie that made the director’s name. And then some. He wasn’t best pleased with the results of The Eyes of Laura Mars, which ended up co-credited to David Zelag Goodman ( Straw Dogs , Logan’s Run ) as part of an attempt by producer Jon Peters to manufacture a star vehicle for then-belle Barbra Streisand: “ The original script was very good, I thought. But it got shat upon ”. Which isn’t sour grapes on Carpenter’s part. The finished movie bears ready evidence of such tampering, not least in the reveal of the killer (different in Carpenter’s conception). Its best features are the so-uncleanly-you-can-taste-it 70s New York milieu and the guest cast, but even as an early example of the sub-genre, it’s burdened by all the failings inherit with this kind of fare.

But everything is wonderful. We are in Paris.

Cold War (2018) (SPOILERS) Pawel Pawlikowski’s elliptical tale – you can’t discuss Cold War without saying “elliptical” at least once – of frustrated love charts a course that almost seems to be a caricature of a certain brand of self-congratulatorily tragic European cinema. It was, it seems “ loosely inspired ” by his parents (I suspect I see where the looseness comes in), but there’s a sense of calculation to the progression of this love story against an inescapable political backdrop that rather diminishes it.

No matter how innocent you are, or how hard you try, they’ll find you guilty.

The Wrong Man (1956) (SPOILERS) I hate to say it, but old Truffaut called it right on this one. More often than not showing obeisance to the might of Hitchcock during his career-spanning interview, the French critic turned director was surprisingly blunt when it came to The Wrong Man . He told Hitch “ your style, which has found its perfection in the fiction area, happens to be in total conflict with the aesthetics of the documentary and that contradiction is apparent throughout the picture ”. There’s also another, connected issue with this, one Hitch acknowledged: too much fidelity to the true story upon which the film is based.

The game is rigged, and it does not reward people who play by the rules.

Hustlers (2019) (SPOILERS) Sold as a female Goodfellas – to the extent that the producers had Scorsese in mind – this strippers-and-crime tale is actually a big, glossy puff piece, closer to Todd Phillips as fashioned by Lorene Scarfia. There are some attractive performances in Hustlers, notably from Constance Wu, but for all its “progressive” women work male objectification to their advantage posturing, it’s incredibly traditional and conservative deep down.

You don’t know anything about this man, and he knows everything about you.

The Man Who Knew Too Much (1956) (SPOILERS) Hitchcock’s two-decades-later remake of his British original. It’s undoubtedly the better-known version, but as I noted in my review of the 1934 film, it is very far from the “ far superior ” production Truffaut tried to sell the director on during their interviews. Hitchcock would only be drawn – in typically quotable style – that “ the first version is the work of a talented amateur and the second was made by a professional ”. For which, read a young, creatively fired director versus one clinically going through the motions, occasionally inspired by a shot or sequence but mostly lacking the will or drive that made the first The Man Who Knew Too Much such a pleasure from beginning to end.

What do they do, sing madrigals?

The Singing Detective (2003) Icon’s remake of the 1986 BBC serial, from a screenplay by Dennis Potter himself. The Singing Detective fares less well than Icon’s later adaptation of Edge of Darkness , even though it’s probably more faithful to Potter’s original. Perhaps the fault lies in the compression of six episodes into a feature running a quarter of that time, but the noir fantasy and childhood flashbacks fail to engage, and if the hospital reality scans better, it too suffers eventually.

One final thing I have to do, and then I’ll be free of the past.

Vertigo (1958) (SPOILERS) I’ll readily admit my Hitchcock tastes broadly tend to reflect the “consensus”, but Vertigo is one where I break ranks. To a degree. Not that I think it’s in any way a bad film, but I respect it rather than truly rate it. Certainly, I can’t get on board with Sight & Sound enthroning it as the best film ever made (in its 2012’s critics poll). That said, from a technical point of view, it is probably Hitch’s peak moment. And in that regard, certainly counts as one of his few colour pictures that can be placed alongside his black and white ones. It’s also clearly a personal undertaking, a medley of his voyeuristic obsessions (based on D’entre les morts by Pierre Boileau and Thomas Narcejac).

Now In Full Color, with a Happier Ending

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