There are not many things I know for sure about the world of Twin Peaks but of this I'm certain: the dear, deceased Laura Palmer now resides in a far better place. With this movie David Lynch, the mad social architect of this wooded Northwest facsimile of civilization, has built himself a molehill out of what once was a mountain. As Lynch reveals the mundanity behind his mysteries, he's unable to control his obfuscating impulse. Everything is a puzzle and it's as though Lynch lost track of his reasons for making this prequel and got hung up on filming the sordid details that TV won't allow: shots of peeled-back corpse fingernails, close-ups of oscillating uvulas, visions of strange-looking, backward-talking, gyrating weirdos and uncensored whiffs of sex, cocaine and families undone.
D: David Lynch.