Pilot

Major, honking, chocolate-covered shout-outs with a creamy nougat center to Adam, Josh, Marisa, and the roomies, whose group-tastic approach to collectivist television viewing imbues this Show of Shows with a superlative level of snarky goodness it would not have otherwise possessed.

Yippee-ha! Twin Peaks! Like the kid who owned the wiffle ball bat or the most advanced weaponry to which the Laser Tag genre ever ascended, I remain convinced that the real reason I was given this plum assignment in the first place is because I already had the series on tape and loudly voiced my selfish unwillingness to share them with anyone else. Call Sars. She'll tell you it ain't no lie. Which brings me to a note about said tapes: The tapes off of which I am recapping these episodes are in excess of ten years old. So while we're thanking the gods of all things good and holy in the programming universe for the very existence of the show, let's give a tiny shout-out to my mom, who possessed not only the media savvy to capture this cultural moment on videotape its first time around, but also the technological clairvoyance not to rest her faith in the normative video conventions of the day and render this whole project futile from its inception by recording it on Beta. Which, really, was quite a danger back in the day. Nevertheless, the 99-cent tapes purchased at Genovese in the Spring of 1990 have, due to their analog nature, become a bit worn in certain places. So don't panic if an entire scene passes with no more than the cryptic recap, "Ensconced in squiggly white lines and a blinking red light declaring 'tracking,' Laura Palmer remains, I think, dead. Or something." In fact, fear not at all: there will be many more scenes of a similar nature to follow. I promise. End criminally insane blathering here.

This week on Twin Peaks: Tracking! TRACKING!!

We begin with the decidedly mood-setting and utterly melancholy World's Longest Opening Credits Sequence in the History of the Moving Image. For those of you who have been catching the series this time around on Bravo, thus be warned: the opening credits in this, the Pilot, run just a smidge longer than the definitive version beginning with Episode 1. For this, the two-hour ABC Sunday Night Movie, the credits feature not only the familiar opening bird shot and the sequence at the mill and the waterfall in front of the Great Northern, but also several other establishing shots, one of which contains, well, a large piece of lumber sitting in the middle of a field. And after about eight seconds of staring at said log in said open field, I can hardly imagine that any tears were shed at the thought of the shot of that felled tree getting, er, axed. Ha ha ha. Yikes. Sorry about that. I know that when I watched this show for the first time I was deep in the process of lunging toward the beginnings of puberty, but that's really no excuse for the humor in this recap to be ripped from the pages of Bananas magazine, my reading material contemporary with the original airing of this show. Won't happen again. Cut to shot of the road leading into Twin Peaks, where the Welcome to Twin Peaks sign sports a population of 51,201 (according to numerous show-related FAQs, though if I had to take a guess based on the supplied VHS technology and my ten-inch television screen, I'd have to guess it says, "19b55fork," a slightly less likely conclusion for the Census Bureau to draw), all of whom are about to be individually mentioned by name in this sprawlingly long credits series, now entering its third full minute. Roll credits: Kyle MacLachlan. Yay! Sherilyn Fenn. Yay! Piper Laurie. Yay! Madchen Amick. Ya -- uh, who? Oh, it's Shelley. Hi, Shelley! You're pretty. So yay! Harry Goaz. Yay! Joan Chen. Sigh. Yeah, well, we'll get to that, now won't we?

This episode is written by co-creators Mark Frost and David Lynch, and is directed by David Lynch. With such intensely focused creative minds at the helm of their own pet project, one would think that there would be any other opening shot for the entire series than that of the recipient of The Richard Belzer Honorary Award for Excellence in Proving that No Show is Ever Without at Least One Sustaining Flaw: a mirrored reflection of Josie "Farewell My Twelve-Year-Old-Boy Concubine" Packard applying make-up and humming mindlessly. But we don't know her name yet, do we? Oops. Sorry. No more presupposing knowledge of anything, lest I be accused of spoiler-ific behavior in light of this brand-new show and its many mysteries. Let's just pretend we're seeing all this for the very first time, for the purposes of linear recapping, shall we? So who, then, is this twelve-year-old Asian drag queen man-child, and why are my feelings for him so spiteful and negative -- er, I mean "ambivalent"?

Cut to another location, apparently within the same interior space (I do not know where it is. This is, after all, the Pilot. How on earth would I know, then? Clearly, I would not), where a flannel-clad older gentleman bearing the USDA maximum recommended allowance of fishing tackle, grabs a thermos, kisses his hand, and plants said kiss-carrying hand on the neck of a person I AM allowed to identify as Piper Laurie. Continuing to read her newspaper and seeming wholly nonplused by this unsolicited outpouring of pure carnality, we immediately identify Piper's character as so icy that I'm surprised The Fisherman's hand doesn't get stuck behind her ear and need to be pried off in a daring escapade featuring the state police and the jaws of life. The Fisherman, intent on living up to the word-for-word definition of his soon-to-be-shed nickname (or perhaps it will be around for a very long time? Such is the titillating ambiguity of all things new) gains notoriety with the first line of dialogue in the series, "Gone fishing." And we're off. He seems nice, and a little put upon, perhaps. But as he leaves, we cut back to the illegitimate love child of Elvis and Jet Li imprisoned behind the walls in an attic somewhere, and I wonder if maybe The Fisherman is, in reality, just up to no sort of good. After all, how would I know? The boy looks up from the mirror and toward what I imagine to be the sound of the front door closing, as The Fisherman strolls outside, away from his incarcerated property, away from the guilty conscience he knows he cannot escape. Or, in reality, that's exactly how it's NOT. Don't ask me how I know. I just do.

Outside the house, The Fisherman regards the sound of the foghorn I thought was just tape interference (he must also live in a house ensconced in squiggly white lines with a neon sign affixed to it reading "tracking," as that is part of the mise en scene of what's on my screen right now, too. See? Told you I'd be using that joke). But wait just one second, now. What's this he sees down on the rocky cliffs near the water? The Fisherman makes his way down to the sand, warily eying someone else's misplaced entry in the yearly World's Largest Ziploc Bag competition. He inspects it, then backs off quickly before we see a close-up on long hair spilling from the top of the Ziploc. Back inside, The Fisherman nervously makes a phone call to someone named Lucy, dispensing finally with the inanely generic nickname place-holder I tagged him with in haste and have been wishing would just go away, identifying himself as Pete Martell. Yay, Pete! Pete asks to speak with a "Harry," and we cut to a law-enforcing locale of some kind, where we become acquainted with both the Lucy and the Harry in question. And before you ask: her name is Kimmy Robertson, NOT Victoria Jackson. Look amazingly cool at your Twin Peaks convention or Twin Peaks-themed Bar Mitzvah (what do you mean? I go to those all the time) by not asking this question. Ever. Do not e-mail me and inform me that I am wrong. Because though I love you and am sure you possess vast stores of knowledge on any number of diverse subjects concerning media, politics, religion, and this crazy world we live in, if you think that's Victoria Jackson, I can assure you that you are completely wrong. Kimmy Robertson. Even logistically it doesn't work, really. To wit: Victoria Jackson was in New York shooting Saturday Night Live from 1986-1992, whereas Twin Peaks began filming in 1989 in the far different locales of Washington State and Los Angeles. Finishing up her six-year stint as "The Annoying One" during that brief, late-'80s, SNL resurgence when you could say that and only mean one person and not three cumulative years of revolving door cast members, Victoria was shown the door by both Lorne Michaels and Hollywood, where she received her parting gift from the fickle game of Celebritydom, a large porcelain toilet with the words "Your Career" stenciled across the top. Since then, she has been spotted in numerous dinner-theater capacities with David Caruso and an increasingly sinister (and buff, though!) Gary Coleman, including last year's smash hit "How to Succeed in Show Business Without Really Succeeding," performed for a packed house of hearing-impaired senior citizens in the prestigious Hiawatha Room at the Sizzler in downtown Boca Raton. And during the early-bird special, no less! Never doubt her staying power. This I warn you now. Kimmy Robertson, however, has remained a veritable fame powerhouse since her appearance on Twin Peaks. Besides a towering role in Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter's Dead, Kimmy was last to be seen in the sleeper favorite Stuart Little, in which she played the indispensable "Race Spectator." And I ask you this: how the hell you gonna have a race without any spectators? And according to the IMDb, she dated David Duchovny for spell. So there you go. Kimmy Robertson. Love 'er.

Where in the holy living fuck were we? Oh, my, yes. Lucy is apparently a ditzy secretary or office assistant of some kind, and we come to know her as a rather delightfully off-center comedic presence which somehow works perfectly inside the dramatic structure of the show. It's hard to do. Hate to self-indulgently cross-reference here, but to ascertain the difficulty of fostering an environment in which the quirky and the somber can work in tandem, please see any -- by which I mean ANY -- of the twenty-two available recaps of Roswell for a counterpoint on how the incorporation of an out-of-context wacky character can serve no purpose other than causing a blinding migraine in a show that otherwise takes itself to a Schindler's List-esque level of seriousness. You won't be sorry.

Lucy tells Harry, who she refers to as "Sheriff" (subtle character development ahoy!) to pick up the phone in an instant-character-establishing kind of way: "Sheriff, it's Pete Martell, up at the mill. I'm gonna transfer it to the phone on the table by the red chair. The red chair against the wall. The little table, with the lamp on it. The lamp that we moved from the corner. The black phone. Not the brown phone." Hee. Keep in mind that Harry, holding a cup of coffee and politely waiting for her to finish, is standing about five feet away from her and another five feet from the dozens of phones her complex switchboard seemingly accommodates. On cue, he takes a swig of coffee, picks up the appropriate black phone, and bids Pete a good morning, as it seems small town folks have a wont to do. Pete, in a bit of a tizzy, utters another memorable early line, kicking the plot into gear: "She's dead. Wrapped in plastic." Yup. She sure is. Harry finishes the call as quickly as the standards of good taste willfully allow, informs Lucy to "get Dr. Hayward, tell him to meet me up at the Packard mill . . . roust that Andy out of bed . . . not a word about this to anyone, until you hear from me." He runs out of the office in what purists would probably consider an "action sequence," considering the one-day-per-one-episode pace of the show, turns on the sirens, and peels off, sirens a-blaring, leaving a cloud of dust and your final remaining notion that Victoria Jackson appears anywhere on this show, behind us all, forever.

Back at the mill, Piper Laurie and the extraordinarily well-dressed, fur-bedecked little Asian boy stand on the stoop watching the menfolk examine the Ziploc bag. Pete stands stunned some feet from the body, while Harry and who we can guess is Doc Hayward examine the situation more closely. The doctor observes, "We better get some pictures," as deductive reasoning introduces us to Andy, who appears in the frame in a police uniform, holding a camera. He asks, "Who is she?" Harry tells him to just take the pictures, perhaps unwilling to personalize this experience, one which does seem quite barbaric. Andy photographs the Ziploc from every angle like he's in the middle of a fashion shoot, sans the chatter. Which would go how, exactly? "Excellent! Now look dead! Great, great, now give me dead! Go cold on me. Cold! I need both the rigor and the mortis here, people!" But sadly we will remain chatter-free, as Andy begins to cry. Harry wants to know if this is "going to happen every damn time," then relents and sends Andy off to get a stretcher. All of which leads us, Doc Hayward indicates, to turn the body over and reveal the identity of the victim within. This development cues one of the three musical compositions Angelo Badalamenti wrote to fit every mood and scene for almost the entire series. We'll call this particular swelling orchestral bonanza Sad String. We'll catch up with Theme Song (used throughout the action) and Snare Drum Shuffle later, when the sass begins to flow a little more freely. And so Harry and Doc Hayward roll the body over and pull down the plastic to reveal that the dead girl is "Laura Palmer." Oh, yes, first-time viewer who has ne'er heard of the show. Try to keep the shock at bay.

Cut to the inside of a suburban home, where a motherly-looking type calls from the kitchen, "Laura, sweetheart, I'm not going to tell you again." She extinguishes her cigarette and walks to the steps, calling Laura's name repeatedly. She finally relents and climbs the damn stairs herself, but the camera remains perched at the bottom, settling on a downright terrifying shot of the upstairs landing, the entryway to Laura's bedroom, and a ceiling fan which spins and spins and spins some more. Counterpoint this agile handling of slow-building suspense against the post-Blair Witch, post-Homicide, hand-held frenzy of a camera, bereft of tripod, running kamikaze up the stairs right behind her that would, in almost every example I can conjure, typify this dawning knowledge that something is amiss. It's okay to just sit still sometimes. Really. Sorry, Dick Wolf, this means you, too. After finding all the rooms as well as Laura's bed empty (we do go upstairs for a brief moment to discover this), Mrs. Palmer runs back down past the camera's up-the-stairs perspective. Attempting to suppress the basic weirdness of his directorial style and failing miserably to do so, Lynch allows for a lingering close-up on the three light bulbs of the ceiling fan before we return to the kitchen. Why? I have no idea. But it's enigmas like this one that get your series nominated for fourteen Emmys, my friends. That's also how you garner limited enough mainstream acceptance to only win two of them. And that's how you get canceled after fourteen months, when the audience who fell asleep during Perfect Strangers wakes up in the middle of Episode 14 just for the purposes of rolling off the cable box and getting up to turn off the television. So, oh well, really. Oh well on all counts.

Lighting another cigarette, Mrs. Palmer (whose acting rsum includes at least two roles under the "dead girl's mother" umbrella, considering her stint as Susan's alcoholic mother on Seinfeld. Susan's father, incidentally, was played by Warren Frost, who appears on Twin Peaks as Doc Hayward) picks up the phone. Cut to another suburban house, in which a blonde woman with funny bangs massages the back of a rather hefty bald man who is wearing a military uniform and reading a newspaper. No, really. Well, it sounds much weirder than it looks. Anyway, the blond woman answers the ringing phone and informs an increasingly apoplectic Sarah (she identifies herself by her first name) that a "Bobby" is probably at football practice, and that Laura is probably with him. Yeah, I'll just bet that's true. Cut to Unnamed Football Coach, reporting over a phone hanging in the locker room that Bobby is late for practice, as he has been every day this week. And for several weeks before that. Sarah Palmer hangs up the phone looking even more concerned, somehow, than the insta-psycho look she possessed in no short supply even before she knew anything was wrong. Strange things are afoot, I believe, at Dead Girl Central.

Inside the interrogation room, Donna has apparently just finished lying to Cooper about the picnic in question, telling him that there was no one else up on that mountain with them. Well then gosh-darn-it, Cooper asks, turning on the videotape, just how did these pictures get taken? Donna pieces together an obviously false story about a female hiker who came along and videotaped them for a while. But Cooper? He don't play the fool. He tells her, "Donna, this is serious business." And it must be, or else why would Sad Strings be ringing so plaintively all the while? He continues: "More serious than Laura falling in love with someone other than her boyfriend. Much more serious than you know." Donna again begins to cry, staring into the TV screen and grimly musing, "Is that cake? Was I actually eating CAKE??" But before she's able to calculate the amount of Weight Watchers points this sets her back through the end of the month, Lucy busts in on the intercom and tells Cooper than Truman is ready to go to the crime site, and "I've got something else for you here." After Cooper lets Donna leave, Lucy and Truman enter. Lucy tells Cooper that she heard the entire conversation between Mullet (Mike is his name) and Bobby, and typed it out for Cooper's convenience. But before Lucy reads word one of her findings, Cooper interjects, "They said the person we're looking for is a biker." Stunned "yeahs" all around, but how did he know? At which point Cooper unfreezes the video of the picnic in question and watches. Cooper waits for the extreme close-up shot of Laura referenced before, and when just her eye fills up the entire frame, Cooper freezes it again and they take a closer look to reveal the image of a motorcycle in the reflection of Laura's stare. And I ask you. How freakin' cool is that? Dissolve briefly to the motorcycle in question, where James, sixteen years from his permit test even, sits astride his ubiquitous vehicle atop the very mountain of the well-documented picnic in question. And one last visit to Great Northern, where the Norwegians leave hastily en masse to the cries of the Concierge repeatedly yelling, "The Norwegians are leaving!" As the ironic jollity of the Norwegians Are Leaving Theme fills the air a final time, Ben Horne screams that the Norwegians are missing out on the investment opportunity of a lifetime as Audrey looks on, delighted. But sadly, the Norwegians have decided not to "take a chance on Audrey" or the Ghostwood property. Mamma Mia! Oh, damn. And I promised I wouldn't quote ABBA. And then I went and did it twice.

Ooky crime scene. Cooper and Harry walk with flashlights through darkened, abandoned train cars. They spy lots of blood, and Cooper clears up the specifics with a recorded repartee with Diane: "Here's something we haven't seen before. A mound of dirt approximately a foot and a half in diameter. On the top is a gold necklace with a gold heart. Correction: half a gold heart. At the base of the mound of dirt is a torn piece of newsprint written with the words -- which appear to be in blood -- fire, walk with me." Cooper says they need to find out who has the other half of the heart. Cut back to James on the hill, half a gold necklace in his hand, looking morose and particularly zygotal.

Cut to Ed's gas station, which we learn from the establishing shot is called "Big Ed's Gas Farm." Appropriate name. No one's arguing with that. The phone rings inside, and Ed picks it up to discover Norma from the Double R on the line. She apologizes for calling him there, but he tells her it's okay. She needs to see him. They arrange to meet at the previously discussed Roadhouse at 9:30. He calls her sweetheart, and I immediately think they're the cutest together. I wholeheartedly support his decision to not throw similarly endearing terms to his one-eyed domestic partner whose name we do not yet know, who is to be found in the room playing with the drapes, opening and closing and opening and closing and opening and closing them. Ed looks on briefly in the horror that is his life.

Town meeting, and many of the usual suspects are present and accounted for. Cooper, Truman, and a man who is easily a thousand years old sit behind a table watching a crowd assemble in an auditorium. After taking a moment to get carried away with the wildlife diversity of the Pacific Northwest, Cooper regards the group and starts asking questions. When Josie walks down the aisle toward her seat in the front row, Cooper immediately pipes up, "Who's the babe?" OKAY. I KNOW IT'S A WOMAN NOW. I'm SORRY. Very, very sorry. No need to say anymore. Truman refers to her as "one of the most beautiful women in the state." Yuck? What state? State of delusion? State of insanity? State of . . . oh, never mind. I wasn't going anywhere funny with that, anyway. Truman fills in some of the blanks: Josie's husband died in a boating accident and left her everything, including the mill, much to the unending incredulity of his now-resentful sister, Katherine. So Piper Laurie and Josie are sisters-in-law, then. They sit on either side of a pitiable Pete Martell. Ben Horne approaches Josie, and Cooper refers to him, much to my delight, as "the glad-handing dandy." I have no idea what that means, but I'm going to spend the entire rest of my day referring to everyone I speak to as such. I pray you'll try it as well. Anyway, Truman reports, Ben Horne owns half the town, and he's only talking to Josie because he's after her land, not because he's after her. The lights start to turn on and off, and a cut to the back of the room shows a woman, holding a log, flipping the switch back and forth. The lines of dialogue deserve nothing but my most revered verbatim treatment of them:

Cooper: Who's the lady with the log?
Truman: We call her the log lady.

Exactly.

The thousand-year-old mayor brings the meeting to order, fails to bring the house down with a little "is this thing on" senile microphone schtick, and Truman quickly hands the floor over to Cooper. Incidentally, Cooper's official title is "Federal Bureau of Investigations Special Agent." He tells a little story about the FBI discovering the body of a girl named Theresa Banks in south-west Washington State a year ago. She had no family, no one claimed her, no one cared. But for numerous reasons Cooper is unable to share, he believes Laura to be the victim of the same killer. He tells them the murderer may be someone from Twin Peaks, and implores them not to turn the investigation into a witch hunt before instating a town-wide curfew for those under eighteen with a reminder that "these crimes occurred at night." Cut to night in Twin Peaks, where a leitmotif traffic light turns from green to yellow, and then to red.

Doc Hayward is recounting the events of the day to his wheelchair-bound wife named "Eileen." He tells her on the hush-hush that the crime scene turned up the half of a gold heart, one that they are positive is Laura's because it was featured in the picnic video, about which Donna would not reveal details to the police. A slow pan out of the living room and up the Hayward steps comes to rest on an eavesdropping Donna, who hears her father report to his wife that "they think the killer may have the other half of the heart" before sneaking back up the steps and out of earshot. She sneaks into what I guess is her sister's room. I'm not particularly enamored with her sister's poetry-composing, black-clad-with-turtleneck, extra-in-a-concert-scene-in-the--Midge-Ure-video aspects, and all I can really do is roll my eyes for the forty seconds and pray for a swift conclusion to her participation on the show. I fear not but that it shall come quickly. Donna needs her faux-lesbian sister to cover for her, curfew be damned, when she sneaks out of the house on some top-secret, Laura-related business. Done. As Donna is sneaking out the window, she tells "Harriet" that she needs to borrow her bike. Done, just put air in the tires. Cut to Bobby's black Vintagemobile, Mullet Mike in the passenger seat, pulling up to the Hayward house. In two simple words, they are wa. Sted. Bobby takes a swig of beer and does a little drunken shuffle on the roof of the car. Mullet Mike rings the bell, and Doc Hayward answers the door. He is concerned that the youths are drinking and driving, and Mullet Mike puts his fear to rest with the promise that, "Bobby's doing most of the driving." Heh. Mullet Mike requests to see Donna. The doctor tells Mullet Mike that he'll ask her if she wants to see him. Harriet closes the door to her bedroom and says something pretentious. Doc Hayward enters and discovers Donna missing. My sentence construction is becoming repetitive. He returns downstairs, now in the position of needing Mullet Mike's help. Mullet Mike thinks perhaps he knows where to find Donna, heading back to the Vintagemobile and demanding, "Roadhouse. Let's go." Doc Hayward looks on, woe-be-it-for-the-youth-of-our-nation style, and goes back into the house.

Staked out near the Roadhouse, Cooper and Truman receive a call from Lucy over the intercom letting him know that Doc Hayward on the line. They patch him through, and Hayward tells the two that Donna is missing. Truman says they'll be on the lookout. Cooper expresses an emotion just short of satisfaction for Donna's entrance, explaining, "How else is she gonna lead us to that biker?" Coo-PER! Coo-PER! Coo-PER! Because he's right, you know.

We're in the Roadhouse! We're in the Roadhouse! Roadhouse . . . er, never felt so good. Or something. Cut to a red backlit stage, where Julee Cruise, the Vonda Shepard of the early nineties, croons a worded version of Theme Song called "Falling" for a smoky-hazed group of patrons. In a red booth hidden in the corner, Ed and Norma sit together, discussing the status of their secret relationship. I love that they're together. Ed's repeated use of the word "drapes" indicates that he's talking about his insane wife, who's name we still don't know. Ed plot develops nicely with the subtle, "What about you and Hank?" following that up with, "When your sweetheart's husband is in the joint for manslaughter, the word parole's got a nasty ring to it." Most other times, too, considering it means you've probably been in jail. Back out to Cooper and Truman, where the outsider FBI agent is quickly developing a fondness for country living:

Cooper: You know why I'm whittling?
Truman: Okay, I'll bite again. Why are you whittling?
Cooper: That's what you do in a town where a yellow light means slow down, not speed up.

Now I'm not a hundred percent sure what whittling is myself or why Truman says "again," and I apologize if that exchange seems a tad extraneous for straight transcription at this late point in the episode, but I think it's important in light of Cooper's character development as he becomes more involved with the daily workings of the town. So there you go.

More Julee Cruise, who incidentally sang back-up with the B-52's for a brief time when Cindy Wilson was briefly in rehab or dead or something in the lean post- "Love Shack" years. I had the opportunity to see her live in that very capacity, and for some reason I took it. That's where having too much disposable income in junior high gets you. Coop sees Mike and Bobby show up at the Roadhouse. The two enter, and are called "Mutt and Jeff" from afar by some people I feel like we never see again. Oh no, we do see one of them again. Back outside, Donna pulls up on her bicycle, and Cooper blows through his newly whittled contraption, making a whistling sound and following this action up with the howlingly funny comment, "Why don't you whistle for a little back-up?" Truman calls for back-up and tells Lucy to call Doc Hayward. Cooper gives the thumbs-up to it all.

Donna enters the Roadhouse, and Mullet Mike causes quite a scene when he grabs her and angrily tells her that everyone has been looking for her. Ed stands up and tells them to break it up, but Bobby takes Ed down with a punch, and a full-on Roadhouse brawl ensues. One of the "Mutt and Jeff" callers grabs Donna and tells her that he'll take her to James. They jump on his motorcycle and Truman follows. One more shot of fighting. The sequence ends with Donna on the back of a motorcycle, cutting periodically back to Cooper and Truman following discreetly. The last line of dialogue in this scene I actually have to rewind the tape numerous times to adequately comprehend. Truman asks Cooper, "You think they spotted us?" Cooper responds -- no, really he does, "Give me a donut," as the two vehicles drive along the same dark road under the cover of Twin Peaks nighttime.