Agent Cooper, You Are Far Away

This article was originally published on Ferretbrain. I’ve backdated it to its original Ferretbrain publication date but it may have been edited and amended since its original appearance.

The news of a third season of Twin Peaks, coming 25 years or so after we last visited it via the weird hybrid prequel-sequel movie Fire Walk With Me, felt both like a glorious opportunity and an enormous creative risk. Not only had plot elements from the original’s ending suggested that a comeback in 25 years might be possible, but also the spectre of network interference that was widely held to have scuppered the original was banished. Written solely by creative leads Mark Frost and David Lynch, and directed from start to end by David Lynch, the whole prospect gave the series creators far more control than they ever had (or could have dreamed of receiving) during the show’s original run. Early on in the production process there was a risk that Lynch would walk away due to not being given the budget to tell the story he wanted; Showtime buckled, gave him a free hand, and later took pride in promising viewers the “pure heroin David Lynch”. That in itself is testimony of how the original Twin Peaks changed the television landscape. The major question was whether the magic of the original could be recaptured.

I’m not going to get into a spoilerful analysis in this review (and will thank commenters for using spoiler tags liberally in the comments), but in short: no, to a large extent they didn’t recapture the old formula. They did not try to, and in retrospect they would have been fools to attempt it; in the past quarter of a century what was fresh and different about so much of Twin Peaks has become part of the standard toolkit of serial television. That “pure heroin David Lynch” line is apt, because more or less the only aspect of Twin Peaks that hasn’t been successfully imitated is the distinctive aesthetic vision and apt for utter weirdness that Lynch brings to the table. (Wild Palms largely sabotaged itself trying to go faux-Lynchian, and it generally hasn’t been a recipe for success since then either.)

It becomes apparent very early on in this third season (sometimes dubbed Twin Peaks: the Return) that Frost and Lynch know full well that their unique selling point lies in letting David be David; the big question was whether you could do that over 18 episodes of a TV series and not allow it to become frustrating and stale. Incredibly, they more or less manage it, and they do it by once again refusing to be bound by the accepted wisdom of how television works.

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“There Are Things Happening In This House…”

This article was originally published on Ferretbrain. I’ve backdated it to its original Ferretbrain publication date but it may have been edited and amended since its original appearance.

Jacques Rivette was a director and film critic in the French New Wave movement whose style I would compare to a sort of cinematic equivalent of the magical realism strand in literature. You have the same combination of a real world, usually contemporary setting with hints of more unusual things going on and occasional overt lapses into supernaturalism, and a sort of enigmatic, reticent style of direction which, much like the narrative style of the magical realism authors, means that the story tends to keep its secrets close to its chest.

One factor which has made Rivette’s material hard for newcomers to appreciate is the extreme length of some of it. Whilst Rivette would make films of a more usual running time, his most famous work, Out 1, is a truly daunting prospect. There’s an abridged version entitled Out 1: Spectre, which goes at over 4 hours, but the full experience – Out 1: Noli Me Tangere is an epic of almost 13 hours long. That’s naturally a barrier both to home media release and for cinematic revivals.

However, Arrow Academy have blessed us with an expansive boxed set, encompassing both versions of Out 1 and several subsequent projects in a similar magical realist vein, allowing for perhaps the easiest entry point to this difficult body of work ever offered to the public. Though they were filmed after, I will tackle the subsequent movies first, before moving on to a detailed analysis of Out 1.

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It Is Happening… Again

This article was originally published on Ferretbrain. I’ve backdated it to its original Ferretbrain publication date but it may have been edited and amended since its original appearance.

I’ve got good news: that gum you like is going to come back in style. Twin Peaks is returning for a new season after a 25 year gap that seems strangely planned, and I’m tremendously excited about the whole thing. One thing which is particularly gratifying is that show masterminds David Lynch and Mark Frost have remembered that Twin Peaks was an early example of a multimedia event, with tie-in media offering non-essential but sometimes fascinating supplementary material to enrich the experience.

One of the nice things about these items is that they were diegetic to the series, presented as artifacts from its world – sometimes representing significant plot points. Murder victim Laura Palmer’s secret diary, for instance, was a significant clue – and was actually published for us to read. Thus, ahead of the new series, Mark Frost has put out The Secret History of Twin Peaks, representing one supporting character’s idiosyncratic take on the subject that provides a few tantalising hints of what might be coming up, but focuses more on contextualising some of what has come before.

So, how best to catch up with Twin Peaks? The first port of call should probably be the now ironically-named Entire Mystery blu-ray set of the show’s original run, which includes all the episodes of both seasons, extensive extras, the prequel-sequel movie Fire Walk With Me, and – to the great delight of fans – a fat stack of cut scenes from Fire Walk With Me, spliced together by Lynch into what almost qualifies as a supplemental movie.

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To Know Is To Die

This article was originally published on Ferretbrain. I’ve backdated it to its original Ferretbrain publication date but it may have been edited and amended since its original appearance.

Although the Mel Gibson movie adaptation, which guts its nuances in order to fit into a Hollywood-appropriate running time, might be more prominent in some circles, I think in the long term it’s the original production of Edge of Darkness that will stand the test of time. Written by Troy Kennedy Martin – whose other credits included the first draft of The Italian Job, and directed by Martin Campbell (who in between directing this and the Mel Gibson version directed Goldeneye and the Daniel Craig version of Casino Royale), it’s an unmistakeable artifact of the 80s which, perhaps due to the fact that it pays only passing notice to the Cold War and deals with subject matters with half-lives greater than the lifespan of even the most secure nation states, still seems deeply relevant.

Ron Craven (Bob Peck) is an experienced Yorkshire police detective, who one dark and stormy night in the mid-1980s collects his adult daughter Emma (Joanne Whalley) from a meeting of a left-wing student organisation. As they’re dashing through the rain from the car to their front door, a man steps out of the darkness, screams Craven’s name, and raises a shotgun; Emma rushes forwards and takes both barrels to the torso and the the assassin flees into the night, leaving Emma dead at Craven’s feet.

Craven’s colleagues in the police think it’s a revenge killing – Ron worked in Special Branch in Northern Ireland during some of the most vicious parts of the Troubles, and therefore doesn’t want for enemies from that quarter. However, as Craven goes through the weirdly intrusive but sadly necessary chore of getting her possessions in order, he makes a string of alarming discoveries – a Geiger counter, a radiation dosimeter, and a vicious-looking automatic pistol. Craven knew that Emma was a member of Gaia, a radical environmentalist group, and he was aware that Gaia had planned some sort of action involving Northmoor, a privatised nuclear facility owned by International Irradiated Fuels.

Is it possible that, despite all Craven’s warnings, Emma and her cohorts actually went to Northmoor – and if so, does that mean she was the assassin’s target? Mysterious Whitehall duo Pendleton (Charles Kay) and Harcourt (Ian McNeice) certainly think so, and so does an American contact of theirs, the avuncular CIA agent Darius Jedburgh (Joe Don Baker). On top of that, American businessman Jerry Grogan (Kenneth Nelson), owner of the Fusion Corporation of Kansas, seems to have his own interest in the affair, particularly since he intends to purchase International Irradiated Fuels (and Northmoor with it). Just what is inside Northmoor that could be worth all this subterfuge? What vision does Grogan have for the future that requires him to own Northmoor? What extremes will Jedburgh go to in the pursuit of his own agenda? And is Craven merely imagining things in his grief, or is he really being guided in his investigation by the ghost of Emma?

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The Sorceror’s CEO

This article was originally published on Ferretbrain. I’ve backdated it to its original Ferretbrain publication date but it may have been edited and amended since its original appearance.

1986’s Edge of Darkness, a one-series-and-done thriller about murder, nuclear cover-ups, ecology, space colonisation, global extinction, and the role of ancient secret societies in all of the above, prompted a brief fad for dramas featuring a touch of magical realism or esoteric conspiracy here and there. They didn’t make a big deal of it at the time, mind, but if you look back the common threads become markedly more evident. The strangely compelling VHiStory blog, in which the author watches all the VHS tapes that have sat piled up in their garage for the past couple of decades, has made convincing arguments for a number of series as attempting to mimic the style and success of Edge of Darkness. Of these, both Jute City and Wipe Out have almost entirely vanished from view; neither has had an official DVD release, and whilst Jute City has appeared in bootleg form on YouTube footage of Wipe Out seems to be impossible to find. VHiStory makes a good case that Jute City seems to have followed the Edge of Darkness checklist a little too closely, whilst if Wipe Out‘s directly copied scenes from Edge of Darkness as VHiStory claims that might have created legal as well as commercial barriers to giving it another release.

Wipe Out was broadcast alongside The One Game, the third series VHiStory identifies as belonging to this “a bit like Edge of Darkness” microgenre. Unlike the others, it has enjoyed a DVD release, and for my money it stands on its two feet very well. Like Edge of Darkness, it’s full of ambiguous moments which can be read as suggesting a far more esoteric interpretation of events, but unlike Jute City or Wipe Out it benefits from a drastically more original story and an aesthetic style all of its own.

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Lights Out In Tokyo

This article was originally published on Ferretbrain. I’ve backdated it to its original Ferretbrain publication date but it may have been edited and amended since its original appearance.

Though I found that South of the Border, West of the Sun often dragged when I read it, I found it intriguing enough to want to read more Murakami – especially since I found that the book went much more smoothly once it was voted out and I could just sit down and tear through it, a fairly clear sign that the one-chapter-per-week format wasn’t quite right for the material in its case. After Dark is comparatively recent Murakami (originally published in 2004, English translation came out in 2007), and is the first one I’ve read since the competition ended, so I’ve no idea whether it’s representative of the general direction his writing has evolved in since South of the Border. It’s much like that novel in that it’s a blissfully short piece about alienation and loneliness in modern Japan shot through with magical realism, except I like it a lot better because it wears its high-weirdness heart on its sleeve and has a more developed cast of characters than the extremely self-absorbed Hajime of South of the Border and the people in his narrative that he chose to focus on.

The novel unfolds over the course of a single night, from just before midnight to shortly before dawn, with most of the action taking place in a somewhat seedy entertainment district of Tokyo. Young university student Mari, in the grip of insomnia, is spending the night studying at a Denny’s when Takahashi, a trombone-playing student that she had met briefly some time before approaches her and strikes up a conversation. A little later in the evening Mari is accosted by Kaoru, an acquaintance of Takahashi’s who manages a nearby “love hotel” – as far as I can tell, such things are Japanese equivalents of the sort of sleazy motel you always see Americans renting rooms at in order to have torrid affairs in TV shows, only they aren’t so coy about their purpose. A Chinese prostitute, Guo Dongli has been assaulted by a customer back at the love hotel, and Kaoru knows (via Takahashi) that Mari speaks Chinese and can therefore talk to Guo and find out what happened.

Hesitantly, Mari agrees to help, a decision which enmeshes both her and Takahashi in a series of encounters with the nocturnal denizens of the entertainment district over the course of the night, during which Mari and Takahashi establish a curious sort of bond. As we follow Takahashi, Mari, Kaoru and others through their nocturnal perambulations, back home Mari’s sister Eri sleeps – and has been sleeping continuously for two months. At midnight, the unplugged television in her room turns on and tunes to a mysterious channel, through which a mysterious force reaches forth to drag her into a world inside the televisi- ooooooh, so that’s where Atlus got the idea from… (Seriously, Eri’s even a model who’s all stressed about how her job just puts her out there for people to lech over and objectify, just like Rise.)

Given the high-weirdness premise I’m not sure I can give a particularly compelling analysis of the book based on one reading, or even articulate a response beyond “it’s quite good I like it”, but the overriding theme seems to be the importance of memory and of reaching out and making contact with people while you still have the opportunity. Takahashi, Mari and Kaoru all have regrets and bad times that they don’t like to recall, but as Takahashi observes it could be that being able and willing to draw on your memories is vital to survival as a sane human being. It’s through recalling times when she was close to Eri that Mari is able to reconsider the distance she’s created between herself and her sister, which seems to be essential to drawing Eri out of the state she’s in during the novel. The chain of coincidences and encounters that make up the story is kicked off precisely because Takahashi remembered meeting Mari previously, and therefore struck up a conversation with her, and it’s because Takahashi is so willing to share his recollections of past events in his life – many of which are quite sad – that he comes across as charming and honest as he does.

It’s consistently through recollection and reminiscence that people are drawn together in After Dark; every friendship that Mari makes that night is based on someone reminiscing with her, whether it’s Takahashi talking about his dad going to jail or Kaoru thinking about her former career as a professional wrestler or Guo recounting what happened to her. The converse of this is demonstrated by Shirakawa, the workaholic salaryman who assaults Guo, who divests himself of most of the evidence on his way home and by the end of the novel appears to have forgotten all about the incident. Living entirely in the present, Shirakawa lives a nocturnal life where he never really sees his family, and in ditching the evidence he also throws away the cellphone he stole from Guo – which means that when the Chinese gangsters telephone him to threaten him about it, he doesn’t get the warning. The threats they give – “You might forget what you did, but we will never forget” – underscore the point that in disavowing his past all Shirakawa has done is make himself entirely ignorant of what’s creeping up behind him. The other shoe never drops on this particular strand – the novel stops rather abruptly, as dawn comes – but I was left with the impression that Shirakawa was in for trouble sooner rather than later.

On balance, I’m very pleased with After Dark and I’m glad I picked it up, and I’m more likely to revisit it for another delve into its mysteries than South of the Border. I think the crucial difference is that Murakami made me care about all the characters in this one, whereas I couldn’t bring myself to care much about Hajime in South of the Border, and I don’t think I’d have cared much even if the chapters weren’t being rationed.