Journey to the center of the bomb: the music is frenetic (it’s ‘Threnody For The Victims Of Hiroshima’); the action is slow. The camera moves in closer, inching its way towards a bomb slowly making itself manifest in black and white, and, for a second, amongst the bee swarm of strings, we find ourselves asking of ourselves, Is there a reason Bob isn’t too far away from Bomb? To what degree is living with the texture of the atomic bomb as it explodes indicative of the creation of a summoning of a certain kind of evil? What does it mean to live as an atomic bomb in the day to day? (Or, to put it another way: what if the American version of the Crime and Punishment question is this: to what degree does such a singular act of violence — that is, the atomic bomb — act as a point of moral permission?)
After the bomb sequence, a faceless body is spotted hovering in the dark and seems to spew out a kind of ectoplasm, bringing to mind early Victorian photographs where people attempted to photograph ghosts. In the column of said exuding ectoplasm, we spot the face of Bob, and our mind flashes back to a quiet man slowly stroking the foot of a statue of a cowboy, and how clean the lines of the statue are drawn.
Two more points worth mentioning:
1. There’s a reason why Lynch shows an empty room as we hear a voice wail in pain, anger, and frustration after Cooper pulls Laura Palmer out of one timeline: Judy is (more or less) the house.
How does horror bury itself, hide itself, and lend itself to the circularity of time over and over again? (Lynch’s idea of electricity?) What happens when someone wakes to the fullness of that timeline?