Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me (1992)

“In each of us, two natures are at war – the good and the evil. All our lives the fight goes on between them, and one of them must conquer. But in our own hands lies the power to choose – what we want most to be we are.” 

       -Robert Louis Stevenson

How do we measure the success of a work of fiction? Do we gravitate towards anything, whether it be literature, cinema, or music, because it upends certain conventions to deliver an experience that tests the boundaries of what a particular medium can convey for an audience? Or do we embrace the imperfections of certain works because their merits can leave an indelible impression, one that lingers for an exceptionally long time, because we ourselves are imperfect creatures? I'm not one to even begin answering these questions, nor do I believe any single person can answer them (criticism is a subjective profession, after all), yet I've nevertheless pored over these questions for quite some time after seeing David Lynch's Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me. Arguably the most divisive film in the director's oeuvre, it has drawn intense scorn from it's detractors as an indulgent, insane mess of a film. I cannot disagree with such dissension, not entirely anyway. It doesn't work, either as a conclusion to the beloved series on which it was based, nor as a stand-alone feature film for those who never even heard of the once immensely popular television show. It's not the best film David Lynch has directed, nor is it even by all accounts the best David Lynch film I saw this past year (that would be his 1999 Disney film The Straight Story). Yet it had the most profound impact on me and has haunted me since I saw it.

If you're interested to hear the plot of this movie after that winning teaser of a paragraph, the film is a prequel of sorts to Twin Peaks. The first half hour or so of the film follows Special Agents Chester Desmond (Chris Isaak) and Sam Stanley (Kiefer Sutherland) investigating the mysterious circumstances surrounding the corpse of Teresa Banks, whose body was found floating down a river wrapped in plastic. The two men travel to Deer Meadow, the small town where Banks lived, in an effort to get some information out of the locals. They are not only not helpful but rude to the point of obstinacy. When our protagonists go to a small-town diner, the owner of the joint is a nasty woman with a cranky disposition towards anything with a pulse. "You wanna hear about our Specials? We don't have any", she tells the men with an insolent smile. Lynch has taken Norman Rockwell's vision of Americana and given it his own subversive twist in the past, yet the first half of this film may be the closest he comes to just outright satire of an idealistic vision of America gone horribly wrong.

Yet the film doesn't retain much of it's humor for long after Agent Desmond meets Banks' landlord Carl Rodd (Harry Dean Stanton, in a brief yet memorable role) who points Desmond in the direction of a mysterious trailer. Desmond investigates, and... disappears, his role as protagonist ending abruptly. Meanwhile, in Philadelphia, Special Agent Dale Cooper (Kyle MacLachlan) alerts his boss, Gordon Cole (David Lynch himself), to a ghastly premonition of something that will transpire later that day. Indeed Cooper's dream comes to pass when, inexplicably, Agent Phillip Jeffries (David Bowie. Yes, that David Bowie) appears out of nowhere and begins to ramble about a secret meeting place, some sinister figures, and a woman named Judy. Some of what he tells Cole and Cooper, including the phantoms that appear in his vision, will be familiar to attentive fans of the series, while most of it will puzzle and confound the audience. Then Bowie himself disappears, never to be seen again save for a brief cameo near the film's end as a talking monkey. I think.

A year passes, and we cut to the sleepy town of Twin Peaks, Washington. Laura Palmer (Sheryl Lee) is the town celebrity, the Homecoming Queen of her High School, and one of the most revered women from both her teenage and adult peers. Yet behind that beautiful, smiling mask is a young woman in trouble, like so many female protagonists in Lynch's films. She snorts cocaine in the girls restroom, sleeps around with men twice her age, and is terrorized by a disturbing specter named BOB (Frank Silva) who has been sexually abusing her since the age of twelve. Who BOB is will come as no surprise to those who have watched the show, yet I won't spoil his true identity for those who remain ignorant of one of the most famous revelations on a network television series. I am, however, not giving anything away by saying that Laura does not survive by the film's end.

It is worth briefly explaining the context of the release of Fire Walk With Me in 1992. Twin Peaks, which concerned itself with the investigation of the murder of Laura Palmer, was immensely popular in it's first season, sparking a nationwide conversation that precedes the water-cooler effect of serialized dramas like Lost or Breaking Bad. Audiences demanded a resolution to the investigation, which is exactly what they got halfway through the second season. Lynch left the show for a while, and the show's writers scrambled to find something to replace the central mystery. Their desperation shows, and much of the second season is a pale imitation of what came before. ABC cancelled the show, not unjustly, but not before Lynch and fellow showrunner David Frost conjured up a final batch of episodes that culminated in one of the gutsiest, freakiest series finales to ever air. The fact that it ended in a cliffhanger over the fate of Agent Cooper only drove fans further into anguish.

So, with this feature film, Lynch had a chance to right the wrongs of the past season, to tie up loose ends and earn the redemption of critics and audiences. Yet what we got was a prequel that divulged in information many fans already knew, and only barely alluded to several loose ends. There's one long, rather hypnotic dream sequence where Laura enters a painting given to her by a mysterious old woman, which leads to a vision of Cooper in the mysterious Red Room, warning her about a ring that's played a crucial role before and will do so again. It culminates in a rather startling cameo from a woman that tries to give Laura a command. Who that woman is the uninitiated will have no clue, and while fans will recognize her they will still be frustrated at what significance, if any, her cameo in the film really has.

I can imagine my rather faint praise so far has led you to believe that this is, as so many have said before, a bad film. It is an uneven film, to be sure, with plot strands that go nowhere either because Lynch was naive enough to think he'd be able to make two more films in the Twin Peaks saga or because he deliberately keeps his trademark air of ambiguity. It will not satisfy hardcore fans, and it will understandably repulse most with it's unrelentingly bleak tone once Laura enters the picture. Yet, against all odds, it is Laura Palmer herself who is the film's saving grace. She is brought to savage, radiant life by Sheryl Lee, who was meant solely as an enigmatic catalyst that unveiled the secrets of her little town in the show. Here, she is a young woman who uses her sexual prowess as a weapon as well as a mask for the terror and torment eating inside of her every waking moment. In a crucial scene, she brutally mocks James (James Marshall), the sweet but dumb biker boy she's seeing outside of her boyfriend Bobby (Dana Ashbrook), in an attempt to keep him safe from harm. This scene is recounted in the show, yet it retains a fresh urgency and painful immediacy thanks to Lee's incredible performance. Lee has many scenes in this film where she has to adapt to different personae within a span of seconds, yet she never loses her footing, and she remains a captivating and heartbreaking heroine that gains our sympathy even when she can be cruel, or in one instance, actually horrifying.

What makes Fire Walk With Me worthy of merit, warts and all, is it's core parable of a girl in the dark, throbbing heart of suburbia who believes she is beyond redemption, and whose story ends in violent tragedy. Though I knew where the film was going, I could not anticipate just how terrifying the final twenty minutes of this film would be. However, I did not expect just how powerful the conclusion would be either, and there is indeed salvation for Laura Palmer, and perhaps for Dale Cooper as well. It is not the ending of the show I would have wanted, but I have to admire the temerity of Lynch for ending his saga of small-town America with an operatic horror film that doubles as Sophoclean tragedy. Even with the talking monkey.

Frozen (2013)

“True love is the best thing in the world, except for cough drops.” 

       -William Goldman

Frozen, the new holiday hit from Disney, has been in development for almost as long as the studio has existed. As far back as the early 1940s, a film adaptation of The Snow Queen and several other fables by Hans Christian Andersen were considered by both Disney and Samuel Goldwyn, but the collaboration was never to be. Discussions of adapting the classic parable of good and evil as experienced by two young children were resurrected in the early 1990s in the midst of such hits as The Little Mermaid (another Andersen story), Beauty and the Beast, and Aladdin. Yet once again the project was eventually shelved, and Disney would choose to release several classics (and one or two misfires) during their famed Renaissance. Since then, in the past thirteen years or so, the studio has produced mostly mediocre movies that have been overshadowed by Pixar, and even Dreamworks, in their efforts to tweak their formula for a modern audience. So now, after decades of development hell, here comes Frozen, a film as much committed to being hip for a cynical audience as it is to evoking the style and tone of a bygone era for a nostalgic demographic. This is an exceptionally difficult, if not impossible bar to meet, and I'd be lying if I said Disney had pulled off a perfect landing with their latest. Yet I'd also be lying if I said I wasn't impressed with how well it manages this Herculean task (certainly far better than Hercules back in the day).

The plot of the film bears little to absolutely no resemblance to the source material, so a summary is necessary: two regal sisters named Anna and Elsa live in the kingdom of Arendelle (re: Scandinavia). Anna is fairly normal, if slightly rambunctious, whereas her sister has the power to control ice and snow. Yet after a nearly fatal accident, Anna's memory of her sister's powers is erased by a tribe of trolls who dwell deep in the woods and the King and Queen isolate Elsa inside the castle walls in an attempt to keep her sorcery a secret. While her parents try to help her control her powers, Elsa only grows more frightened and emotionally distant as means of protecting her loved ones from herself. I can imagine just how much more smoothly this would have gone with a court-appointed family therapist, but I digress.

The years pass, and while Anna attempts to instigate some sort of relationship with her reticent sibling, their parents suffer a fate that befalls nearly every parent in a Disney film, and the sisters are left with only each other and a kingdom to rule. This montage is portrayed through a song called "Do You Want to Build a Snowman?", and while I must admit I didn't expect much from a song that shares a similar title with a memorable number from Cannibal! The Musical, I was pleasantly surprised with the economy of the storytelling and emotional impact of the sequence. The final image of the song in particular conveys a startling depth of sadness that is arguably the most acute portrayal of grief over the death of parents in a Disney film since Lilo & Stitch.

Three years later, Elsa is preparing for her Summer Coronation as Queen. The eldest sibling is terrified of the social cues she'll have to maintain and keeping her powers at bay whereas the younger sister is elated at the thought of having life back in the castle and perhaps falling in love. Which is of course what happens when she literally bumps into Prince Hans, a dashingly handsome young man from the Southern Isles who seems to be the one for Anna (they finish each others' sandwiches, after all) and they become engaged later that night. Anna approaches Elsa for her blessing of the union, yet Elsa actually refuses to grant it. It's about time for someone in a Disney film to admit just how bizarre it is for any two people who just met to declare that they are soul mates.

This sets off a chain of events which reveal Elsa's powers to the public and force her to flee the kingdom, inadvertently causing the land to fall into a deep winter. Anna is determined to find her sister, and thus sets off on a journey to save her home. She of course encounters a slew of colorful characters along the way, including Kristoff and his reindeer Sven (the wild man enjoys having conversations with the mute reindeer) and an enchanted snowman named Olaf who dreams of Summer, completely oblivious to what his morbid fate will be (this is wonderfully illustrated in his signature number, "In Summer"). Our heroes make their way through the winter wonderland towards Elsa's newly constructed ice castle, and the vistas and landscapes are easily one of the best parts of the film. The animation in the film is absolutely top-notch for all of the characters, as is to be expected from a Disney film, but Frozen is a film you could really get lost in, from it's imposing mountaintops to the multitude of trees covered in droplets of ice. One of the chief inspirations for the animators was Powell and Pressburger's 1947 classic Black Narcissus, and the same painterly attention to detail can be seen here. In fact, Powell himself stated he was inspired by Disney films of the era for the look of his erotic thriller about nuns in the Himalayas, and thus the circle of influence closes upon itself.

Another solid aspect of the film are the songs. Written by the husband-and-wife duo Robert Lopez and Kristen-Anderson Lopez, the showtunes are certainly catchy, yet more importantly there is barely a number here that feels extraneous to either the plot or character development, a problem which plagued the otherwise decent The Princess and the Frog. The cast is certainly game for the music, with the majority being comprised of seasoned Broadway veterans, though I will say I was delightfully surprised with Kristen Bell's heretofore unheard vocal range as Anna. The showstopper "Let it Go" will win over Oscar voters and Broadway fanatics with Idina Menzel's commanding delivery, though I must admit I was fond of Bell's work in songs like "For the First Time in Forever" and of course "Do You Want to Build a Snowman?" She has a terrific voice, but never forgets to imbue Anna with an awkward and humble charm that counters well with her sister's constricted demeanor and barely contained sadness.

So with all of these positive attributes, does the film live up to the hype as the finest Disney musical since The Lion King or even The Hunchback of Notre Dame? Well, yes and no. Yes, because it's music is consistently good, it has some distinct and marvelous characters, and because it is a visual marvel that incorporates brilliant animation. Yet there are some problems I have with the film regarding a major twist in the final third (which I won't dare spoil here). It's clever in theory, yet it pales in comparison to a similar, far better executed twist in last year's Wreck-it Ralph, and even the storytelling doesn't quite handle it's many elements as well as Ralph did. Yet the film maintains it's heart and never betrays what it's really about, which is of course True Love. A Disney trope, to be sure, yet with a distinct twist that surprised a jaded cynic like myself. And if Disney can, even in some small measure, surprise us after all these years, I'd consider that something to treasure.

After Hours (1985)

 “Your mind is working at its best when you're being paranoid. You explore every avenue and possibility of your situation at high speed with total clarity.” 

-Banksy

I think a lot of critics and cineastes take simple cinematic concepts for granted. This isn't to say that I feel the standards we hold a film up to should be lowered, but that we should rather revel in the genius of a well-executed high-concept movie. A sterling example of a movie would be Martin Scorsese's After Hours, a frenetic comedy that's so dark it often verges on the macabre (the project was initially offered to an up-and-comer named Tim Burton, so one can only imagine just how stranger the film could have been). It may not have the ambition of some of Scorsese's justly praised classics, like Goodfellas or Raging Bull, yet I think it remains one of his greatest accomplishments as a filmmaker and an underrated American masterpiece of the 1980s.

The film recounts a day in the life of Paul Hackett (Griffin Dunne), a word processor who leads a perfectly bland existence behind his desk, one of many in row upon row upon row in his sterile workplace. After everyone files out of the grand doors marking the entrance to his workplace, Paul grabs a bite at a cafe and has a chance encounter with Marcy (Rosanna Arquette). He's attracted to her, they make small talk, they flirt, and Marcy gives him her number. It takes Paul only a few hours to decide to give Marcy a call and ask her out for a late night rendezvous. She agrees, and Paul takes a taxi to her place, only to have his $20 bill fly out of the window. Little does he know, this is only the beginning of a series of unfortunate events for poor Paul.

So Paul and Mary do meet up at her apartment, and... well, I want to be very careful about how I summarize what follows. Doing so would run the risk of spoiling many of the film's wicked comic surprises. To be as oblique as possible, I'll say that their date does not go as planned, and Paul tries to go home with barely a penny in his pocket. So he goes to a nearby bar to ask the bartender for change, yet the bartender can't open the register and needs the keys for it which are in his apartment, so Paul exchanges his keys for the keys to the register, and, well, you get an idea of where this is going. Except simultaneously, the film throws you for a loop in terms of the comic situations that Paul finds himself in. While there is a logical progression of sorts to what transpires over the night, there is nevertheless an abundance of bizarre happenings: a cat burglar is on the prowl, a punk rock club comes into play, a death bears great significance, and as the night slowly turns into morning it seems as if the entire city turns itself against Paul, like some mephistophelean metropolitan monster. When Paul witnesses a random murder that has no bearing on his plight, he cynically mumbles, "I'm probably gonna get blamed for that anyway".

This atmosphere of anxiety is rooted in some of the fundamental aspects of cinematic comedy, particularly in how the situation gradually builds and builds for our hero, more often than not to his disadvantage. Yet take into consideration the context of the genesis of this film: Scorsese had intended, at this point in his career, to direct his passion project The Last Temptation of Christ, yet at the last minute the studio pulled out of backing the production due to pressure from religious groups. Scorsese sought to make another film not necessarily because he wanted to, but because he needed to. You can see in this film a director who, much like his protagonist, feels lost in his own backyard and alienated from his own neighbors. By choosing a film meant as a diversion, Scorsese inadvertently channeled his fears, his anger, and his weariness into one of his most personal movies.

And what of the movie itself? Even without knowing what state of mind Scorsese was in while directing it, does the film hold up as a good story? To put it succinctly, yes it most certainly does. This is a bitingly funny film featuring ingenious comic set pieces that are executed with with flair and a feverish fervor. It's a chaotic comedy dancing on the edge of an emotional abyss, a fable of the absolute lunacy of life, as well as the humor and horror which entails from such lunacy. And when the film finally comes to that abyss, it stops to peer into it and ask what Peggy Lee serenades in the climax of the film: Is that all there is? Scorsese's answer, as well as Lee's: If that's all there is, my friend, then let's keep dancing.