On The Wings Of Love

The California energy crisis continues its debilitating plague on the Bookhouse set, its plot-obscuring darkness attempting to tantalize the lazy recapper with promises of linear, fluorescent-soaked sets just a simple fast-forward button away. But alas, the waning days of Twin Peaks recaps are upon us, so I'll continue my intrepid task of humming a happy chorus of an appropriate tune contemporary with the original airing of this episode (I was thinking of something in the "I'm having a wonderful time, but I'd rather be recapping in the dark, recapping in the dark, recapping in the dark" variety), and charge back my ophthalmologist visits to the MBTV Health Insurance Claims Department. God bless 'em.

A pitch-black opening shot of a taxidermed deer head pans us across a bookshelf, the corner of a chair, and a lamp with a bulb just bright enough to successfully illuminate, well, itself. Some scary, scary pan flute accompaniment just barely drowns out the roar of directors and other technical advisors hurling swear words of frustration around the set as the cameras bump into concealed furniture and other soon-to-be-on-workman's-comp members of the Lynch/Frost payroll ("Ow! That's my foot!" "What in the name of Lesli Linka Glatter is that CHAIR doing there?" "I may be the best boy, but that doesn't mean I'm the best at SEEING IN THE DARK!" and so forth). Pan past (I think) the hand of the fallen officer commissioned to stand guard, and then we're over to the bed, in which our hero, Harry "Dewey Defeats" Truman lies, unconscious. Pause. Pause. Pause. Zzzzz. Oh, sorry. I'm up now. Two hands, rather mannish (though, to the touch, that's not wholly out of the ordinary for Truman), creep up Truman's back and into the frame, and we come to realize that, if we've ever watched this show before, that the mysteriously Bond-villain-esque, bizarrely-Nordic-in-her-proportions "Jones" has come to enact some horrific vengeance on Truman. Vengeance, apparently, of the sexiest, sexiest kind. She lies on his back and makes with the nookie, whispering, "You like that?" Is this vote open to the public? Because, no. She sits up behind him and pulls out a small bottle, the contents of which she dabs on her fingers and then rubs on his lips. Truman kind of moans the sleepy "guh" noise of pre-coital mischief that we as human beings have no need to hear, ever, unless we're inciting that noise in someone else or actually making it ourselves. Because otherwise it's just clothed porn with ill-proportioned actors such as these. And that's just not sexy at all. Guh, indeed.

The excruciatingly slow pace of Jones's plan for pure evil advances with every Austin Powers clich possible. She kisses him full on the lips, which, in my hazy, long-lost remembrance of such things, does serve in causing the recipient of such attention to actually begin, y'know, waking up. But apparently Jones won't consider her mission complete without the ol' two-for-one Nookie/Death special, and as she straddles him from above (I know. Put the kids to bed and smash open the box with the emergency V-Chip in it. This recap has been rated TV-Older-Than-Our-Making-The-Band-Demographic), Truman looks up and hallucinates the gauzy, floating face of the once and future Josie "Boy, Wonder" Packard. Must have been the man hands that led his thoughts there. Josie tells him, "It's me. I'm here." I'd offer my usual plaintive cries of the "just stay dead!" variety, but they'd get all muddled up when they met in midair with my usual plaintive cries of the "well, I guess you can't keep a good man down" variety. But! Suddenly, Josie rematerializes into Jones, who whips a piece of lethal dental floss out of seeming nowhere and wraps it around a suddenly very perked up (thankfully, not like that. ANYMORE) Truman. She wraps it around his neck and pulls hard. She couldn't have skipped the last seduction and just done this the moment she walked into the room, when Truman would never have known what hit him? I guess she was waiting for the pool of piranhas to heat up or the Fembots to get into position. Truman wakes up just in time to get into the struggle with all his might, keeping a thumb between his neck and the Johnson & Johnson product-placement, slamming Jones up against the wall and knocking her backwards onto the couch, unconscious. He looks at her quizzically. She looks dead. So much looking, you actually believe for a minute they can see each other.

Now, ask any self-respecting Twin Peaks second-season devotee (okay, there are about twelve oxymorons inherent in that statement, but stick with me here) the thing they hated most about Billy Zane's character on this show, and you will probably get a variety of responses: He's the male yin to Heather Graham's raging yang in late-arriving characters designed to keep Cooper and Audrey away from each other. He's pompous and arrogant and a poorly-drawn kind of bland in a kind of dumb way. His real last name starts with a "Z." His character's middle name is "Justice," which is a title and not a name, which is annoying, like if you met someone whose middle name was "President" or "Chinese Ambassador To The U.S." or "Wal-Mart General Manager" and they insisted that you used that to address them every time you said their name. Yes, those are all good reasons for Billy Zane to be maligned in every way by the long-suffering among us. But his worst attribute doesn't make itself clear until this moment in show history, when we find John Justice "Owner Of The Tampa Bay Buccaneers" Wheeler alone in his room, thinking thoughts of love and pine weasels.

Wearing a tucked-in sweater.

Shudder.

Ha! I simply adore that entire exchange, particularly Cooper's response to the completely absurd request to speak to the South African Consulate. Hi. Shut up, "Jones." Harry tells Cooper that he's having a little trouble getting back his "sea legs," and Cooper volleys, "To be honest, it looks like you went down with the ship." Curious as to why those last two lines weren't in the above verbatim transcription of "dialogue that crackles"? Because it doesn't, so much. But this kind of does: Cooper tells Harry to go home and recuperate, but Truman tells Cooper that all he needs is coffee and a little food. Cooper puts on a big smile and outlines his plan: "Surefire cure for a hangover, Harry. You take a glass of nearly frozen, unstrained tomato juice, you plop a couple of oysters in there, you drink it down. Breathe deeply. , you take a mound -- and I mean a mound -- of sweetbreads. Saut 'em with some chestnuts and some Canadian bacon. Finally, biscuits. Big biscuits. Smothered in gravy. Now, here's where it gets tricky. You're gonna need some anchovies" Truman excuses himself and goes lunging for a nearby bathroom, leaving a smiling Cooper watching after him, nodding, "That should do it." Just when you think it's dead and gone, they pull out a scene really worth watching. However, I have to say that I've eaten far worse things when hungover. And with me, they kind of usually work. I'm just saying, lose the hairy fish and the cow's brains, and I'm pretty much on board for the rest of it. Also, lose the word "mound." And the word "plop."

Over in Harry's long-abandoned office, Doc Hayward looks at a bonsai tree that has been delivered mysteriously to the office, and Truman returns with a cloth on his head to join Hayward and Cooper. He sits down at his desk and regards a note, alerting them and us, "It's from Josie." God. How can we miss her if she won't go away? The good doctor retreads the scene from last week, telling Harry that Windom Earle (this week I believe I'll spell his last name with the "e." Y'know, correctly) was in his house. The drama barely has a moment to settle in before a bellowing voice screams from the hallway, "Thanks, Lucy!" And in walks the long-forgotten Gordon Cole, who shouts, "Agent Dale Cooper! Sure sorry to interrupt you fellas! But Coop, I'm bringing you the classified portion of the Windom Earle dossier!" Truman sits behind his desk, grasping his forehead at the auditory horror of it all. And, really, he's not alone. Cole's S.O.S. ("Save Our Show") rallying t-shirt barely visible underneath his black suit, we hardly even know why he's there. Except where he thinks that his wacky, loud character can somehow rescue this show from becoming ABC's casualty. It can't. Something needs to make room for another hour of Saget-tastic programming, so why on Earth wouldn't it be this low-rated hour right here?

A close-up on the bonsai tree cuts over to Windom in the woods, bitching about Dale "refusing to play fair," listening in on the conversation going on inside the police station. And then we cut right back to the station. Awwwwww. Look at the cute show, learning intercutting! That's adorable. Before you know it, maybe they'll put together a montage or two. Or turn the lights back on. They've got time. Actually, they have no time. Cole tells us that "when Earle went boi-oi-oing, the doctors discovered he was on haloperidol." That's the same drug Gerard, the One-Armed Man was on. Cut to the woods. Cut back. Awwwww. Also, there's a connection between Earle and Project Blue Book, which Cooper tells us all is "curious linkage." Cole vamps on, "The word 'linkage' reminds me of sausage. Never cared much for the links, preferred the patties. But breakfast is a good idea." He should hear the words "mound" and "plop" sometime, if he thinks "linkage" is no good. Cole regards the bonsai plant and asks, "Remember those old World War II movies?" He leans into the plant and shouts, "Bonsai!" Back in the woods, Earle whips a headphone earpiece out of his ear and screams, of course, "Damnation!" I love the computer Earle is using for his high-tech surveillance. The DOS folks who shipped the first computers ever to Radio Shack will be happy for the kickback. Look at that thing. Speaking of "World War II." And hey, if the who "raging lunatic" thing fails, Earle can always kick back and relax with a rousing round of "Lemonade Stand."

Cole keeps Cooper behind after Hayward and Truman leave, telling him, "You'd better dust off your own black suit. With Windom rolling around loose on the deck, we need you back on the team." Cooper asks just what Cole means by this by way of filling some time because this show goes on for a whole hour! So Cole repeats, using many the same words as before, "Coop, it gives me great pleasure to reinstate you into the Federal Bureau of Investigations." In unison they promise to "pursue, capture, and incarcerate," which I guess is the title of the opening number of F.B.I! The Musical, and then give each other a well-choreographed thumbs up, which I guess is Tommy Tune's idea for a unifying dance move for this, the opening number.

Back in the woods, Earle holds a deck of cards, telling Leo to pick three. And so he does. Earle flips them over one by one, revealing three queens. On the queen of clubs, a tiny cardboard cutout of Donna's head covers the face of the queen on the card. Ditto for the queens of diamonds and spades, with tiny Audrey and Shelley faces appearing on the other cards, respectively. Where did he get these tiny, tiny pictures? Earle tells Leo to "pick the king," and on the card he pulls out, tiny Cooper covers the face of the king. And then, Earle continues, pulling a card from behind Leo's neck, "We need one more queen. The Queen of Hearts." He pulls a flier for Miss Twin Peaks onto the table and plot-develops, "Let's see, what do you get if you win? You get a dozen roses, scholarship to the college of your choice, the accolades of your peers. Oh, what else? Oh, yes. You get to die. A royal execution." He puts down the Queen of Hearts with a blank face onto the flier, and then slams the joker on top of it, reminding us, "And Cooper gets to watch," before laughing maniacally for an extended period of time because that's just exactly what crazy people do.

The Sassy Shuffle shuffles on, as Donna "Slim Faster" Hayward steps out of The Largest Stationwagon In Suburban History and walks all stealthily into the Great Northern. We soon find that she is in pursuit of her mother, who is trying to claw her way to a tier just slightly above Sylvia-Horne-dom and establish herself a character arc in a hurry before the great pre-cancellation sell-off begins and this show turns into a wacky sitcom about a wacky F.B.I agent and a stuffed, talking rabbit. Eileen Hayward (I call her this, for this is her name) glides down the hallway and pops a wheelie into Ben's office, speaking words we cannot hear from Donna's P.O.V. Donna retreats to the reception desk, catching a glimpse of Nadine and Mullet Mike checking out of their room and into obscurity, telling the concierge that everything was "unbelievable." Donna approaches and asks the same concierge if Audrey is around, and practically before he's even out of the shot, Audrey herself is standing at the desk. They must be looking to make up some of time they lost panning through total darkness for three minutes. That's heads-up directing, right there. Donna launches right on in: "Would you know any reason why my mom is visiting your dad?" Audrey suggests that maybe she's helping out with the "Stop Ghostwood" campaign. That's just like Eileen, always helping out the cause. Donna says she doesn't think it has anything to do with that, or she would have said something to Donna about it. Which she hasn't. Well, maybe she should have lied, and they could have put some of this conjecture to rest. Audrey asks if she's at the Great Northern. Donna confirms that she is, "in his office together." Is she? IS SHE?

She is! Over to the office we fly, where Ben all but hears the call of "aaaand action!" before kicking things off exposition-style: "No! I won't accept them. They were your letters. They were written to you." Eileen (for that is her name) tells Ben that she doesn't want them around the house anymore, and Ben volleys back, "You've had them for twenty years. Why now?" She would like to ask him the same thing. He walks over and sits on the stoop in front of the fire, taking her hand and asking, "Why don't you believe me?" He tells her he's been "wrong all these years," and that he's trying to "make up for it." She sounds the "ambiguous dialogue alarm" with her response: "Sometimes making up for things only makes it worse." Is there any situation in any moment of human history, ever, when a generic line like that wouldn't be appropriate? I do think not so much. But that's just the thing about things, I guess. He stands up behind her, putting his hands in vague, strange, Jones-esque places I don't want to see because they're all so old and used, and Ben backstories with that script doctoring device of "The Magic 8-Ball. No, no, not that one. The other one. The broken one" when he continues, "I haven't held you since that night. I want to hold you. I want to go back." Eileen, For That Is Her Name, tweaks out just in time and throws his arms off of her. Just then, Audrey and her new best friend and detective gal pal Donna show up behind the wall and remove the panel that spies into Ben's office. This must be the cue for them to start talking about Donna. Ben asks, "Have you told her?" Eileen, loudly enough for Donna to understand, screams, "God, no. Never. I never will. And you must promise me the same. You mustn't come over again. You must stay away from her." And she's 0-60 in no seconds flat, off without another word. Behind the panel, Audrey asks, "What the hell was that all about?" Donna doesn't know, but she looks away, practically into the camera, and tells the world, "But I'm gonna find out." And Donna's relevance as a character competes with her declining skin suit that's supposed to contain her internal organs without us being able to actually see them for which one is going to succeed in wasting away to absolutely nothing.

Double R. Cole, Cooper, and Truman enter, Cole ratcheting the decibel level up to "desperate for laughs" in shrieking, "Harry, the best cure I ever came across for a hangover was raw meat! And plenty of it!" Harry makes right for the bathroom, and Cole and Cooper exchange devious grins. Okay, frat boys of the federal government -- now you're just being mean. Cole and Cooper take off their overcoats, and we're meant to notice that Cooper is back to his men-in-black ensemble. Cole and Cooper offer each other more thumbs up, as the F.B.I. starts to look like the most fun place to work in D.C. ever. Seated at the booth, Cole looks behind the counter and spots Shelley, asking apropos of nothing, "Holy smokes, who is that?" Cooper replies that it's "Shelley Johnson." What's on second. They don't know who's on third. He can't hear, and WE GET IT. But he asks again, and Cooper is forced to scream her name, causing her to look over and wave wanly. Cole thinks she's hot, and asks Cooper to wish him good luck while he goes over and moves in for the kill. Oh, Lord. He's old enough to be her failed television series director. Approaching, he bellows (I might have used that word already, but I'm on the ropes for another synonym for "talked loudly" here), "Hello!" Shelley, startled, almost drops a cup, but it's all very subtle and have I mentioned that I love her? Cole, undaunted, continues on, "I was wondering if I might trouble you for a cup of strong, black coffee. And in the process, engage you in an anecdote of no small amusement." Except he calls it an "antecdote," because, y'know, quirky. Shelley looks over at Cooper in no small amount of horror, but he gives her an "a-okay sign" and Shelley shoots back, "You don't have to shout. I can hear you." But lo, Cole can hear her perfectly. "For some weird reason, I can hear you clear as a bell." It's a miracle. And dreams are made of emotion.

Back on the street where the plots have no name, Truman returns from the bathroom to find Cooper drawing a diagram on a napkin of the two tattoos found on the Log Lady and Major Briggs. Annie "Yoko" Blackburn stops by the table and offers Cooper some coffee, and ghastly smiles are exchanged at this blessed, blessed meeting. Truman, fixing to vomit and apparently starting to relish (maybe some wacky foil will send him back to the bathroom by recommending something with relish and, like, pig's blood) the experience of seeing his last three years' worth of meals, asks Yoko, "What do you recommend for a hangover?" Yoko was scripted a pretty good line, but monotones at Mach Nine like the credits threaten to roll, "Teetotaling and prayer." Cooper smiles even wider: "Good answer." Cooper asks how she is, and she blathers right on about being "weird," but recants and tells him that she's been "out of circulation for so long she's forgotten the social niceties." She tells him she's "fine." Truman watches over the flirting, then makes us all find that part of ourselves that spent college hunched over a shared-bathroom toilet, thinking, "Getting it all up right now is better than lying her spinning for one more second," when he finally deigns to eat and orders up "a chicken pot pie and a large glass of milk." Gah! The glass of milk. Isn't that just what he saw come up? Cooper tries to tell Yoko a fabulous joke about a penguin and a tuxedo, causing Harry to look back into one of the earliest lines of this show, used now in a MUCH less successful context, asking Cooper, "So, how long have you been in love with her?" Cooper asks who said anything about love, and Truman reminds Cooper that he isn't exactly the joke-telling type. Cooper smiles wide again and reminds us why the wacky romantic turn of Don't Tell Her It's Me worked out just exactly the way it did. Yoko then returns and looks down at the napkin, expositioning, "I see you've been to Owl Cave." They corroborate with Truman that the design Cooper drew looks exactly like the one "up at Owl Cave." Suddenly grim, Cooper asserts, "Harry. I've got to see this Owl Cave."