Modern Masterpiece - Twin

One aspect that I haven’t touched on which is incredibly impressive about the show is how true to reality the hacking is.

Elliot and other characters use authentic techniques, software, and tactics that real hackers use to perform hacks. So, if you are curious about how hacking works, like me, this show is an excellent gateway into that world. What defines a masterpiece? Well, I believe that a true masterpiece is a piece of art or entertainment that has the power to change people’s lives. It alters the way you view everything, and makes you think differently. In other words, it changes your perception of the world you find yourself in. That is what makes Mr. Robot a masterpiece, and I am living proof of it. I can say, without a word of a lie, that I am a changed person after this show. If not for Mr. Robot, I may not be studying Computer Science here at Trinity and aspiring to have a career in IT. I have always had an interest in Computer Science and tech, ever since my father introduced me to it when I was young. What sealed the deal was Mr. Robot. It did this by enveloping me into this world of cybersecurity and hacking, and never letting me go. It made a new home for me inside this idea for a world where all of this could take place, and it made me become decidedly fascinated with the real life version of what takes place in the show.

David Wilson

In a pompous and hortatory manner, some have the insolence to proclaim that David Lynch, of all filmmakers, is rather a “hack,” and his films “erratic” and “confusing.” While I have my own reservations regarding Lynch, it’s nothing but frankly absurd to posit that one of the most singular and idiosyncratic filmmakers to have ever endured the artistic handicap of working in Hollywood, “falls short,” especially in our aesthetically flat era of cinema where the likes of Quentin Tarantino and Steven Spielberg — ostensible men, but with the same sense of aesthetic refinement as little, bombastic boys — are regarded by many to be some of the greatest filmmakers of all time, if not the greatest. Lynch proves himself as one of few artists and filmmakers in all of recent cinema history that has managed to accomplish the impossible — in creating films and television that are both original, artistically, and genuinely entertaining. Lynch, without question, demonstrates this with his opus, Twin Peaks: The Return (David Lynch, 2017), a swansong to his singular and eclectic career. The series, set 25 years later than the original Twin Peaks (David Lynch, 1989), is it’s greatest, illustrating the totality of Lynch’s mastery of his craft, which seamlessly translates to the small screen. The series’ lead character FBI Special Agent Cooper (Kyle MacLachlan) spends the majority of the film in a spasmodic state, exhibiting strange behaviours — surely fitting when in consideration of the undeniable and steady cultural degeneration of the United States and it’s cultural landscape since the original series was released. In the show, Agent Cooper, having been condemned to the realm of the ‘Black Lodge’ at the end of the original series and spends the following decades there, while an individuated Jungian ‘shadow’ of Agent Cooper, in league with an equally sinister spirit known as Bob (Frank Silva), assumes his identity: inflicting malefic misery on to his friends and colleagues, including his belovéd, Diane (Laura Dern). Despite accusations levelled at Twin Peaks and Lynch’s oeuvre generally for being “beyond comprehension,” I think that it’s apparent from watching Twin Peaks: The Return that Lynch has found that the world, and especially the United States, has only regressed, becoming darker and more depraved than ever, since the murder of homecoming queen Laura Palmer (Sheryl Lee) in the original series, ergo the crucial need for the later installment. Forsaking the, at times, ‘lightness’ of the original series, the final installment has more in common, tonally, with Lynch’s directorial debut Eraserhead (David Lynch, 1977), but not all together humourless. But in a sense, for better or worse, Twin Peaks: The Return is seemingly a monument to an undercurrent sense of bleakness; a particular hopelessness; and a longing to return to a cultural landscape that has since been lost to time. Aside from Agent Cooper being imprisoned in the ‘Black Lodge’ realm for several decades, and then finally returning to reality in in an incapacitated, spasmodic form, various other iconic Twin Peaks characters reveal that they are

unwitting victims of an exceedingly morbid yet largely inexplicable zeitgeist: where returning, recognisable characters have seemingly and multilaterally regressed to shells of there former selves, and newer characters are equally afflicted by a kind of innate propensity for tragedy. Alongside various other divertingly dejecting examples, Sheriff Harry S. Truman (Michael Ontkean), in the new series, is so ill that he doesn’t reprise his role; heartthrob James Hurley (James Marshall) has degenerated to become a, frankly, pathetic creep; Sarah Palmer (Grace Zabriskie) is now hinged and reclusive, reckoning with new-found, seemingly Satanic powers; the long-dead Major Garland Briggs (Don S. Davis) makes a peculiar reemergence as an unclad corpse, and Mike Nelson (Gary Hershberger), instead of a ‘cool’ teenage ruffian, is now a banal, professional managerial class bully. The new characters on the show are no less forsaken and equally dysfunctional, and seemingly, the world of the series outside of the titular town of Twin Peaks is even more perverse. Indeed, unlike the original series, Twin Peaks is just one of a number of settings in what is, ultimately, a more well-rounded epic and aspirational soap opera that is just too audacious, artistically, to be equated to traditional television, extending beyond the scope of soap opera. While Twin Peaks: The Return is incontrivabily a visceral and emotionallycharged expression of Lynch’s thoughts and intuitions regarding the modern world, the series, which is verily more like one, singular art film, also serves as a tribute to his entire filmography, a ‘David Lynch’s Greatest Hits’ in a sense that the series doesn’t relent in making reference to virtually all of Lynch’s body of work, and covers recurrent themes of Lynch’s earlier works, including his pre-Hollywood, avant-garde experiments, for example, with its scenes of grotesque vomiting, recalling Lynch’s short film, Six Men Getting Sick (David Lynch, 1966). In an aesthetic sense, Twin Peaks: The Return borrows from, and repurposes, the Lynchian pantheon of glittering images of former projects: from the infinite, phantasmagorical highways and intrusive headlights recalling Lost Highway (David Lynch, 1997), or the lurid melodrama, soap opera quality and uncanny aesthetics of Wild at Heart (David Lynch, 1990).

Twin Peaks, and particularly with it’s final installment, is, seemingly, Lynch’s answer to Berlin Alexanderplatz (Rainer Werner Fassbinder, 1980), two equally inordinate, Miltonian epics of television, which, arguably, serves as their respective magnum opera that on some level, in spite of their singular artistic visions, by some miracle, reckons with the entire scope of the filmmaker’s entire, sprawling careers which ultimately finds that he has mastered his craft. Or rather, the series is the contemporary, cinematic equivalent to Hieronymus Bosch’s triptych painting, The Garden of Earthly Delights or Samuel Richardsons’ one thousand, five hundred and thirty fourpage literary masterpiece Clarissa: Or, The History of a Young Lady. Indeed, while Twin Peaks, like Clarissa before it, was intended for mass consumption, it’s unequivocally the refined work of a master, delving into the immeasurable depth of the soul and sublimating his conclusions for the entire world to absorb.

“Actually, I just finished reading War and Peace” is how my parents found out I had learned nothing in business school. I like to take War and Peace (1869) off the shelf, feel the weight of the book, and think of it as a little trophy. I find myself coming back to it and not just for shameless self-aggrandizing in a student film magazine. Leo Tolstoy’s novel is a lot to digest, a challenge to adapt, and way too much to summarize in a pithy description. However, this hasn’t stopped people from trying. Andrew Davies’ 2016 BBC adaptation of War and Peace follows the heartbreaks, joys, and intrigues of three Russian aristocratic families during the Napoleonic wars. While thematic score and color bring richness and depth to the characters, Davies’ writing ultimately abstracts the nuance of Tolstoy’s original messages through his brevity.

Tolstoy’s writing is eclectic to say the least. His ‘novel’ is more like a series of vignettes framed by discussions on history, military tactics, and free will. War and Peace (1869) also focuses on Mikhail Kutuzov, a famously patient Russian general who is widely credited with the defeat of Napoleon during the 1812-13 campaign. Sadly, neither Tolstoy's discourses nor an explanation of Kutuzov’s work made the cut in Davies’ adaptation. However, these would have been very difficult to accommodate. While his essays and thoughts on strategy are interesting to some audiences (yours truly), these sections of the book are frankly too boring to show on TV. The vast majority of BBC viewers aren't interested in discourses on history or workman-like one eyed generals. They want sex, violence, and epilates.

George Steel’s cinematography is a standout hit. The screenplay may be lacking depth for fans of Napoleonic history. However, Steel delivers gripping visuals reminiscent of the era’s neo-romantic paintings. During historic moments in the series, large scale movements and natural features dwarf individual human figures. Curiously, this message alludes to some of Tolstoy’s more esoteric historical commentary - the great men of history are inconsequential in comparison to larger trends and forces. Steel also excels in conveying Tolstoy’s understanding of intimate and familial relationships in aristocratic society. The camera’s focus on light touch expresses emotions while staying true to the reserved temperament of the era. Special praise should also be given to the costume designer, Edward K Gibbon, whose wardrobe work does heavy lifting in terms of rounding out and expressing the character’s diverse personalities.

War and Peace (2016) is scored by Martin Philips with help from the Latvian Radio Choir. The soundtrack is 43 minutes long and a pleasure to listen to. The deep resonant tones of this wall of sound are a masterpiece on their own. During the 6-part series, Director Tom Harper deploys these moving musical elements to great effect in order to reflect the historical realities of the early 1800’s. During this time Russia was even larger than it was today. The empire was a diverse continental power stretching from the glistening capital of St Petersburg to the impressive domes of Holy Moscow and the frozen Bering Sea at Kamchatka. Philips interweaves the vastness, diversity, and history of the Tsar’s domain into the series’ opening theme - “St Petersburg”. Napoleon is remembered as a national hero in France. However, his legacy as a tyrant and megalomaniac persists in Russia to this day. The scale of Napoleonic warfare was truly massive. For the first time in history, millions of men moved from west to east to fight across a battlefield of thousands of miles. The Napoleonic wars resulted in innumerable deaths and large-scale destruction unseen until modern times. Russian and French armies clashed on a massive scale rendering old tactics useless. We hear the heartbeat of this colossal enterprise in “Napoleon”. The steady warlike drum announces a deep dreamlike choral melody. There is a kind of deadly momentum to this piece which alludes to themes in Tolstoy’s writing suggesting that Philips did his reading.