I Guess I Need to Talk about Star Trek

No doubt you've heard the news.

I mean, the early reviews are everywhere!

Star Trek - the franchise-reboot film from director J.J. Abrams - is good. Real good.

OK, my hopes are now definitely up. My expectations are very high. And when that happens there isn't usually a good pay-off.

I'm a big fan of classic Star Trek--the original Enterprise, Kirk, Spock, etc. I love the original series and the films (Star Trek V, excepted). But I have always been leery of a prequel film, one that goes back to show us the early years of the characters we know so well. I have no doubt that Abrams' new movie is slick and exciting and contains edge-of-your seat thrills. I have no doubt that we will have two hours of great fun, that we will get our money's worth. I just hope we also get Star Trek.

What do we need?

1. A good science fiction story. There has to be some high-concept idea at play--not just a plot featuring a villain who attacks the Federation and tries to kill Kirk. Good Star Trek always has a sense-of-wonder. Even the much-maligned Star Trek: The Motion Picture had a solid SF tale at its core.
   
2. A depth of character. The early promotions feature a hot-headed Kirk and a stuck-up Spock. OK, fine, these characters need to start somewhere and we want to see them grow and change. But Kirk has to be smart and Spock has to feel. And they have to become true friends--characters who come to understand the strengths and weaknesses of each other. (Alright, that may be too much for one short film, but there has to be some element of this at play.)
   
3. A mission statement. That's right, a mission statement! Right from the start, Star Trek told us what is was about: "To explore strange new worlds . . . to boldly go where no man has gone before!" That is the essence of Star Trek--to see what is beyond the horizon, to embark on a journey of discovery in a galaxy full of wonder and risk. I fear that the new film may forget this critical aspect of Star Trek, that it may be too concerned with a good-versus-evil plot and therefore become too . . . earthbound. It appears that the threat in the film comes at Kirk as he is thrust into events beyond his control. This is typically the way Star Trek films work. Even the great Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan followed this pattern: Kirk was pulled into a conflict he did not go looking for. In fact, after the first film (which closely followed the promise of the original series) the Star Trek movies became more about heroics than about exploration. The crew was always "saving the day" rather than seeking out new worlds. OK, films are different from television. The Star Trek mission statement described the series as a whole, not necessarily each individual episode. Still, I long for a return to the promise of Star Trek: the wonder of exploration and the thrills that came with it.
   

I'm sure I will like the new film. After all, I've never seen so many rave reviews, even from die-hard fans of Star Trek. But I am worried that a really good, fast-paced action film will be mistaken for good Star Trek.

I will be expecting a lot from the movie. And I will bring with me my checklist of "What makes Star Trek, Star Trek."

Expect to hear back from me.

Judy, Judy, Judy

(NOTE: This is a revised version of an article that first appeared in Wrapped In Plastic 75)

In Fire Walk With Me, long lost FBI agent, Phillip Jeffries, says, "Well now, I'm not gonna talk about Judy. In fact, we're not gonna talk about Judy at all. We're gonna keep her out of it."

Who is this mysterious person that Jeffries mentions? Is Judy important or is she some piece of nonsensical fluff thrown into the film by David Lynch and co-writer Robert Engels? Can her identity be gleaned from clues in the film, script, or series?

The answer to the last question is: Yes. But here's the catch; Judy has a different identity depending on which version of FWWM you examine. Judy is a character (or an idea) that changed as FWWM evolved through scripting, shooting and editing.

The Judy of Twin Peaks

The most popular theory about Judy is that she represents another missing or murdered victim like Teresa Banks or Laura Palmer. She fits into a cyclical pattern suggested by the film and series – a girl (Laura, Teresa, Judy) is killed; an FBI agent (Cooper, Chet Desmond, Phillip Jeffries) is assigned to find the killer. The case is never completely solved because the agent ends up missing (or in Cooper's case, severely compromised).

Fire Walk With Me describes Phillip Jeffries as "long lost," suggesting Jeffries "disappeared" while on some assignment. The film also features the disappearance of FBI agent Chet Desmond who has been investigating the murder of Teresa Banks. We know from the series that at least part of Cooper will disappear after he solves the Laura Palmer case. (Cooper's "good self" will be trapped in the Black Lodge.) So the pattern is compelling: three agents disappear while on assignment; two obviously investigating the death of a young woman. Connect the dots and surely one can assume that the third missing agent (Jeffries) was also investigating the death of a young woman, in this case, Judy.

It's a great theory. It fits nicely with the facts established in the series and (apparently) in the film. It's a clean and precise way of tidying up an annoying loose end. And it provides more relevance for the presence of Phillip Jeffries in the story. What it does not do, however, is explain why—at two hours, eight minutes and 21 seconds into the film—an image of a monkey appears on screen and clearly says the word, "Judy." This very deliberate scene suggests something else entirely about Judy. But what?

The Judy of the Scripts

The monkey does not appear in either the pre-release or final draft of the FWWM script. However, the name, "Judy" does. In fact, the various scripts provide some tantalizing clues about who Judy could be.

In an early draft (dated July 3^rd, 1991) Phillip Jeffries first appears in a Buenos Aires hotel where the head clerk hands him a note from a "young lady." Soon after, Jeffries appears in Cole's office in Philadelphia where he tells the assembled agents he's "not gonna talk about Judy." Jeffries says, "I want to tell you everything, but I don't have a lot to go on. But I'll tell you one thing: Judy is positive about this." Then Jeffries drops a fascinating detail: "Her sister's there, too. At least part of her."

This early draft of the script provides strong evidence that Judy was a living person whose note to Jeffries compelled him to go to Philadelphia to tell Cole, "everything." (After all, "Judy is positive about this.") This script also introduces a second mysterious person to identify – Judy's sister. It is possible that this sister may be Josie Packard who "died" in the TV series but whose spirit seemed to live on in the walls (and drawers) of the Great Northern hotel. Robert Engels attempted to clarify some of these early draft mysteries in an interview that appeared in Wrapped In Plastic 58: "The thing behind Judy has to do with where David Bowie [Phillip Jeffries] came from …. He was down there [Buenos Aires], and that's where Judy is. I think Joan Chen [Josie] is there, and I think Windom Earle is there. It's this idea that there are these portals around the world, and Phillip Jeffries had one hell of a trip to Buenos Aires and back! He really doesn't want to talk about Judy because that reminds him of whatever happened to him." When asked if Josie, therefore, could be Judy's sister, Engels replied, "Yes. Yes, I think that is true."

But when Lynch and Engels revised the script for the shooting draft (dated August 8^th 1991), they altered aspects of Judy's identity. In the later draft Jeffries still receives a note from the head clerk (who says a young lady left it) and Jeffries also tells Cole that "Judy is positive about this." But he makes no reference to Judy's sister. Instead, he says he "found something in Seattle at Judy's." This line now links Judy to Teresa Banks and Laura Palmer—all three women lived in Washington State. It also suggests that Judy could have had some interaction with the Lodge residents (particularly Bob) who exist in the Pacific Northwest (where they physically manifest themselves).

So we know that Judy could be related to Josie. She could be alive and in Buenos Aires—or she could be dead and from Seattle. But none of this matters because all evidence about Buenos Aires and Seattle and Josie was deleted from the final version of FWWM. All we know for certain is that Phillip Jeffries mentions Judy and 100 minutes later so does the monkey.

So we are back to the question: Who is Judy and why does the monkey say her name?

The Judy of Fire Walk With Me

David Lynch and Robert Engels originally envisioned "a whole other set of mythology" to include in FWWM. Judy and her sister were products of that mythology. But this mythology had to be abandoned when Lynch realized that the additional backstory was too burdensome for one film. As a result, he likely deleted most references to Judy during editing. But Lynch may have been stuck with one reference to Judy he could not easily remove.

Jeffries makes a dramatic entrance into Cole's office and his very first line is the one about Judy ("I'm not gonna talk about Judy"). It's a great line, wonderfully delivered by David Bowie. What's more, it establishes a detached and incoherent feel to Jeffries and it reinforces his other-worldly nature. The line is also a part of one long continuous take in which Jeffries enters the office and confronts the agents. As such, there was no way for Lynch to remove the line without disrupting Jeffries' introduction to the scene. In other words, given the construction of the scene it would have been impossible for Lynch to bring Jeffries into the office, establish his physical position in relation to the other characters, and also delete the line. To do so, Lynch would have had to re-shoot the scene, an unlikely endeavor given the time and money it would to take to re-assemble the actors and re-establish the set.

So Lynch was stuck with a line about Judy. But because the original and complex identity of Judy (Josie's sister or first murder victim) was now abandoned, Lynch had to provide a new identity for the mysterious Judy, especially since he was trying to make FWWM a stand-alone film.

And that's just what David Lynch did; he found another persona to attach to the name. That persona was Laura Palmer.

Lynch reintroduces "Judy" to the film after Laura Palmer has been killed. He deliberately places a close-up shot of a monkey uttering the word, "Judy," just before he cuts to another close-up of the dead Laura. This simple edit obviously establishes a connection between the name and the character: "Judy" is said/Laura is shown.

So, OK, if Judy is Laura, what's it all mean? I admit there is no easy – or exclusive – answer to this question. Any interpretation is subjective, any "solution" dependent upon the predilections and analytic approaches of the observer. The short and simple answer is that Laura Palmer was a convenient candidate to become "Judy." Lynch needed to provide some identity and who better than Laura?

Of course, we expect that, in Lynch's mind, there is some deeper meaning – some substantive connection – between Laura and Judy. Perhaps in a self-contained, "stand-alone" FWWM the mysterious Judy simply becomes a "code word" for Laura, a symbolic representation of the idea of Laura Palmer.

Names and identities have always been fluid concepts in Lynch's work; any study of Lost Highway or Mulholland Drive shows this to be the case. Perhaps Judy functions as a "secret name" for Laura, one that empowers her or someone else. David Lynch's lyrics to the song, "Floating," from Julee Cruise's 1990 album, Floating Into the Night, contains the intriguing lines: "When you told your secret name/ I burst in flame and burn." This line echoes Laura's comments to Donna about falling in space: "For a long time you wouldn't feel anything. Then you would burst into fire … forever." Are secret names words of power? Do they tap into an energy that is unfathomable in "reality?" Lynch's investigation into the slippery nature of names and identity hints at these provocative themes.

But let's be careful. Assigning meaning to Lynch films is always a tricky proposition and nowhere is that more true than with FWWM. The film was continually evolving through scripting, shooting and editing. The purpose of characters, scenes and dialogue changed as Lynch sought to create a consistent, cohesive work that transcended the trappings of the televised series. Lynch resisted committing to any specific backstory and was open to changing and redirecting the story material as the process continued. Robert Engels explained that the story behind FWWM was never concrete: "It was free-form – David would start to look at something and say, 'I think it is more interesting to go this way.'"

So with that in mind, Judy could be anything or anybody: A living being, an unknown victim—or Laura Palmer. Or maybe she is nothing more than the original inspiration to Robert Engels when he wrote the script: "Judy – the name is from my sister-in-law. I think that's where it came from."

Just Wondering: When is Cult Art?

I was paging through the short movie reviews in The New Yorker and decided to read their brief comments about Watchmen. I already knew they hated the film but I read it anyway. A line in the review caught my attention: "Alan Moore's graphic novel [is] something of a cult among devotees, which means that, like all cults, . . . it has escaped critical rigor."

That line got me wondering about all sorts of things.

First, what does "cult among devotees" mean? Doesn't a cult imply a loyal following (i.e., devotees)? I suppose you can be a devotee of something that does not have cult status: A devotee of ER or 60 Minutes or Superman or Walt Disney animation. Do these things transcend cult? Are they big enough and so well-known that the terms of "cult" do not apply?

Some things inspire cult followings and, in turn, become "cult objects." But if something is cult has it really escaped critical rigor? Does such a designation provide immunity from critical study? Or have cult shows (and comics and movies) been overlooked or ignored by the critical community?

The implication in The New Yorker piece is that a cult object won't hold up to a thorough vetting, won't last under the exacting scrutiny of academic analysis. But just because something has escaped critical rigor does not mean it can't withstand it.

Just wait and see if Watchmen doesn't generate its own body of critical study. It has happened before. I would argue that Moby Dick was once a cult object. So were movies like The Wizard of Oz and Citizen Kane. More recently, we have David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest or Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian or Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey or David Lynch's Eraserhead. These are now revered works of art. They are also cult objects that have thrived under critical examination.

And if a work can go from cult to art, how about from art to cult? Could there be classic works that have achieved a new kind of cult status because they are so revered? Tell me there aren't Hamlet geeks (err, devotees) out there. Or people who are way over-the-top for Joyce's Ulysess or Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow.

Hmm, feels like a circle is closing. Too much critical rigor and you're a cult all over again. Nice!

Beautiful Dark Chapter 7: Wild At Heart

I didn't expect to like Greg Olson's chapter on David Lynch's Wild At Heart. I didn't expect to like it because I do not like Wild At Heart. It is my least favorite David Lynch film (for reasons I will discuss below). So I was dreading reading this chapter, expecting to find myself at odds with Olson, forced to explain why I think the film is unsatisfying while he praises it as an artistic success. But now, after reading this latest chapter from Beautiful Dark, I do not find myself in this position. Olson does praise the film. He finds much merit in Wild At Heart. He casts a perceptive eye on the work and provides a valuable discussion of the film's themes and Lynch's over-all approach to his material. I cannot argue with such a lucid and respectful approach to any work, especially one by David Lynch. In short, Olson has written another fascinating and valuable analysis of a Lynch film.

Like any good film criticism (and like all of Beautiful Dark's chapters so far), Olson analysis made me want to go back and watch parts of Wild At Heart. I re-watched much of the film and found that, despite Olson's keen observations, I still don't like it. Though Olson shows that there is a psychological complexity to Lula and Sailor, the film's protagonists, they are, to me, less compelling than most Lynch characters. Wild At Heart is about two people reacting to the insanity and excesses of the world around them. Through Lula and Sailor Lynch wants to show that the world is, indeed, "wild at heart and weird on top." It is full of violence and unfairness and uncertainty. In order to stay grounded and safe in such a crazy, brutal world, Sailor and Lula seek comfort and security from each other. It is their relationship and their connectedness—rather than their individual relationship to the world—that is central to Wild At Heart. This is what makes the movie different from other Lynch works where conflict is typically found inside a main character who must cope with psychological imbalance or emotional insecurity.

These individual conflicts are not absent from Wild At Heart; Lula in particular struggles with her own denials and perceptions of self. As Lynch told David Breskin in the book, Inner Views, "Lula plays tricks on herself, like we all do. She blocks out many parts of reality so she can still continue to be Lula" (p. 86). (I've written in Wrapped In Plastic that Lula is very much like Laura Palmer in that she creates mental barriers against difficult truths in order to stay sane.) But these internal struggles do not occupy the foreground of Wild At Heart. The relationship between Lula and Sailor takes that spot. As Greg Olson points out, it is through this relationship that Lynch explores a violent and crazy world: "Lynch felt an out of control craziness in the American air . . . ." (p. 307.) and "saw Wild At Heart as a chance to express his concern for the health of his cherished country and his belief in the saving grace of human connection" (p. 309).

And so Wild At Heart is about two people who together encounter an extreme, bizarre and seedy American landscape. Lynch's desire to explore the craziness in America gives him license to fully depict the grotesque, the repulsive and the ultra-violent. It is this aspect of Wild At Heart that turns me off. Lynch goes to great lengths to show extremity everywhere and in everyone. Wild At Heart features out-of-control fires, car wrecks, brutal murders, rape, torture, sadism and insanity. Lynch turns an unflinching eye on all of this (in fact, as Olson points out, Lynch's original cut was so extreme that the director knew he had to make edits for fear of making his film too repulsive). All of the insanity in Wild At Heart is happening outside of Sailor and Lula's control. The only way to cope with it is for the couple to stay true to one another, to let their love give them shelter. I find this a rather simplistic theme. What's more, a viewer has to go through a lot of messy excess just to get this easy message. In the end, Wild At Heart turns out to be less relevant and less thought-provoking than what we expect from David Lynch. As Craig Miller wrote in Wrapped In Plastic 74:

There is an unusual distance between the viewer and the main characters [and so] we do not feel their passion for each other. Neither [do] we feel the violence. These elements just lie on the screen, shiny and pretty . . . . If we're not supposed to feel the passion and the violence how are we supposed to respond? The film is not an analytical dissection of violence--say, the problems Lynch saw in America at the time--or a treatise on finding love in a crazy world. In short, there's nothing much to think about in Wild At Heart. (WIP 74, p. 10)

Fortunately, Greg Olson gave me more to think about than I expected. He provides and important look at Lynch's motivations for making the film and his examination of Lula shows that there may be more at work in Wild At Heart than first appears. I ended up enjoying Olson's chapter on Wild At Heart far more than I did the movie, itself. It was a far more cerebral experience and certainly more comfortable. Despite Olson's good analysis I still maintain that the film has less to offer than any other Lynch film. I do not feel challenged by Wild At Heart and I certainly don't feel moved by it. And that seems an odd reaction to a David Lynch film, don't you think?

Bits And Pieces (2)

A few notes of interest from the past month:

Yes, Watchmen seems to have come and gone but I have few items to share and then I'll put it behind me (at least until the DVD comes out). This is one of the best reviews of the film I've seen. It is quite negative but you can't argue with points the reviewer makes and I especially like how he uses the original comic to support his argument. Now, I liked the Watchmen movie and I still do even after reading the review. So why did the film still work for me despite such valid criticisms? Esteemed author Michael Swanwick nicely encapsulates an answer. (One final note about Watchmen: I started watching the Complete Motion Comic on Blu-Ray DVD and am thoroughly enjoying it. Seeing Dave Gibbons panels in such clear close-up shows me things I've missed before. The animation is done with great care and understanding of the material. I highly recommend it.)

*****

I've read three books in the past month and all have been outstanding. Tender Morsels by Margo Lanagan is one of the best fantasies published last year. It is marketed as "young adult" but don't let that arbitrary categorization fool you. This is a book for sophisticated readers of any age.

I read an advanced copy of The City and The City by China Mieville and was quite impressed. This is a book that will generate a lot of talk in the coming months. The book reads like a fantasy but most assuredly is not. Mieville posits two fictional European cities that occupy the exact same geography--the exact same spot on the globe. The only thing that keeps the cities separate is the mental effort of citizens to recognize only elements of their respective cities--their fashions, buildings, foods, etc.--even if they are standing next to a citizen from the other city (whom they must "unsee"). Mieville uses so many recognizable fantasy tropes (words like alterity and breach and cross-hatching and unsee) that you aren't sure what he is doing until well into the story (that is if you haven't been warned by someone who's read it already!). The book is very good but I suspect some will wonder why Mieville created such an outlandish scenario and yet refused to make it fantasy. I think the book is a success however and that Mieville has done something unique and relevant. I will have to write more about this book soon.

I read Rogue Male by Geoffrey Household, a classic chase story written in 1939. It still holds up extremely well today (I guess that's why they call it a classic).

*****

Finally, I was quite impressed with the Where The Wild Things Are trailer. I look forward to seeing this movie in October. Dave Eggers is supposedly writing a novel adaptation of the film called The Wild Things. I am both worried and excited.

"Full of Sound and Fury, Signifying Nothing"

Doubtless many will opine on the series finale of Battlestar Galactica. Here's my measly two cents:

The two-hour series ending episode of Galactica was, to say the least, underwhelming. It was noise and bombast and then emotion and irony and it fell far short of being in any way satisfying. Long ago it became painfully obvious that the series writers were making things up as they went. As a viewer of much television over many years I have developed a certain tolerance for this modus operandi. It is common practice for most TV writers to plot for the short term. But worse than "making things up as you go" is unmaking things up as you go. When you establish some fact about a character or create a new situation in your universe we expect those new facts and situations to have some permanence. This didn't happen on Galactica. Characters constantly underwent personality changes or found themselves in new and unlikely situations only to change again at the whim of the plot a few episodes later.

It happened so much it became tiresome to watch Battlestar Galactica. Remember how Lee Adama became commander of Pegasus, then a lawyer, then inexplicably the president of the Colonies? This was after Baltar went from eccentric scientist to vice-president to, you guessed it, president. And let's not forget the most painful and obvious "unmaking" of all: In season 3, Starbuck finds Earth--a planet that exists in our exact solar system and looks exactly like our Earth. The refugees reach Earth only to find it a radioactive ruin. Earth, it seems, is a lost cause. But in the finale, Starbuck guides the fleet to another Earth. Again, it looks exactly like our Earth (same continents, single large moon, etc.). We're supposed to believe (now) that the first Earth was false, despite the painstaking detail that earlier established it as the one and only Earth. This final "plot twist" of a second Earth is unforgivable. It is shameful and insulting and damning evidence that the writers had little faith in themselves and no regard for their audience.

Few shows have started out so well and ended up so poorly. The first season-and-a-half of Galactica was superb. It invited repeat viewings if only for the sheer power and excitement of the battle sequences. But the show was so much more than fancy effects. The characters were complex and flawed and the mythology held such promise.

The Cylons had a plan! The colonists had clues to find Earth! But we soon learned that there was no plan (or too many). And the clues to finding Earth were arbitrary.

Many will debate exactly when Battlestar Galactica went awry. For me, it was one specific moment: When Commander Cain is eulogized by Starbuck. Suddenly Cain, who behaved like a tyrant, was depicted as a hero. Why did Starbuck praise Cain? No normal character (especially Starbuck) would ever think well of such a dictator. It was here, at this moment, that character development was sacrificed for the arbitrariness of plot. No longer would characters act according to the events around them. No longer would they develop in way that made sense. From this point forward they would behave as the plot demanded. As a result they became cardboard cutouts or worse, puppets whose actions were completely at the whim of writers who did not know where the show should (or could) go.

I loved Galactica for a time. And though there were some good and great episodes in the seasons that followed the Pegasus arc it became impossible to overlook the slipshod way in which the show was handled. The last episode encapsulated this disregard for plotting. Everything felt contrived. Throw-away scenes from earlier episodes were shoe-horned into an increasingly nonsensical plot and for awhile you wanted to turn away in embarrassment for everyone who was involved. In the end the writers could only rely in the ultimate deus ex machina ending (God's grand plan) to establish any kind of lasting closure for their seasons-long storyline. It was sloppy, amateurish writing and a sad end to a once great series with wonderful potential.

R.I.P. Battlestar Galactica. Yours was a long and painful death.

Beautiful Dark Chapter 6: Twin Peaks Season 1

There was a period of about four years after David Lynch's work on Blue Velvet that was, as Greg Olson explains, abundantly productive for Lynch. He continued to paint and then, with a lucky break and growing confidence, showed his work in galleries in New York and Los Angeles. He co-starred with Isabella Rossellini in the feature film, Zelly and Me. He directed the short film, The Cowboy and the Frenchman, for French magazine, Figaro. And then he began a fruitful partnership with Mark Frost that had him deeply involved in three projects which never came to fruition but which planted the seeds for one of the most striking television series ever—Twin Peaks.

Olson provides some good background on how Frost and Lynch teamed up. Most Peaks fans know that they were brought together by Lynch's agent, Tony Krantz. Soon the duo was producing scripts. First up was Venus Descending, a biography-drama about the life and death of Marilyn Monroe. Then they pitched the idea of a of science fiction TV series, The Lemurians, in which detectives would probe the possible presence of aliens on earth. Finally, they produced a script for a comedy film entitled, One Saliva Bubble. (The story tells the tale of a freak accident that causes people to switch identities.) None of these projects ever came to be (One Saliva Bubble may have come closest to production) but each contributed a significant piece to the eventual Twin Peaks universe: From Venus Descending, the mysterious death of a beautiful and much-admired young blonde woman (and the name Norma Jennings); from One Saliva Bubble, the idea of variable identity; and from The Lemurians, the scenario of the FBI investigating the supernatural.

Stymied by the collapse of these early productions, Lynch and Frost huddled together to produce the script for the Twin Peaks pilot. They pitched it to ABC and got the go-ahead to shoot. The rest is history, although for this chapter Olson is only interested in examining the early days of Twin Peaks (presumably there will be much more to come in Chapter 8 of Beautiful Dark; there, Olson will look at Peaks season 2 and the film, Fire Walk With Me).

Olson delves into the pilot, describing the themes and mood of the film. He painstakingly analyzes the opening few minutes explaining how they set the tone for the rest of the episode and the series. He examines the dynamic of the Palmer family and notes Sarah and Leland Palmer's intense emotional reactions to the news of their daughter's death. Olson provides a specific, perhaps overly-analytical examination of Sarah Palmer's phone scene early in the pilot. He looks at objects positioned on the window behind Sarah and argues they represent the roles of each member of the family. I won't reveal Olson's analysis here (check page 274) but suffice to say he places a lot of symbolism on objects which appear for but a few seconds on screen. I've been accused of over-analyzing Twin Peaks (an upcoming post on the identity of Judy in Fire Walk With Me will show you why) but this may be scrutiny to the extreme. Still, Olson's sharp examination of Dale Cooper is rewarding. He reminds us that Cooper is a sort of hybrid detective—one who embodies the strict forensic approach of Sherlock Holmes with an intuitive, feminine sensibility. Cooper "knows that his calculating brain alone can't take him where he needs to go." (p. 281)

After a thorough look at the pilot, Olson turns his attention to the second full hour of the series—the only other episode of the season directed by Lynch. Of course, most of his analysis centers on one of Twin Peaks' most riveting sequences: Dale Cooper's dream. Here, Olson shows how the dream allowed Laura Palmer to become an active and enduring presence in the narrative. Cooper did not merely dream about Laura, he became explicitly connected to her: "She is [. . .] his truly significant Other." (p. 292) This is a crucial observation because even though Laura Palmer is dead in the series she is still a vital presence in the story. The dream sequence underscores how—almost from the beginning—Lynch was interested in bringing Laura "back to life" and transforming her from a simple plot object (dead victim) to an autonomous subject (story protagonist). Lynch will make a far more valiant effort at such a transformation in Fire Walk With Me.

Olson acknowledges the critical function of Cooper's Dream ("it will become the extraordinary common ground of Twin Peaks' narrative," p. 291) but he forgets to note the origin of the sequence. Most fans know that the dream comes from footage Lynch shot for the "European ending" to the pilot—an extra fifteen minutes of story added by Lynch and Frost to make the pilot a stand-alone work. Although the extended ending does little to tie things up, it does provide a form of closure to the initial Twin Peaks story. Incorporating this sequence into the on-going series, however, may have introduced a few problems. As we wrote in Wrapped In Plastic 59:

The dream is positioned as a crucial piece of the narrative—a puzzle whose solution will lead to the murderer's identity. But the dream sequence is arguably just visual poetry by Lynch, an almost ad-libbed sequence developed to provide an ending to the pilot for its overseas release as a stand-alone movie. This "European ending" originally had little connection with the Twin Peaks story; it was something Lynch had created at the last minute of filming. In describing the creation of the alternate ending, Lynch said he was "just winging stuff for the ending we had to do," and that "nothing was really that thought out" (Lynch on Lynch, edited by Chris Rodley, p. 165). The rest of the Twin Peaks narrative will be driven by this short, whimsical piece of film. The result will be an astonishing and revolutionary (but sometimes convoluted) television series. (p. 10)

The lack of discussion about the origin of the dream and how it's placement into the narrative would affect the trajectory of the series seems like a significant oversight. Still, Olson gives the dream its due, exploring its unusual format and showing how it fits perfectly with Lynch's filmic sensibility. Olson completes the chapter with discussion of the rest of the first season and looks at the phenomenal public reaction the series garnered. He also looks at the critical role Mark Frost played in the production and how collaboration was both a boon and burden for Lynch.

Twin Peaks remains one of David Lynch's greatest accomplishments and Olson does justice to the first season in this mesmerizing chapter. And there is still so much more Twin Peaks to come.