A couple years ago I wrote an essay about a TV style or subgenre I called “the New Lurid”: Dead Ringers, The Fall of the House of Usher, The Idol, Copenhagen Cowboy, and other hyper-lush depictions of the incestuous degeneracy of the ultra-rich — Saltburn-core, basically. Since then, recent seasons of shows such as The White Lotus, Industry, Euphoria, and Interview with the Vampire as retitled The Vampire Lestat have carried the New Lurid torch. Cape Fear, a raw psychosexual thriller about a one-percenter family in which everyone is related, as they fight and fuck under trees whose branches appear ready to snap from the weight of their greenness, does so too.
“Like a televisual vanitas,” I wrote, these shows are “sensual but death-haunted, lush to the point of rottenness, like a once-magnificent family finally, terminally, gone to seed.” If that doesn’t describe Cape Fear, I don’t know what does.
The Vampire Lestat is now at the point that Interview with the Vampire reached in its second season. It is escalating in quality at a rate that is frankly psychotic. Each episode is better than the last; in IWTV’s case, this culminated in the Season 2 finale, which was the best episode in the history of the show. There are two episodes left in this season. Pump them directly into my veins.
It’s happening again. It’s happening again. It’s happening again. — Sarah Palmer, Twin Peaks: The Missing Pieces
The emergence of The Missing Pieces was our first real sign that it might, indeed, be happening again. It was the first new Twin Peaks material anyone had seen since 1992, when Fire Walk With Me came out. Though it comprises deleted and extended scenes, sometimes with alternate takes, from FWWM, The Missing Pieces is considered canonical. The things that are happening in those missing pieces are really happening.
That’s not to say you’d be able to understand a moment of it if you hadn’t watched Fire Walk With Me first. The Missing Pieces has been edited into a continuous feature-length film, but even in the opening titles themselves, which bill what you’re about to watch as an outtakes collection more or less, no one’s making any pretense that it’s intended to stand on its own.
That’s reflected in how its story is told. There are no character introductions, no settings established, and much of the plot has been excised, happening in between the scenes we’re watching. Moreover, the scenes are arranged in the order they might have appeared in the original movie, not chronologically — scenes of Leland Palmer’s relationship with Teresa Banks, for example, are shown around the point of the film where he himself thought about them, even though they take place prior to anything else. You’re just dumped into it, with FBI Special Agent Chester Desmond already investigating Teresa’s murder. It’s expected you’ve watched Fire Walk With Me if you want to know who either of those people are or why they matter.
The Missing Pieces is designed to expand on and enhance our understanding of Fire Walk With Me — clearing up certain elements that came out confusing in the finished movie, beefing up the roles of the eccentric FBI agents from its opening sections, reintroducing a number of characters and actors from the original series whose material was filmed but didn’t make the final cut.
Most importantly, it provides a much larger, clearer window into both the lives of the Palmer family and the workings of the Black Lodge, allowing us to know the people this happened to and the things that made it happen more accurately and intimately. As such, it contains some of the most frightening images and moving moments in the entire Twin Peaks oeuvre. They can’t stand alone, exactly, but they do stand apart.
We live in a time of unsubtle metaphors. The White House lies in ruins so the billionaire president can build a combination ballroom and bunker for himself and his rich pedophile pals, the Reflecting Pool is full of pond scum and guarded by soldiers and cops who arrest people for touching a monument that belongs to them. So by all means, stick psychotic omnisexuals in the walls, have a misogynistic freak buy the house across the street, leave literal trails of blood everywhere you go. You could not possibly be less subtle with the subtext than reality itself.
The point being made by Neveah’s existence within the very walls of the Bowdens’ happy home is that nothing is sacred, nothing is safe, home and family provide neither security nor succor. This is borne out by the plot time and again. Not a single member of the Bowden family trusts any of the others.
This is sort of the platonic ideal of a Vampire Lestat episode. The entire core cast — Sam Reid, Jacob Anderson, Delainey Hayles, Eric Bogosian, Jennifer Ehle — are given meaty material and make meals out of it. The vampire action, however you want to define action, is both bloody and sexy as hell. Lestat has never been more unhinged onstage than he is during his cheerleader-chant diss track against Armand. Gabriella has never been sexier than she is covered in the blood of a man still inside her, beckoning to her own son. (The show’s never been more perverted than that, either; hell yeah, brother.) Louis and Daniel’s hearts are tested, and one of them, at least, has already failed. Richer and more decadent than eating a shipful of sailors, The Vampire Lestat is better than I could have imagined.
Here’s where we address the white horse in the room: the performance of top-billed stars Sheryl Lee and Ray Wise as Laura and Leland. They are, without qualification, the two best film performances I’ve ever seen in my life. Even in a series stuffed with gifted actors tasked with doing difficult work and succeeding, there’s nothing like these two. There’s nothing like them anywhere. They touch the sun.
What Max is doing is playing the most long-term, high-stakes game of “not touching you! not touching you! not touching you!” of all time. Over the course of years he built his plans for revenge, turning various people (mostly women and girls) to his cause. (Tabitha, the vapid journalist, seems on the verge of becoming one of his disciples herself.)
There’s no law against bumping into people, or having a daughter, or buying a house. He’s not doing anything, not that they can successfully pin on him anyway. Since every word Max speaks to the Bowdens is friendly, at least on the surface, there’s little grounds for any kind of legal protection. They just have to sit there and take it as he tricks them into being their own undoing. Judging from the number of unforced errors they make this episode, that won’t be too hard. Cape Fear is a journey into brains as overheated and unhealthily vibrant as the colors of the show itself.
This is challenging, layered material, written like profane poetry and glittering like Lestat’s eyeshadow. A show like that doesn’t come around often, not even during this very strong year for TV. There’s something special in this combination of glitter and gore.
Cape Fear is overripe. Its colors are too rich — and rewardingly so. The skin tones glowing pink to the point of redness, the foliage so green it looks like something might descend from the canopy to eat you, the air itself seemingly tinted aquamarine, as though you could as soon swim in it as walk through it, like the humid air of a late summer afternoon before an evening storm. When Max prays in front of his Santería altar at home, his face is so red he looks like he’s inside one of the candles.
A lurid show in terms of its color palette, Cape Fear follows suit with its subject matter. Putting the plot aside for a moment: As a practical matter, this show is about — let’s not kid ourselves here, we’re all adults — the tremendous sexual charisma of Javier Bardem, despite (or maybe because of) the fact that he’s playing a cackling psychopath. When his dapper Max Cady plants a surprise kiss on Anna Bowden in the middle of a park, you can tell she’s feeling a lot of ways about it; “Ewww” is not one of them. Nor does it appear to be the first time their lips have met, either. Amy Adams makes Anna look like she’s ready to vibrate out of her skin as she walks away; I half expected her to rub one out in the parking lot before she drove home.
“The tradition of all dead generations weighs like a nightmare on the brains of the living.” In Widow’s Bay as in the real world, Karl Marx was right. In a sense, Widow’s Bay is a complex metaphor for trying to survive and stay sane in that nightmare world. Life is a horror show, driven by the failures of our dead forefathers, and the cost of putting an end to it may not be one we are willing or able to pay. By fighting it, we are forced — or we choose — to become monsters ourselves.
That’s the fancy-pants, mainland way of looking at this episode. The other way, the island way, is Holy shit, they did human sacrifices depending on the number of times the cursed church bell tolls, and now Loftis is trapped on the island forever because his son Evan is the final descendant of Richard Warren, and as long as he’s alive the sacrifices must continue???
All that and it’s funny, too? To borrow a term from Stephen King: Dear Reader, that’s good TV.
Considering the strength of Jacob Anderson as a lead in what used to be Interview with the Vampire the TV show, shifting not only to Reid as an actor but to Lestat as a narrator — a nastier, more cynical, more comedic, less reliable narrator — is a massive risk that is paying off in spades. The Vampire Lestat visually and aurally bitchslaps you with entertainment like an unexpected shot of Eric Bogosian’s bare ass.
Nothing can prepare you for the finale of Twin Peaks Season 2. For over two decades it was, as far as anyone knew, the finale of Twin Peaks itself. On television, it is virtually without precedent. Before June 10, 1991, when it aired back-to-back with “Miss Twin Peaks,” only the surreal series finale of Patrick McGoohan’s proto-prestige masterpiece The Prisoner was even in the conversation.
In the oeuvre of David Lynch, who returns to the director’s chair, it is a turning point. The most avant-garde narrative work he’d done since Eraserhead, it marked his full-on entrée into the elliptical storytelling and supernaturally tinged surrealism that characterized not only the show’s prequel film, Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me, but also Lost Highway, Mulholland Drive, Inland Empire, and Twin Peaks’ own triumphant return to television in 2017. Of Lynch’s major post-Peaks projects, only The Straight Story — a rare instance of Lynch directing from someone else’s screenplay — played it straight. Everything else is a zig-zag labyrinth of time and meaning.
As a series finale, it’s a series of controlled demolitions. Storyline after storyline is taken to its logical conclusion, then blown up, in one case literally.
Death by a thousand cuts. Max Cady (Javier Bardem) has already compared his (allegedly) undeserved prison sentence to this form of piecemeal torture. He may have actually committed it, if indeed he’s responsible for severing a certain teenager’s toe. But after this episode of Cape Fear, it’s apparent that Anna (Amy Adams) and Tom Bowden’s (Patrick Wilson) happy family is under lethal threat, and death by a thousand cuts is how they’re in danger of being taken out.
The funny thing is that this isn’t a super-funny episode of Widow’s Bay, or a super scary one, or one that riffs on one or two very specific stories or subgenres. Sure, there are shades of Nope and The Lighthouse here and there, and a twister straight out of The Wizard of Oz, but there’s no one central horror here — no sea hag, no sunset cocktails death ritual, no machete-wielding Boogeyman. Other than Chris Fleming’s untimely demise and the genuinely chilling cold open, this episode feels mostly like set-up for the finale. It’s funny in places and creepy in others, but in both the horror and comedy categories, I’m hoping it’s just the calm before the storm.
Just to reiterate: We’re watching the queer glam rock incest vampire show. This one’s for the sickos, and brother, that’s me.
Lestat is for anyone who’s ever wanted to watch a show about gay draculas who sing “The Jean Genie” knockoffs into a camera dripping with human blood, then go bitch about it to Eric Bogosian. It’s for anyone who loves The Lost Boys and Velvet Goldmine and Cabaret and Bram Stoker’s Dracula and has ever thought “Hey, wouldn’t it be nice if all those were the same thing at once?” It’s for people who know that even if that dark spot on Lestat’s pants at the end of one his performances isn’t his vampire blood-semen from ejaculating on stage, the fact that it’s even a question is a very good sign indeed.
We have it all now: the who, what, when, where, how, and why.
Who: Windom Earle — former FBI Special Agent, liaison to the Air Force’s paranormal investigation Project Blue Book, Dale Cooper’s former partner and mentor, the husband and murderer of the love of Cooper’s life, master of disguise, serial killer, seeker of secrets, would-be sorcerer.
What: The entrance to the Black Lodge — diametrically opposed to the benevolent White Lodge, home of the murderous entity called Bob, an immeasurably powerful place of evil for evil’s sake.
When: During the astrological conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn from January to June, whose opposing expansive and contractive forces augur times of great change, for good or evil.
Where: Somewhere in the woods outside of Twin Peaks, at a location indicated by the petroglyph from Owl Cave, which both Windom Earle and Deputy Andy Brennan have figured out is actually a map.
How: The doors to the Lodges require a key, and the Black Lodge is opened by fear (“my favorite emotional state!” whoops Windom), a feeling to which creatures like Bob are drawn as “their bread and butter.”
Why: Power. Is not the will to dominate the root of all evil?
When we open, Max Cady’s life has been turned upside down. Seven years ago, in a flashback sequence depicted in gritty black and white, Max is attacked in the prison weight room by a trio of Nazis. He gets the better of them, definitively killing two of them before passing out from his own head injuries, which we know continue to plague him even now.
But this bare-bones description does not do this cold open justice. Cape Fear has just given us the most brutal television fight scene since the Mountain dueled the Red Viper on Game of Thrones, possibly even since Dan Dority met Captain Turner in the thoroughfare on Deadwood. Simply put, it’s fucking unbelievable.
Horror is a genre in conversation with itself. Tasked with frightening their audiences, horror filmmakers naturally turn to what has frightened them. Even the very best works in the genre borrow ideas and images from their predecessors, often quite openly. Provided the end result is something unique unto itself, this process can yield results as vital as cover versions or well-chosen samples do in music.
Nick Antosca, creator and writer of Cape Fear, has a distinguished track record in the genre himself, creating or co-creating the shows Channel Zero, The Act, Brand New Cherry Flavor, Candy, and A Friend of the Family — a mix of gory, surreal horror and true crime served at a bone-chilling temperature. Here he’s working directly from a trio of sources: John D. MacDonald’s 1957 novel The Executioners, J. Lee Thompson’s 1962 film Cape Fear, and Martin Scorsese’s 1991 remake of it. All three are credited as source material on screen.
But the show’s very first scene isn’t a reference to any of those works that I can see. With its inverted, photo-negative images soaked in lurid color, with its images of a happy family enjoying the good life on the Fourth of July, it feels like a nod to a very different movie: of all things, Jonathan Glazer’s The Zone of Interest.
“There’s something wrong. This isn’t right. There’s something wrong here.”
These are the last words of this episode, spoken by Dwayne Milford, mayor of the town of Twin Peaks. He hasn’t suddenly developed concerns beyond his usual ones: badly presiding over local events, talking slowly, flirting with his much younger girlfriend Lana. He is in fact simply struggling with the microphone at a Miss Twin Peaks event. There’s a sight gag where he adjusts the mic only for it to sink away from him when he lets go that’s one of the funniest moments of the episode, even.
But we’re privy to information and observations to which Mayor Milford is not. We’ve spent a full episode listening to some of composer Angelo Badalamenti’s most unsettling work, much of it a series of ambient, ominous whooshing and humming. We hear it over the roar of the falls, in the wooden interiors of the Great Northern, in the formica paradise of the Double R diner. There’s something wrong here.
The camera of Stephen Gyllenhaal (Jake and Maggie’s dad) follows suit, its slow movements drawn out to at times genuinely striking lengths. There’s a seemingly endless shot of Coop and Annie mooning at each other over the counter, talking Augustine and Heisenberg as if this is how everyone flirts, where our viewpoint drifts further and further from them, as Badalamenti’s horror-movie synth slowly overwhelms the jaunty country-western music on the diner jukebox.
There’s no immediate explanation for any of this, no source of the visual or sonic disturbance that we can identify, no real reason for the shot, which ends with a breathless match cut on Annie and Coop leaning in for a kiss, at all. And there’s no reason for the slow-motion shot of syrup dripping from shattered dishware on a noisily dropped tray, oozing like blood, that follows the kiss. There’s something wrong here.
