Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me, also simply known as FWWM, is, just like the series preceding it, that is also in a certain way its successor, a multi-layered and multi-faceted piece.
From a temporal-structural point of view, and paying mind to the fact that Lynch's works tend to defy linear temporality, or time altogether, FWWM sits before the original series. At the most superficial level, it is indeed "a story of how Laura Palmer was killed". At the second most superficial level, it is split in two parts: the prologue and the main part.
The prologue -- maybe not that obviously if you haven't seen the last season, which is yet on my to-review list -- sits in stark contrast to the main part, in the sense that it occurs one year early in Twin Peaks time, and also in that it presents "the real" America in contrast to the "American dream"1. Deer Meadow, taken as one particular example, is nowhere near as nice a place as Twin Peaks, and this is brought before the viewer's eyes from the very beginning. The sheriff doesn't like outside interference, least of all fucking feds2; all the while, poor Carl over at the Fat Trout trailer park is just about the only human being in town, and with a bar for humanity that low... well, what can he do. But speaking of the feds, notice also that Chet Desmond is nothing like the annoyingly chivalrous Dale Cooper, so it's not like the decay as such is specific to Deer Meadows, but on the contrary, to America as a whole.
The main part, then, of FWWM is the American dream nightmarishly cracking at the seams, or as the demon known as Mike put it: "the thread will be torn". This utterance, then followed by Laura's father/rapist remark of the "what has this world come to" ilk, is all the more ironic and telling of the ins and outs within ins and outs that make that world run, and the effort of posturing that attempts to keep its clean, pantsuited image together. Again, ironically, the only thing that keeps this image authentic is the small pockets of reality: the private section of the Roadhouse, where Jacques' girls dance naked, then ran through another filter of alcohol and other substances; the soon-to-be-dismantled sawmill where Bobby kills a guy; James' road at night; and sure, the derelict train where Bob abuses a couple of teenagers. The rest is Bobby dancing while walking backwards, in sync with a bunch of other high-school kids -- a scene which looks trippingly absurd, a thing which I'm sure folks will simply attribute to Lynch's being overly artsy-fartsy or something.
This split between Americas aside, FWWM is also comprised of multiple layers, the most obvious of which is the social commentary that I've tried to summarize above: girl from an otherwise good family is abused by her father from the age of twelve, and she tries to escape her condition by getting into even more shit that runs more or less above her head; ends up murdered, and the rest is the community's initial reaction followed by the unveiling of more communal issues over in the initial series. FWWM actually ends on a "positive" note, i.e. that Laura's murder is also her salvation.
The second layer is pure metaphor and symbolism and, at least in my interpretation, it indicates that the whole affair of FWWM (and the Twin Peaks universe as a whole, in fact) is a quarrel between "demons" whose sole existence is predicated upon the perpetuation of pain and suffering, denoted as a "creamed corn", also known as Garmonbozia. The details are not immediately clear except maybe to avid Twin Peaks consumers, but Laura Palmer is either a collateral victim or (judging by the last season) a direct object of this quarrel. The demon known as Bob seems to want Laura only for himself, as a host for inflicting pain and suffering to others, while Mike and its left Arm -- a limb which is its own spirit; complicated stuff, mmmkay? -- seem to be intent on using Laura's own pain and suffering as a source of nourishment. In any case, the whole idea is that whatever happens, someone is bound to suffer, which I suppose is one point about as old as life itself.
As far as the artistic and technical aspects go: it certainly won't surprise the reader to know that in contrast to '90s TV, film is really where Lynch's imagery shines; from head to tail, the whole of FWWM can be decomposed into a long string of carefully crafted images that are anything but boring. And of course, there are scenes-within-scenes in the form of paintings that, besides the symbolism they exude, also serve the role of explicit plot devices. I don't know what sort of cinema people tend to consume nowadays, but I think I must be watching this for the fourth time, and I'm absolutely absorbed by it.
In closing, and for whatever it's worth: I don't much like Sheryl Lee and I was prepared to blast her acting, but her post-TV experience really shows, and the role of an annoying teenager on the brink of total madness really suits her twenty-five year old self. The rest is more or less the usual Lynch cast, with Ray Wise and Grace Zabriskie doing a stellar Palmer family, and Harry Dean Stanton being probably my favourite act, aside from Lynch himself.
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If you watched Lynch's work from Blue Velvet onwards, you'll have certainly noticed that this contrast is quite a common occurrence. It isn't always shaped the same, but nevertheless, it's there, and perhaps the original Twin Peaks was the foremost piece to bring it to the TV screen. ↩
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And to be fair, we'll have to agree that Lynch's depiction of the Bureau as "a force of good" is naïve at best. The fuck, it's not like they didn't know who brought the coke in town from across the border, and aside from brushing it off as well, a problem, you don't see them doing anything at any point to stop it. Of course the fuck they didn't, because then they'd be ruining some of their buddies' business. Force of good my ass, that's really not how anything works in this world. ↩