Crazy mad props to the forum regulars for redefining the term "grass-roots effort."
Fade up on the unappealing, non-waterfall-facing, pick-up-trucks-in-a-near-empty-parking-lot, servants' entrance back side of the Great Northern Hotel. It's a shot I might ordinarily refer to as an "establishing shot," but seeing as this faade has never appeared on camera at any point in the first eleven episodes of the series, it doesn't go real far in "establishing" us anywhere in particular. Suffice it to say, it's not pretty. Suffice it also to say that perhaps the FBI has been alerted to the fact that their special agent has become a just little too "special" for this whole crime-solving game, what with the throwing of rocks at far-off bottles and the experiencing of delusional visions of murder-cracking sidekicks of all shapes and sizes. Perhaps they then realized that the whole "Who Killed Laura Palmer" plot arc has spun so wildly out of control that even the murderer has no idea that he (or, um, she) killed her, and transferred their lame duck agent to a less ritzy locale on the other side of the tracks, say "The Mediocre Northern" or "The It'll-Do-For-Large-Families-Traveling-On-A-Budget-Who-Need-One-Night-Out-Of-The-Winnebago Northern." "Great," indeed. If by "Great," you mean "HoJo's."
Cut to inside of Cooper's room, where a ringing alarm clock is clearly and perpetually programmed to the morning broadcast on "Radio Badalamenti," so soon after the alarm goes off do the familiar jives of Sassy Strings begin to play. A hand reaches into the frame, turns the alarm clock off, and fumbles with its trusty tape recorder. Cooper sits up in bed. To great hilarious effect, the left half of his hair is a big, cowlicky mess, and I miss the first few seconds of Cooper's morning address to Diane, drowned out as it is by the deafening and pervasive tearing sound of this show's visual style once again ripping itself off. Joined in progress, Cooper very badly wants Diane to know the following: "I dreamt I was eating a large, tasteless gumdrop. I awoke to realize I was aggressively munching on one of my air pillow silicone earplugs. Hence: the tastelessness. Perhaps I should keep a closer eye on my after-dinner coffee consumption." Heh. Welcome back, Funny Deadpan Cooper. I'm glad you seem to have put Unfunny Just-Plain-Dead Cooper to rest this week. He continues, grabbing his pillow and walking across the room: "Persistent soreness in the rib area, which I am treating each morning with fifteen extra minutes of yogic discipline. After which, thankfully, the pain retreats to a cul-de-sac in a distant suburb of my conscious mind." Realizing he has nowhere left to go with this already tenuous "brain as urban landscape" metaphor he seems so keen on cultivating ("...the pain then stops into the Dairy Queen near this suburban cul-de-sac, hassles the neighbors into lending it a cup of flour, and tells those darned varmint kids to stop playing Frisbee so near its crocus garden and get offa my lawn et cetera..."), Cooper drops the pillow near a wall by the bed and announces, "I am going to begin today with a headstand." And hence, Cooper goes all sorts of gymnastic on us (I guess "agile athleticism" was listed right before "can disappear effortlessly from cultural barometer for well over a decade until figuring out foolproof way to blackmail Darren Star" in the "special skills" section of Kyle MacLachlan's acting dossier), displaying great calisthenic prowess as he hoists himself up on his head, barely using the wall for support. "Diane. I am now upside-down." Hee hee hee. He is, you know.
Zen-like hippie yoga rhetoric ensues: "Mind becoming porous. The day's tasks coming into focus. Objects growing clearer." As such, a blurry shot of an indeterminate object underneath Cooper's bed shifts into focus. Hey, he said "coming into focus" and the object came into focus. Quite the straightforward and intuitive directorial non-flourish for the genius who directed Gleaming the Cube (I love you, IMDb). Cooper returns to his erect stance (ew, not like that) and retrieves the object. He tells Diane: "The Giant was right. I did forget something." That he's been shot, perhaps? Really, Coop. This catlike dexterity in the wake of such a physical trauma is really making me nervous. Remember Lucille Ball's declining years, when she was in her, like, thousands, and she would appear on Carson or a Bob Hope special and be doing her 1950s shtick and climbing on ladders and throwing pies and you were like, "Dude, don't you just want a warm bath and a pot of chamomile tea? Because that's really all I ever want, and I've never been ninety OR shot. Everyone just calm down." Anyway, that's just exactly how I feel right now. Just like that. Because you asked.
Meanwhile, back in oh-wait-there's-a-plot-in-here-somewheresville, where this recap has not yet come to rest, Cooper regards the object he has retrieved from under the bed. It is Audrey's note from so many episodes ago. The envelope reads, in a rightward-tilting slant that Cooper once told Audrey was the part-and-parcel penmanship of the generally insane, "My Special Agent." He opens the note and whispers aloud for our benefit: "Trapped in subplot hell of own making. Be back around Ep 20. Tell the world my story. But leave out all the boring parts." Okay, that's not really what it says. Here's really what it says: "I've gone North. Jack may have the answer. Love, Audrey." Cooper looks around, genuinely concerned, before darting out of the frame in a real hurry. Hey, Coop, when I want to calm down, I know there's nothing like a hot bath and some chamomile tea to...oh, never mind.
Police station. Hawk drives up in the station car and leaps out. Barreling through the front door, he runs into Truman and lets him know that his trip to Pearl Lakes yielded the following incredibly unhelpful facts about the Palmers' neighbors in the woods: "Two retired female schoolteachers live in that house to the Palmers. They have no memory of a gray-haired man." Darn. Hawk writhes uncomfortably and continues, "I had to drink three pots of chamomile tea to find that out." Hey, has someone been reading my recaps, or what? He excuses himself in a big hurry because thinly shrouded bathroom humor isn't just for lowbrow, sitcom-premised, Married with Children-esque fare anymore ('cause remember, it's 1990), and disappears. Truman, standing near the kitchen with coffee and doughnut in hand, continues to let the action come to him. Lucy approaches , putting on her coat and telling Truman that she'll see him when she gets back from her two-day trip to visit her sister and brother-in-law. She seems apprehensive about leaving the office at all, worrying that the "Can-Do Temp" girl hasn't arrived and won't know how to operate the phones and make the coffee when she does. Truman tells her that the situation is firmly under his control, essentially pushing her right out the door as she hilariously pouts, "Sometimes a Can-Do girl can't!" Hey, lay off the temp, why don't you just? And read my upcoming Hissyfit, coming this Monday, October 2, on this very exciting topic. It's filled with short, simple, declarative sentences such as this one: "Temping rules!" Not. But read it anyway. You won't be sorry. End shameless self-promotion here. Until I write something new. Anyway, Cooper passes Lucy on her way out the front door, bids her a fond adieu, and gets down to business with Truman: "I know where Audrey is." And so do we. Still. Every day. For six months. On a brief reconnaissance mission at a brothel, north of the border, being courted by her father for a spell, alone. Temping, as it were.
Establishing shot of Chez Johnson (which side of the house we're seeing is irrelevant, as "shithouse" is a recognizable architectural style from any angle), where...hey, it's Bobby! Sigh. Hi, Bobby. Tee hee. Bobby is sitting suspended from a one-person leather chair harness hanging from the ceiling, like a swing in a rec room in the day-care wing of an S&M parlor, reading a gun enthusiast magazine actually called Shooting, which carries with it more instant phallic imagery than a lifetime subscription to Flesh World. Oh, goody. Bobby + excessive phallic imagery = me excusing myself for a moment. Break time. Okay, I'm back. Meanwhile, an unctuous, cheap-suited "Mr. Pinkle" explains to Bobby (and Shelley, glamming in a corner of the room with a cigarette and a make-up base that's vying for "modish" and taking a wrong turn at "Kabuki") that the so-called "Port-o-Patient" (ha!) allows "the unfortunate Mr. Johnson" to experience life with this flying, transportable chair, and we immediately have to take for granted the Twin Peaks-generated clich of "crooked used-hospital-equipment salesmen." Okay, show. You got it. Bobby tells Pinkle that he wants the best for his "cousin," once again driving home the essential plot point that Leo is moving back into the house with his "family" so Bobby and Shelley can pocket the insurance money and have sex in the room. Got it. Thanks for that. So Pinkle continues to quirk the place up a bit, to my amusement, actually, answering Shelley's legitimate request for "a ramp" with the halting response, "Well, er, sure, um, of course, I, um, as a matter of fact, I already have some, uh, plywood, uh, ramp, um, pinewood ramp boards, that I'll, uh, install tomorrow." So Pinkle attempts a demonstration of the S&M chair's transport capabilities. He hits the switch and nothing happens. Hits the switch and nothing happens. Hits. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Hey, this is starting to look like the last couple of episodes, particularly in regard to the "nothing happens" aspects. But Pinkle excuses the chair's mind of its own with the rationale that "sometimes you gotta be tough with these things. Sometimes you gotta hit it hard. A machine is like a woman, we always say at the machine shop." Oh, so true. And so, on the slam of the plug, the machine kicks furiously into gear, sending Bobby flying awkwardly into the air like an unwitting Peter Pan (don't ever grow up, Bobby) and then crashing him back down to earth. Bobby wrestles free of the confounded contraption, pins Pinkle against the wall, and reasserts the reason for this incredibly random scene's existence to begin with: "Pinkle, Pinkle, Pinkle, this thing is a deathtrap. I told you we have to keep him alive." Pinkle foreshadows that once the insurance companies pay out, there's really very little money to support the growth of such vegetable life in the home. Shelley leads Bobby out of the room while Pinkle tinkers further, and Shelley tells him she has to leave for a "hearing" of some kind. They kiss and I love them. Meanwhile, Pinkle's chair takes off and he sails around the room bumping into walls, the scene fades to black, and we never see or hear anything from Pinkle ever, ever again. And THIS, ladies and gentlemen, is how to be a successful subplot. Breeze in, make 'em laugh, and disappear back into "guest appearance on Special Victims Unit" obscurity, got that? I'm looking in your direction, String Tie Sternwood. And there's you, Sternwood, sitting all officiously right there in the scene, not even writing this excellent advice down.