Yet, because the narratives of these works are more recognizably traditional than most of Lynch’s other films, and because both are based on true stories, their obvious empathetic qualities tend to be looked at as somehow separate from his usual artistic concerns, just as the films themselves tend to be viewed as separate from the rest of his filmography.

This is nonsense, of course. Each film is entirely of a piece with all his others—save, arguably, Dune (for which he did not have final cut). Yet, even if we accept The Elephant Man and The Straight Story as lacking some essential element as to make them sufficiently Lynchian, the same cannot be said of Twin Peaks—both the show in its current and past iterations, as well as the feature-length prequel Fire Walk with Me. It is in the world of Twin Peaks, inarguably the property that Lynch is most immediately associated with, that we discover the strongest examples of his empathetic abilities.

During the show’s original run, these were most apparent in the actions of the characters. When homecoming queen Laura Palmer is discovered murdered, the wave of mourning that moves through the entire township is so pure an expression of collective grief that it does more to endear the viewer to these people and their community than any number of quirky personalities or folksy set-dressing. We dig these people because they talk to logs and wear multi-colored sunglasses and serve heaps of donuts and cherry pie and damn good coffee, but we love them because they love one another, so much so that the death of one is treated as the death of all.

Of course, within that loving community there lies a primordial evil, one that often finds expression through the actions of those same individuals. Even still, no character in Twin Peaks is shown as being inherently beyond salvation. Leland Palmer, who raped and murdered his own daughter, may have been ambiguously exonerated thanks to his being literally possessed by an interdimensional demon, but such is not the case for several other characters who start off as villains, only to make their way towards the light of goodness.

Take underworld boss Ben Horne for example: He willingly seeks to change his ways and make amends for a lifetime of sins. The same can be said of Bobby Briggs, weaselly jock and would-be criminal mastermind, who recognizes his moral descent and reverses course before it’s too late—though not before he commits murder. Even the hired killer/drug runner/arsonist/serial abuser Leo Johnson attempts to sacrifice himself in order to save the woman he’s long tormented.

Though the depiction of these redemptive arcs is, for the most part, awkward in presentation during the lackluster back half of the second season, the intent is nonetheless meaningful. And in the case of Ben and Bobby at least, the third season has shown that they did in fact make good on their efforts to change for the better.

In this regard, Twin Peaks continues to differentiate itself from the wave of prestige television dramas that followed its lead almost a decade after it went off the air. The template for those programs was that of The Sopranos (though it should be noted that creator David Chase has said that his show owes a great debt to Twin Peaks), and their general thematic arc was one of gradual moral entropy on both an individual and societal level.

The one show during this “Golden Age” of television that stood in contrast to this was Deadwood, which is almost certainly the most empathetic series of its era—if not all of American television. Deadwood showed how order and decency could grow from out of chaos and violence, if only individuals are able to disabuse themselves of the notion that they are separate spiritual entities. By doing so, they cast aside their immediate self-interest and work together in the name of the collective good. Though Deadwood more thoroughly mined this rich thematic terrain, Twin Peaks got there first.

Not that such exploration in Twin Peaks was necessarily tied to its characters’ willingness to change. Fan-favorite Albert Rosenfield begins the series as an outrageously cynical and even cruel figure, before revealing, in a show-stopping scene that never fails to surprise new viewers, the wellspring of pacifism that he’s been hiding all along. After berating the salt-of-the-earth sheriff of Twin Peaks, Harry S. Truman, for several episodes (and having already received one punch to the face for his troubles), he pushes things right to the point of violence before turning the tables and loudly declaims his true motivations:

“Now you listen to me! While I will admit to a certain cynicism, the fact is that I am a naysayer and hatchetman in the fight against violence. I pride myself in taking a punch and I’ll gladly take another because I choose to live my life in the company of Gandhi and King…I reject absolutely revenge, aggression, and retaliation. The foundation of such a method…is love. I love you Sheriff Truman.”