When director and artist David Lynch passed away a few weeks ago, I immediately started rewatching Twin Peaks. With the exception of its 2017 return, I hadn’t watched the first two seasons in over a decade, and I was struck by how oddly soothing it was to revisit. Logging towns in the Pacific Northwest, townie weirdos, creeping dread, and bottomless cups of diner coffee? That’s my comfort food.
I don’t know much about David Lynch. Despite being a borderline superfan and having seen almost every movie and show he’s made (I’m not watching Dune or On the Air, guys, sorry). That was mostly a conscious choice. I suppose fandom requires you to know everything about your favorite filmmakers or musicians. I’m not immune to that desire; it’s only natural to probe a film’s greater meaning by deep-diving into the history of its creator. But with Lynch, I always let the mystery be. If he was going to be happily cagey and elusive about what he was trying to communicate, well, I wanted that work to exist just as mysteriously in my own brain.
It took nearly three months for me to watch Twin Peak: The Return; mind you, this was a few years after it debuted, mostly because I’m in that class of parents who are way behind on pop culture but also chronically online because of work. Still, I’m glad I experienced it on my own terms and avoided any noise about it on social media. My wife checked out after one episode, so it turned into late-night solo viewing, and I found myself passing out within 15 minutes of each episode.
