Twin Peaks
Episode Ten

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Glatter Control

Fade up on the interior of Primetime's Most Depressing Hospital, Calhoun "Chicago Hopeless" Memorial, in which Ronette's empty bed is soon to be filled with a ranting, screaming Ronette being secured to said bed by hospital attendants. As if entirely consumed by the stage direction "you're finally awake…and you're ACTING!" Ronette flails her arms wildly and screams every available variant of "No!" and "Ah!" and "Woe be it to my non-range-displaying, virtually-Sylvia-Horne-esque post-series career opportunities!" until we pan across the room to spot a nurse preparing an injection of some kind. Cooper runs into the room in a "what, me shot?" hurry, followed by Albert, and we learn from an already present Truman that "Ronette pulled out her IV. They just gave her a sedative." Albert stops for a cautious look at Ronette's IV bag and, perhaps as concerned as I am that the hospital's idea of proper post-traumatic bloodstream additive looks less like, um, whatever is usually found in an IV bag and more like Blueberry Bash Kool-Aid, instantly forms the belief that it "looks like dye." Over by the bed, Cooper unearths a pair of tweezers and holds Ronette's left hand. He suggests as gently as possible that she "breathe now, honey," moving the tweezers toward her still-swollen ring finger and inserting them under the nail ever so slightly. Rather than forcing us to relive the spectacle of these tweezers probing so deeply under a girl's fingernail that they manage to pluck a nose hair or two before reemerging into the light (see the pilot for more on this wrenching and invasive medical procedure), we cut instead to a slow-motion shot of Ronette screaming, as a magazine cut-out letter "B" is oh-so-faux-artsily superimposed over the proceedings. Oooh, artsy indeed. All hail Lesli Linka Glatter, the director of this week's episode, for harping the Lynch style so self-consciously that she somehow tore into the time-space continuum in making sure that the show could actually rip its own self off. Farewell, Lesli Linka Glatter. We barely -- or, really, not at all -- knew ye.

Seconds later, Cooper looks at the B through Albert's microscope and states with all certainty, "He's been here." Albert observes that Ronette has been under twenty-four-hour surveillance since entering the hospital, but Cooper is positive that this mysterious "he" both planted the letter and tainted Ronette's IV with the Blueberry Bash. I'm sayin', Coop, if you're really that suspicious of the Kool-Aid guy's participation in this caper, the surefire way to see if he's been around your neighborhood is to closely examine the walls of Ronette's hospital room. If any of them has been broken through entirely and the remaining area around the rubble is vaguely shaped like the bulbous side of a giant pitcher, it's a fair bet you've got your man. Not to mention the testimony from other hospital patients and personnel that they were rocked awake by a jubilant cry of "Oh, yeah!" as the wall came tumbling down. I'd probably need a sedative after the trauma of witnessing that, too. Sigh. Meanwhile, back at the observation deck overlooking the vistas of Linear Recapping National Park (Sorry, kids. Park's closed), Truman suggests that perhaps Ronette saw the man who assaulted her, and Albert loses just a shade of his trademark luster with the comeback, "Maybe she heard a Sousa march and got up to look for her baton." Yeah, um, maybe? Sensing the increasing "chirp, chirp" silence that follows Albert's every attempt at humor, Cooper quickly changes the subject to "plot retreading for the impatient casual viewer," alerting the men, "It's time I've mentioned something." And so, always a man of his word, Cooper mentions something: "I'm not sure, but I believe I was visited by a giant. Twice. In my room." Truman strives valiantly to appear understanding, bearing in mind that, long as this show had been around when this episode initially aired, Cooper had really only been in Twin Peaks for, what, nine hours or so? Albert, conversely, pauses a moment, arms folded, before asking the question on the minds of the literally tens of fans hanging on every word the show had to offer at this point in its run: "Any relation to the dwarf?"

Donna walks toward a house we identify as Harold Smith's, but before she has a chance to knock, he opens the door from the inside and comments first, "You're wearing a different sweater than yesterday. The color is better on you." Before the too-earnest Donna has a chance to narrow her eyes and hurl a snarky comment of the "Thanks endlessly, Dolce to my Gabbana, Gianni to my Donatella, Maxx to my TJ. And incidentally, those sure are some de rigueur suspenders, which are a successful fashion accessory mostly in their ability to bring out the highlights in your Flock of Seagulls hair" variety, Harold apologizes for forgetting his manners and invites her in. She walks through the door and into the house, and while Donna takes in the vast horticultural array of plants and flowers which take up much of the room, I muse for a moment that all Harold needs to add to his clothes and his cartoonishly raspy voice is a misbegotten handful of hair gel and he will become the living earthbound manifestation of Ed Grimley deciding to take a small place in the country. I must say. He offers her some lemonade, and then continues on with the manifold culinary delights available to the visitor of the Grimley house: "I also have some Saltines and some apple butter." Ah, yes. Apple butter. The normative cuisine of vegans, aged grandmothers, and socially bereft shut-ins everywhere. Donna shoots back a "For someone who counts strained carrots at sixteen months as among my last full meals, you're gonna have to do a whole lot better than apple butter to break my steely, skeletal resolve" glance and attaches an impartial "no thanks." They sit miles away from each other on a couch. Endless silence. Maybe Harold is allowing his creeping disappointment that the knock on the door wasn't the visit from Pat Sajak he simply KNOWS must be right around the corner (I must say) to finally sink in. Poor Ed. Donna breaks said silence by telling Ed that the room is very warm, and he quickly turns the conversation to Laura. Ed elaborates: "Laura wanted me to get in touch with you if anything ever happened to her." Ed says that she knew Laura since she began Meals on Wheels, and that he was "her best customer." Meaning? More shut in than the next guy? Less afraid to question the supernatural powers of a plate of creamed corn when you know that you're choosing between what they bring you versus apple butter for every meal? Donna volleys that Ed doesn't "seem much like a shut-in." He tells her that he "can't" go outside. Seems pretty much like a shut-in to me, then. Textbook definition, in fact. In the Handbook of Circus Performers and Other Various and Sundry Societal Refugees, I'd pretty much ascribe "Figure 1-1" status to Mr. Shut-In himself. I must say. Donna wants to know why she knew nothing about Ed from Laura, and Ed posits that "Laura liked to think of [him] as a mystery in her life." But he needs to employ outside help now, because Ed was a horticulturist before he lost his yen for leaving the house (I can only imagine how he would react if suddenly victimized by that "Kool-Aid attacker" plague that seems to be reaching epidemic proportions around town these days), and he wants Donna to place a flower from his home on Laura's grave. And so he walks through the back of his house to an outdoor (hey, wait a sec) greenhouse to fetch the flower in question. Alone in the room, Donna spots a piece of paper sticking out from beneath a number of (unbelievably heavy?) books on a low bookshelf. She slinks (as much as one can slink when the internal organs of her frame slam audibly into each other with each movement she makes) over and attempts to remove the paper, but finds herself unable to gasp and grunt and whisper, "Can't. Move. Paper. Just. So. Hungry." Clearly, Donna has thought this plan through miraculously well, as the greenhouse that contains Ed stands less than ten feet away from her and is, like most greenhouses, constructed entirely of that wall building material called "clear." And so he spots her skulking, and returns quickly to the room with a flower of his choosing, which he describes as a "hybrid." He then stares at her rather extravagantly and I simply cannot believe this scene is going to go on for one more second. Flowers, apple butter, shut-ins. Oh, my.

He tells her, "You're every bit as lovely as Laura said you were." Awwwww. Depending on how lovely Laura said she was, of course:

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Twin Peaks




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