Leaving aside the edge-of-your-seat plotlines, witty dialogue, bevy of beours, impromptu soliloquies loaded with humour and cult characters, Twin Peaks (1990-1) has a visual aesthetic that’s caught brilliantly somewhere between film noir, Ghost World and The Powerpuff Girls. Cinematic auteur David Lynch creates an atmosphere thick with the same odd creepy loveliness of Lana del Rey’s voice/songs, transforming something as innocent as a prom photo into a repeated image synonymous with murder and deception. Even the light parts of Twin Peaks like the comic relief characters or the gorgeous elaborate-wooden-lodge settingsfeel like they’re papering over something more bizarre or warped, surfaces which jar heavily with the hidden horrors of Laura Palmer’s murder. Like a cake made with Splenda, the show teases you with a sharp high of reprieve followed by a puzzling low.
Having fallen into the rabbit hole in the Christmas DVD binge season of 2009, it’s a series which holds a special fetish section (try saying that ten times) in my heart. So after commencing my second Renaissance of the show at a friend’s house, with ground damn-good-coffee and a fried egg sandwich as is my TP tradition, I realised two things: That this show was the birth of my caffeine fixation AND that I’ve well and truly nestled back into my obsessive snuggery (or as snuggy a snuggery can be when you’re watching something as emotional and disturbing as this show).
Soundtrack downloaded, Audrey outfits lusted after, Phasers set to stun.