I read lots of things on the internet that make we want to start typing "no, no, no!" in annoyance. The news that Twin Peaks is headed back to television after 25 years and a mass of diminished careers has thrown up a crop of bad articles and articles that are just a load of rubbish. It's about how we're now afraid of the police, the end of the American dream, sex and death (when in doubt, say something is about sex and death - it's a surefire escape route, unless you're talking about In The Night Garden, in which case it's a surefire route to a cell).
What is certainly true is that Twin Peaks remains an intriguing, vaguely impossible, cultural artefact that has seeped into television over the years and started to fruit in unlikely places as the tellybox has regained the top spot as the entertainment medium of choice. That wasn't the case when Lynch headed to the small screen, nor was it common to see television series shot so beautifully. It is still astonishing that it existed at all and has a power that little else has managed before or since.
These seven or eight minutes have a stunning force as the pay-off to one of modern entertainment's great mysteries is revealed. Around one in five people in America watched it - and it's as staggeringly weird as it is utterly assured. In its own way it's a forerunner to the dull thud of predictable revelation in today's genre television - the answer is so much 'who killed Laura Palmer' as 'what killed Laura Palmer' and begs yet more questions. Terrifying, disturbing and upsetting, you can't watch it and not know that you're seeing something unique. A word too on Ray Wise, who it's clear is operating in a league of his own in Twin Peaks amid many, many fine turns.
And yet, I'm not particularly convinced that Twin Peaks is about anything. Oh, you can project whatever you want into it - the atomisation of the American nuclear family, a filtered pastiche or parody of US TV's portrayal of domestic families, a kind of American gothic ghost story, id and ego, a dissection of nostalgia and good ol' cliches. Lynch himself said of it in retrospect that it was about the effects of incest on a family and the wider community, in what I always took to be a fairly clear example of retconning.
Are there themes in David Lynch's work? Certainly. Are textual and metatextual readings of his work necessarily invalid as a result? Of course not, but equally I'm inclined to scepticism far more with Lynch's work - probably among the more written-about in modern genre speculation - than others.
There is much symbolism in Twin Peaks - owls, numbers, identity, food, music - and Lynch's work generally but I'm still not convinced there's much that's intentional behind beyond inflections of Freudian duality, urges and instincts. You could make that argument about anything. It's fair to observe that much of Lynch's work subverts cultural and societal norms - especially Americana - but what else? I suspect Lynch could suggest that Twin Peaks is actually about donuts and there are people who would nod sagely, or infer that this is, in fact, proof that their own theories were right all along.
Modern television serials seem unable to exist without including enough innuendo and red herrings for people to pore over - enough to keep them watching in an inevitable game of diminishing returns. Critics seems unable to stop comparing Twin Peaks to True Detective, The Returned and other recent genre shows. They key difference is that these shows were created in an internet environment where they will be watched and rewatched, hashtagged and blogged. They're made for this - Twin Peaks, which is arguably responsible for these tropes, was not.
Here's the thing. I don't think Twin Peaks is really about anything. Moreover, it's purposefully about nothing. It is a mood piece; a blank slate; a white page waiting to be folded in half - a televisual ink blot test. You could watch Twin Peaks because you want to know if Shelley gets away from Leon and lives in a white picket-fenced house happily ever after; the James-Maddie/Laura-Donna love triangle; the intrigue as to who wins the wrangling over the mill - or just because you like Russ Tamblyn, Piper Laurie, Jack Nance, Angelo Badalamenti... you could watch Twin Peaks and have virtually no interest in who killed Laura. What you make of the series and its meaning beyond the obvious is pretty fluid.
Tellingly, when Lynch and Frost drift away from the show halfway through its second series, it becomes a crude and pointless parody of itself because, without its creators, it's a totally empty vessel. It's fundamentally what the inside of Lynch and Frost's brains look like. There's nothing for the writers and directors coming into the show to latch onto and to see them try - to force some meaning into it or bash the show into awkward shapes - is painful. When Lynch returns for the finale it's as if normal service has been resumed. Unfortunately when Lynch latterly tries to inject some purpose into it with Fire Walk With Me it's a disaster.
In an age of criticism, self-important broadcasts and flatulent internet waffling where everyone seems determined to tell everyone else what something is about, Twin Peaks is as irresistible - and as deadly - to the culture bore as a Venus fly trap. Twin Peaks is meaningless, but that doesn't mean it isn't brilliant. For me it's brilliant because it's meaningless.
Stop playing by the rules, Ronnie. They don't cover this contingency.
I was pleased to see Edge of Darkness – The Edge of Darkness according to a daft BBC4 continuity announcer – getting a welcome run out on BBC4. I'm not entirely sure why it's taken so long but it will be interesting how see how an audience hungry for paranoid box-set television with take to this forerunner of the genre.
I was keen to see how television reviews reacted to it, but found only lazy rehashes of Wikipedia wisdom in the newspapers. I think there's much more to say about it, so I thought I'd cover a few points that struck me as I rewatched the first episode for the first time in around ten years.
Visually, Edge of Darkness looks like little else from the BBC's output of the day. Shot solely on film and seemingly all on location, it benefits enormously from an evocative soundtrack by Eric Clapton and Michael Kamen – all soft synths rent by plaintive guitar licks. As a result it's more akin to the best British films of the day.
Tonally it's forbidding, doom-laden: Martin Campbell's direction is frequently as understated as its protagonist, Yorkshire police detective Ronnie Craven. We see the latter repeatedly contrasted with the busy throb of daily life; detached, in a bubble. Troy Kennedy Martin's script is plain, naturalistic, almost devoid of flourishes; content simply to slowly colour the characters and their motivations.
Nothing since has really rooted a serial so successfully in the era in which it was broadcast, real-life appearances by politicians and newscasters anchoring it firmly within cold-war paranoia, fear of nuclear weapons and waste, industrial disharmony. The sickly combinations – Thatcher's government, grey anoraks and the first signs of the cosy relationship between military, political and industrial complexes we're so familiar with today – that make the 80s look so grim in retrospect.
In the first 60 minutes we see widower Craven agree to the quiet suppression of a police investigation into electoral fraud in a miner's union, sees his daughter blown away by an IRA terrorist and heads to London in search of answers to a gun, Geiger counter and radioactive lock of hair, all belonging to his late offspring. It has all the hallmarks of a classic revenge thriller – or a conspiracy thriller – but, as we'll see, it's all that and more. There are hints of what's to come here amid a very slow, deep introduction to the narrative and, more importantly, its characters.
We're given our first indication that this is a slow burn immediately after Emma Craven's violent, unexpected death. The scene of Craven plodding around his house afterwards is a profound exploration of shock, loss and grief. It's peppered with unusual but thoroughly human moments – including an infamous a scene where Craven kisses a vibrator belonging to his daughter, just one moment among a few in the first episode that have led some to posit an incestuous relationship between the two.
That the lengthy scene is conducted almost without dialogue and at a length of almost ten minutes seems unthinkable today. How many actors could carry it, conveying Craven as he rattles from mute acceptance to shock to glum detachment, surprise, despair and, finally, numb bafflement as he uncovers ever more astonishing artifacts of his only child's hidden adult life?
It could be a set-up for an ongoing detective series for all we know; elements of the procedural, the hard-bitten tendencies of Between The Lines or the big-screen political thrillers of the 70s. But how many of them would expend so much time almost purely to establish mood, against a soundtrack by Wilie Nelson?
Peck, steeped in the best traditions of British theatre, is a still, quiet and magnetic presence on screen – a man with a face like a funeral and a voice like a groan. Craven seems an odd man before the trauma of Emma's death; professional yet canny enough to know that he must play the game. Drily humourous, stubborn and taciturn, he's hardly obvious hero material, yet we are drawn to him.
He has odd explosions of violence – screaming at the mortuary attendant to leave his daughter, dead on the slab, uncovered. Yet his internal monologue notes the smell of the crushed grass on her and his desire to give her a parting kiss, thwarted by the need not to embarrass the coroner. Ronnie wears his grief like a heavy coat perpetually pushing him down. He busies himself with work and tasks, occasionally sagging but only finally breaking down on the hard shoulder during his drive down to London. Poor bastard, indeed.
How spoiled are we with actors in this first episode? John Woodvine scarcely ever seems to act, so right does he seem for all of his roles, no different here. Jack Watson, lined and gravelly; bent yet likeable – a granite, bluff, clip-round-the-ear Yorkshire pitman. Joe Don Baker – a technicolour whirl among grey men; Felix Leiter in a John LeCarre novel. Charles Kay as Pendleton is at once diffident, enigmatic, superficially charming and very clearly not to be trusted – a sort of civil service and military archetype of the kind that probably would have been driving Thatcher to and from Television Centre in 1985; the only bum note that he drives a Chobham-plated Mercedes rather than a Jag.
He leaves Craven alone in the capital, overlooking a freight train containing a flask of radioactive waste – something still common on British railways, through Peckham Rye, Clapham High Street, Kensington Olympia and Highbury Islington – trying to make sense of an unfamiliar jigsaw puzzle with barely a few irradiated pieces.