How have I managed to go this long without seeing a series as heralded as Twin Peaks, a show that pretty much defines the notion of “cult television,” a show by one of the oft proclaimed geniuses of cinema? Well, for one thing, I was a kid when it first came out. When the pilot episode was broadcast in April of 1990, I was fourteen years old and, in all honesty, that year I was far more excited that The Flash had his own show.
Which, I admit, still doesn’t explain why I haven’t caught up to the show in the subsequent twenty-four years. The answer to that conundrum is that I’ve never been a huge David Lynch fan. Once I stopped watching television shows about superheroes and turned my attention to cinema, I went in pretty hard for the old stuff: noir, Westerns, sixties European art cinema. By the time I got around to Lynch, my taste had formed in other directions. That’s not to say that I don’t admire David Lynch. I like parts of many of his films, and I love all of Mulholland Drive and The Straight Story. But that’s about as far as I’ve gone with him. Which makes me the perfect man for this job. I come to Twin Peaks as someone who likes, but doesn’t love the cinema of David Lynch. I come as an admirer, but not a true believer.
Over the years, I’ve gone out of my way to steer clear of Twin Peaks—for fear of learning too much and spoiling the discovery of the show itself. I could easily avail myself of the answers to its mysteries with the click of a few buttons, but, then again, if I wanted to do so, I could also ruin the end of pretty much every novel ever written. But I’ve always suspected that Twin Peaks might hold far more enjoyment in its mysteries than in its questions. So come along with me as I make my first trip to Twin Peaks, Washington.
We'll see what there is to see.
Jake Hinkson's posts on the first season air every Monday and Friday throughout March!