We pad quietly by the several dozen, streaming through the evening like beings drawn to the Mothership. Down the gravel driveway and everyone is silent. Everything is dark, down away from the lights of the street. “No talking,” reads the sign when we reach the church doors. “Only dancing.” Inside fuzzy shapes are shuffling, swaying, limbering up to the sound of Loretta Lynn. The very low lights are turned down further as the big space…

I’m trying to remember how and from where I procured a boxset of Wild Palms, but can only recall the words of a screenwriter friend who implored me with some urgency, “If you ever see it somewhere, buy it,” and that when I saw it someplace or other, I did. The tragedy of Wild Palms is that it is only just over five hours long. The tragedy of Wild Palms is that it was too…