I am my father’s son. Most days that knowledge thrills me. I love my father. I have him to credit for my sense of humor, my pragmatism, and my diving-board nose trick. I can’t help but delight in seeing my heritage manifest itself physically. We both cross our arms the same way. I’m sure it’s just a matter of time before I start rubbing my hands together when I get excited.
Unfortunately, I also inherited some of his less desirable attributes, the most destructive of which is his penchant for repression. Our stunted emotional expression was on full display this past Wednesday when a devastating bit of news came our way. We have started counting the days. After five years of “Will he? Won’t he? What if he does?” the first two questions have been answered, leaving my family to contemplate the repercussions of the last.
In 44 days, my brother ships to Iraq.
A healthy family might have talked out the meaning of this news, but my father and I sat in opposing recliners in front of a television that might as well have been off. Both of us were too mindful of the two-ton, red, white, and blue elephant that had trudged its way into our home and left a monstrous shit in the foyer. God bless America.
My brother is a master of a special kind of doublespeak. The entirety of his dialogue is split fifty/fifty between his mouth and his ass. I’m compelled by what comes out of his mouth. Girls are compelled by what comes out of his ass. I understand the source is sometimes difficult to discern. I’ve been fooled more than once, and I’m a bright guy. So, I can’t fault some of the dim bulbs he’s snared.
But I digress.
My brother’s path to the Middle East has been one of fits and starts, uncertainties and contradictions, mouth-speak and ass-speak. At one point we expected him to be headed overseas this past March. Then for a while we thought he might actually avoid deployment. His immediate duties after West Point were very non-soldier. He taught calculus and coached girl’s basketball at Fort Monmouth, the West Point prep school, for six months before transferring to Fort Benning, Georgia for several months of mechanized training before Army Ranger School. But after several uneventful months, my brother had exhausted Ft. Benning’s curriculum and learned more than enough to dissuade him from pressing ahead with Ranger training.
So, he packed his bags and headed for Fort Carson, Colorado where he will be stationed until the end of his five year commitment to the Army. Unfortunately, he barely got his welcome mat out front of his new apartment before he learned that he was being transferred from his mechanized division (that would be returning from Iraq in October) to an armored division currently training for winter deployment. One slip of a pen and my brother went from a division that would be going on leave post haste to a division that would be vacating the states poster haste. The switch was so vicious it’s remarkable he didn’t snap his neck.
At home, the Rockwell family dealt with the news as they always handle bad news. My father tried to get as much information as possible, as if more information might somehow make our situation more tolerable. My mother became a ferocious busybody – working late, sewing like a flesh and blood Singer, and arranging to ease the practical issues of Andrew’s deployment. She made sure that every family member at my cousin Brian’s wedding this past weekend etched their vitals into an inappropriately playful notebook. That sparkly red pad haunted me throughout the ceremony. After making its way around the cousin’s dinner table, it sat at my elbow while Brian’s brother Lee made his toast as Best Man. I sacrificed a fair amount of enamel to keep from breaking down at the table.
Aside from that one moment, I’ve handled the news with my typical mixture of external stoicism and whirling gray matter, and for the first time I have the self-awareness to see what a powder keg that makes me. Unfortunately for my mental health (and again my poor enamel), there’s something about that state – the tightly-packed kinesis of anger and fear and uncertainty squeezing on each other – that has stirred my creative juices to an unprecedented degree. I don’t talk to my family about the machinations going on between my ears. I’d expect their minds are engaged in the same sort of deliberations and I dare not exacerbate their sensitivity with my prattling. I don’t much leave my workroom (aside from my actual job) now that I’ve finally got it feng shuied for maximum brooding. I just stand in front of the dry erase siding I’ve installed on my walls, spider-graphing character relationships and squeaking out chapter outlines like some neurotic mad scientist.
Mad, indeed.
If I break down my present emotional state to its purest form, anger owns all. God would be mighty useful right about now, but since I can’t be pissed at something I don’t believe in that leaves a lot of angst with nowhere to go. I get some out through my writing (I’m on my third case of dry-erase markers), but like a Crip at a Klan rally, a part of me just really wants somebody to start some shit. Please, somebody, give me a reason to break out my Al Pacino, scenery-chewing, asshole best. I got loads of material. Working a mindless warehouse job gives me plenty of time to stir up myriad priceless riffs, and not all of them can go in my stories. Please God, somebody, tell me now that if I don’t support the war then I don’t support the troops. That would thrill me in so many ways I well up at the thought.
After all that bile, it’s going to seem kind of silly for me to admit that I’m not all that worried about my brother’s safety. No, it’s the sanity of my family. Though we tried to keep the news a secret through Brian’s wedding, the secret was too big and my brother told too many people. So, I got to watch as my mother told my grandparents over bacon and eggs just hours before the ceremony. Watching my grandfather hide his grief with a thousand different iterations of “Fuck Bush” and watching my grandmother try to talk herself out of the truth, losing control of her fear as she lost her grip on denial, the sting of it still sticks me. My mother has been brave to this point, but she’ll eventually have to breathe and acknowledge what is happening. My father will probably feel the heaviest weight from this, but he’ll show it the least. As much as I’m riding this angst for the productiveness it’s afforded me, my father has no such outlet, and I worry about him more than just about anyone.
As for myself, I’m a pragmatist, and a pragmatist needs a plan. I’ve spent much of the past week trying to find a way that I could support my brother in some practical fashion – something better than yellow ribbons and rubber bracelets. My mom has the care-package market cornered. My father will spearhead the financial and real estate matters. Me? Well, I’m going to do what I do best: I’m going to write.
If one aspect of my brother’s personality feels most disparate from the rest, it’s his love of fantasy fiction. Terry Brooks, Robert Jordan, and the like have been filling his shelves for well over a decade now. Well, it’s time I added my own tale to his shelf. So, in the next forty days I’ll be preparing a weekly serial to entertain my baby brother in the desert. At a chapter a week, I should be able to churn out my first novel in the year he’s away. It’s not as much as I’d like to give him. Most of my continued frustration comes from my inability to do much of anything for him in the coming year. I’d like to give him a hundred grand for his West Point education, but I don’t have that kind of coin at my disposal. I’d like to supply him with a Batsuit to make him invincible. I can’t help but feel useless watching him head into a warzone. I’m humbled by what he is about to undertake, and humility doesn’t come naturally to intellectual elitists like myself.
It has just now passed midnight. Another day has been crossed off the calendar. Another day until we say good-bye to my brother. It’s 43 days now.
I’m exhausted.
Time to hit the whiteboard.
Friday, September 30, 2005
Serenity
I’ll say this for Joss Whedon -- the guy knows how to close. I wasn’t even a fan of Buffy the Vampire Slayer when I watched the finale, but watching the passionate and appropriate conclusion of the show sent me back to the beginning to watch the whole tale. And while Angel’s finale was not as well-received as Buffy’s, I found it superior in its own way. There’s something admirable about a group of people going to war with a foe that will always return, going to battle knowing that for one night they can deal evil a serious blow, even if its means they‘ll die in the process.. Plus, Angel’s last line (Whedon is my idol in regards to dialogue) was so perfect it brought tears to my eyes.
If we look at Serenity as the final act to the short-lived Whedon series Firefly, it follows in Whedon’s tradition of tremendous finales. Fans are going to appreciate the chance to visit these characters again and see the hanging threads of their prematurely cancelled program tied up. But what of the rest of humanity -- those not familiar with Firefly? What will they think of the film? Can any layman jump in and have a good time with Captain Malcolm Reynolds and crew?
I can’t really answer that question, because I am a passionate devotee of the show. And after seeing the film, I feel how I suspected I would feel when I headed to the theater this morning: I miss the show. That’s not a knock on the movie, necessarily, but the medium. The plot of Serenity tells in two hours what Whedon probably would have taken two seasons of television to tell. Whedon makes good use of time when he has lots of it. In a way I think he and I have similar storytelling faults. We write big stories. Cutting them down is like killing our children. I can’t imagine the agony he suffered scripting Serenity. Cutting down nearly thirty hours of television plotting down to two? I don’t envy that.
I can’t talk about this film without getting rather spoiler heavy, so I’m going to give my abbreviated recommendation here before getting into the guts of the film. I highly recommend the film for fans of the series. For people contemplating heading to the theater cold, without any knowledge of the Firefly series, I would say don’t. While I appreciate Whedon trying to open Serenity to a wider audience, it’s a lose-lose situation. Whedon has to pull back to let the broader audience in, and in turn the audience does not get a full sense of what us Browncoats are so passionate about. So don’t see the film. Watch the show. If the show rubs you the right way, you’ll watch all fourteen episodes and be stoked to see the film. If the show doesn’t tickle your fancy, the movie won’t convert you.
Speaking of conversion, as Serenity’s release approached it became clear that there were two groups of Firefly boosters trying to pull people into theaters. The first group, the group of which I am a proud member, are the Whedon fans. I love this guy’s imagination, I envy his dialogue, and I miss his presence on weekly television. The other group which I abhor are the Whedonites -- think Trekkies crossed with Jerry Falwell. These people will beat you over the head with Firefly and if you don’t like it, well you’re stupid and wrong. That’s not me. Now, I’ve done my share of Serenity promotion, but I’ve had very selfish reasons. I want to see the story continue. I want this film to put up a monster number this weekend, but not because I feel the show needs mass affirmation. I just want the chance to visit this cast once every few years in a new adventure. Granted, I think people who give Firefly a shot will enjoy it, but I could really care less as long as Serenity gets its ten bucks in the coffer.
And that poses the big question for fans: what do they want out of this film? Do they want millions of conversions? Do they want Serenity to become the next Matrix or Star Wars? I’ll be the first to say that’s not going to happen. This film doesn’t have mass appeal written all over it. When its hero is described as “Han Solo if he had taken his reward and run,“ it’s not going to be your typical ride. It takes a certain sensibility to “get” Whedon’s genre work, and Serenity is very, very Whedon. Perhaps because of his TV roots, or perhaps its simply the writer he is, Whedon does stuff in Serenity that we don’t see in most mainstream action/adventure fare of late. Who knows how that will fly with laymen? Again, I can’t say. But for those laymen, I’d still point them towards the best episodes of the television show (Ariel, Out of Gas, or even Our Dear Mrs. Reynolds) to see what this franchise is really all about.
So, did I love this movie? Eh, not quite, but I’m certain I eventually will. Firefly did not immediately endear itself to me. It took me a few episodes to fall into the groove of the show, but when I did I was hooked. And now, watching those first episodes again, I don’t know how I wasn’t immediately smitten. Whedon’s storytelling is so dense with relationships and story that it’s hard to get everything first time around. Only upon multiple viewings can you appreciate everything that is going on. Serenity had the same sort of development for me. It took me a few ticks to find the groove, but once I did it was a great ride. And I can only assume the next time I watch it, I’ll be able to absorb much more.
The other thing that caught me off-guard was how much the transition from television to film would effect Whedon’s storytelling. And this is why I would tell people to watch the show, rather than going into the film a ‘verse virgin. The television show got an entire hour (actually three) to introduce its impressive ensemble to the audience. The film gets about ten minutes, and in those ten minutes every character has to turn their persona volume up so that its understood who everybody is. Wash is very Wash -- silly even in great peril. Jayne is very Jayne -- dim and macho arguing over whether he can take grenades on a job. Kaylee is very Kaylee -- bright, optimistic, and lively. You get the idea. About the only person who doesn’t seem to be “trying too hard” in this sequence is thankfully, Malcolm Reynolds, who leads us in a long-take through Serenity’s innards, getting us acquainted with the ship just as we are acquainted with its crew. Any writer will tell you that exposition is the most painful thing to deal with, and Whedon does the best he can here, but I would have much rather jumped right into the action and let people figure out the rest.
Regardless, once the introductions are taken care of, Whedon gets his ship rolling right off the bat. A standard robbery goes wrong when Reavers, savages who have gone mad on the edge of space, appear to rape and pillage the town where Mal and his crew are… well, pillaging. The Reavers were very much a mystery through the series so to see them appear so early in the film (in broad daylight, no less) was a bit of a shock. The pacing of big moments like that, which took weeks during the show’s run, was the first difficulty I had with the film. There are quite a few major revelations piled so quickly on top of one another that there is hardly any time to absorb them, to understand the magnitude of what has just been revealed. As interesting as it was to see River Tam fall into a trance before wiping out a barful of people, including some of her shipmates, we quickly move on to the next major plot point. Had this been revealed on the television show, there could have been weeks of episodes dealing with River’s sudden threat to the crew of Serenity. There was a lot of story to tell there, but this is film and we only have two hours to tell our tale.
As much as time effected the pacing of the plot, it effected the characters to a much larger degree. Firefly was very much an ensemble show featuring nine fully-realized, complex characters with an intricate web of interpersonal relationships. Everybody on that show meant something to everybody else, but here we get only the basic overtones. Kaylee’s adoration of Simon. Mal’s unspoken love for Inara. Jayne’s slightly mutinous feelings towards Mal. We don’t have time for those little moments like River “fixing” Book’s Bible or Inara braiding Kaylee’s hair (seriously, that was a great scene). We can’t flush out these characters. There’s no time.
And that’s the main reason I don’t want people to see this movie if they haven’t seen the show. They just won’t appreciate what they’re seeing. When River first goes nuts in the bar, they won’t understand how shocking it is when she goes after Jayne and pulls a gun on Mal. They won’t understand what a twist the Reavers origin is. It won’t truly hit them when people die.
That’s right. If you’re still reading and haven’t seen the show or the film yet, this would be a good time to stop. We’re gonna get pretty thick into spoilers here. You’ve been warned.
Joss Whedon has never been shy about killing major characters off. In the last season of Angel, he killed off three. One of the best episodes of Buffy involved the death of Buffy’s mother. This is tricky business as a writer, killing characters we’ve grown to love. Yet, Whedon has been consistent in his execution over the years. The deaths are always powerful and never gratuitous. But the deaths in Serenity are not as successful as the ones in Whedon’s past, because for the uninitiated audience they’re going to feel abrupt and more than a little cold.
When I first learned that a major cast member would die in the film, I immediately thought it would be Shephard Book. Sure enough, Book dies defending a distant outpost where he apparently retired in between the show and the film. Book’s role in the film is little more than a cameo, and even though his brief appearance speaks volumes of his philosophically contentious relationship with Mal he doesn’t have enough screen time to warrant much empathy. In fact, the empathy is more likely going to be for Mal, who is traumatized a great deal by the loss. That’s unfortunate that such a consistently surprising presence on the show would be lost this way.
The other death in the film will probably be the big watercooler topic for Firefly fans. After piloting Serenity through a mind-boggling gauntlet of Alliance and Reaver ships, Alan Tudyk’s Wash is impaled on a spike launched from a pursuing Reaver vessel. I can’t properly articulate how shocking this moment was. How it came out of nowhere, in a moment of relative quiet. How it could happen to such a beloved character. I’d imagine some people are going to be pissed, but to a large degree I understand it. In fact, I don’t think the climax of this film would have been nearly the thrill it was if not for our dinosaur loving pilot’s unfortunate demise.
Whereas many writers know how to build mystery and intrigue, few know how to pack a punch with their resolutions. I stopped reading Stephen King because I realized, for all of his mastery of build-up, his conclusions are ass. Whedon had built himself quite a mystery with Firefly and I’m pleased to say his conclusion doesn’t disappoint. Every surprise in this film comes from a place I did not suspect. The secret River carries does not disappoint, and from the moment it is revealed the film hits a gear that only Batman Begins approached in the past year. The end of this film is phenomenal.
No writer can be tongue-in-cheek and wet-your-seat terrifying in the same breath like Whedon. More importantly, nobody can change gears so seamlessly. His writing by its very nature keeps you on your toes; he can do so many things well, predicting where he’ll go next is impossible. This is the writer who did an entire episode of Buffy as a Broadway musical and turned his vampire with a soul, Angel, into a puppet for an episode (then proceeded to have said puppet ripped to shreds by a werewolf). The guy’s imagination is staggering. I mentioned his witty dialogue, and Whedon is renowned for the savy pop culture references and surprising humor he brings to shows with extremely dark themes. Yet when Whedon throws the gauntlet down, it becomes very clear that great things are at stake.
Buffy was an extremely funny show, but look at its final few episodes and there is very little funny about them. Buffy had seen her fair share of apocalypses before her seventh and final season, and sometimes these end-of-the-world deals start to get a little old hat. So Whedon raised the stakes. In one of the most shocking moments I’ve ever seen on television, a supernaturally powerful priest (played by Firefly’s Nathan Fillion) presses his thumb into fan favorite Xander Harris’ eye. Very much the heart of Buffy’s team, we had a naïve belief that his sense of humor made him invincible. That one moment of simple, blunt violence changed everything. Suddenly, nobody was safe.
That’s what Wash’s death did for the climax of Serenity. It was that one blunt act of violence on a beloved character that removed any sense of security for us as viewers. As the Reavers backed Serenity’s crew into a corner, I was certain the body count would not stop at two. Then the crew begin to take hits, and not graceful pretty movie wounds (see Scarlett Johansson in The Island) but nasty, mortal wounds: a sword through the stomach, a poison round in the neck, a bullet in the chest. Battling against mindless savages, that’s how things should be. It felt real. It felt honest. It was terrifying. I loved seeing Malcolm Reynolds walking out of his battle with the Operative with his face pummeled and blood vessels broken in his eye. The battle was hell for its participants and they looked like it on the other side. I struggle to think of another film that gave its heros such an ass-whooping. It made the last twenty minutes of the film quite harrowing for everyone in the theater, and all because of one carefully chosen death.
The only objection to Wash’s killing is we never really get a chance to mourn for him. In the middle of the battle, there was no time for it. It was very cold, and we fans would probably ask for something better for our plucky pilot. Yet, it makes sense. Even Zoe’s stoicism made sense to a point -- she’s a soldier and they were in the midst of a war. Nevertheless, something was missing for Wash at the end of the film, and that’s unfortunate. Perhaps it was another time issue. I don’t know. Still, that doesn’t take away from what Wash’s death did for the intensity of that final sequence.
I want to see more of this crew, but its clear I’m not going to get as much as I would like. There was a time I hoped that this movie would be a break-out for many of its performers, but then I realized that’s not really what I want. However much I think these actors deserve great roles in the future, I don’t want them to vacate Serenity. Adam Baldwin is always going to be Jayne. Jewel Staite is always going to be Kaylee. And Nathan Fillion, you have leading man charm, but you were born to play Captain Malcolm Reynolds. I believe an actor is never as great as their breakout role, and this cast is terrific as the crew of Serenity. So why not stay at your best?
That being said I really don’t care to see them on film again, where their story is truncated and their relationships shallow. It’s wishful thinking, but I’d love to see them reappear on television (ala Family Guy) on FX or Sci-Fi. Film’s fine for sci-fi archetypes and grand mythologies like Star Wars and Lord of the Rings. But Firefly is different from them in that there are no grand quests, no great meaning. It’s about people -- regular, blue-collar folk -- making their way through life as best they can. The appeal is in getting to know them, living and growing with them. I love these characters and their stories. It’d be a shame to only see them every three or four years.
Final Grade for Serenity: B+
If we look at Serenity as the final act to the short-lived Whedon series Firefly, it follows in Whedon’s tradition of tremendous finales. Fans are going to appreciate the chance to visit these characters again and see the hanging threads of their prematurely cancelled program tied up. But what of the rest of humanity -- those not familiar with Firefly? What will they think of the film? Can any layman jump in and have a good time with Captain Malcolm Reynolds and crew?
I can’t really answer that question, because I am a passionate devotee of the show. And after seeing the film, I feel how I suspected I would feel when I headed to the theater this morning: I miss the show. That’s not a knock on the movie, necessarily, but the medium. The plot of Serenity tells in two hours what Whedon probably would have taken two seasons of television to tell. Whedon makes good use of time when he has lots of it. In a way I think he and I have similar storytelling faults. We write big stories. Cutting them down is like killing our children. I can’t imagine the agony he suffered scripting Serenity. Cutting down nearly thirty hours of television plotting down to two? I don’t envy that.
I can’t talk about this film without getting rather spoiler heavy, so I’m going to give my abbreviated recommendation here before getting into the guts of the film. I highly recommend the film for fans of the series. For people contemplating heading to the theater cold, without any knowledge of the Firefly series, I would say don’t. While I appreciate Whedon trying to open Serenity to a wider audience, it’s a lose-lose situation. Whedon has to pull back to let the broader audience in, and in turn the audience does not get a full sense of what us Browncoats are so passionate about. So don’t see the film. Watch the show. If the show rubs you the right way, you’ll watch all fourteen episodes and be stoked to see the film. If the show doesn’t tickle your fancy, the movie won’t convert you.
Speaking of conversion, as Serenity’s release approached it became clear that there were two groups of Firefly boosters trying to pull people into theaters. The first group, the group of which I am a proud member, are the Whedon fans. I love this guy’s imagination, I envy his dialogue, and I miss his presence on weekly television. The other group which I abhor are the Whedonites -- think Trekkies crossed with Jerry Falwell. These people will beat you over the head with Firefly and if you don’t like it, well you’re stupid and wrong. That’s not me. Now, I’ve done my share of Serenity promotion, but I’ve had very selfish reasons. I want to see the story continue. I want this film to put up a monster number this weekend, but not because I feel the show needs mass affirmation. I just want the chance to visit this cast once every few years in a new adventure. Granted, I think people who give Firefly a shot will enjoy it, but I could really care less as long as Serenity gets its ten bucks in the coffer.
And that poses the big question for fans: what do they want out of this film? Do they want millions of conversions? Do they want Serenity to become the next Matrix or Star Wars? I’ll be the first to say that’s not going to happen. This film doesn’t have mass appeal written all over it. When its hero is described as “Han Solo if he had taken his reward and run,“ it’s not going to be your typical ride. It takes a certain sensibility to “get” Whedon’s genre work, and Serenity is very, very Whedon. Perhaps because of his TV roots, or perhaps its simply the writer he is, Whedon does stuff in Serenity that we don’t see in most mainstream action/adventure fare of late. Who knows how that will fly with laymen? Again, I can’t say. But for those laymen, I’d still point them towards the best episodes of the television show (Ariel, Out of Gas, or even Our Dear Mrs. Reynolds) to see what this franchise is really all about.
So, did I love this movie? Eh, not quite, but I’m certain I eventually will. Firefly did not immediately endear itself to me. It took me a few episodes to fall into the groove of the show, but when I did I was hooked. And now, watching those first episodes again, I don’t know how I wasn’t immediately smitten. Whedon’s storytelling is so dense with relationships and story that it’s hard to get everything first time around. Only upon multiple viewings can you appreciate everything that is going on. Serenity had the same sort of development for me. It took me a few ticks to find the groove, but once I did it was a great ride. And I can only assume the next time I watch it, I’ll be able to absorb much more.
The other thing that caught me off-guard was how much the transition from television to film would effect Whedon’s storytelling. And this is why I would tell people to watch the show, rather than going into the film a ‘verse virgin. The television show got an entire hour (actually three) to introduce its impressive ensemble to the audience. The film gets about ten minutes, and in those ten minutes every character has to turn their persona volume up so that its understood who everybody is. Wash is very Wash -- silly even in great peril. Jayne is very Jayne -- dim and macho arguing over whether he can take grenades on a job. Kaylee is very Kaylee -- bright, optimistic, and lively. You get the idea. About the only person who doesn’t seem to be “trying too hard” in this sequence is thankfully, Malcolm Reynolds, who leads us in a long-take through Serenity’s innards, getting us acquainted with the ship just as we are acquainted with its crew. Any writer will tell you that exposition is the most painful thing to deal with, and Whedon does the best he can here, but I would have much rather jumped right into the action and let people figure out the rest.
Regardless, once the introductions are taken care of, Whedon gets his ship rolling right off the bat. A standard robbery goes wrong when Reavers, savages who have gone mad on the edge of space, appear to rape and pillage the town where Mal and his crew are… well, pillaging. The Reavers were very much a mystery through the series so to see them appear so early in the film (in broad daylight, no less) was a bit of a shock. The pacing of big moments like that, which took weeks during the show’s run, was the first difficulty I had with the film. There are quite a few major revelations piled so quickly on top of one another that there is hardly any time to absorb them, to understand the magnitude of what has just been revealed. As interesting as it was to see River Tam fall into a trance before wiping out a barful of people, including some of her shipmates, we quickly move on to the next major plot point. Had this been revealed on the television show, there could have been weeks of episodes dealing with River’s sudden threat to the crew of Serenity. There was a lot of story to tell there, but this is film and we only have two hours to tell our tale.
As much as time effected the pacing of the plot, it effected the characters to a much larger degree. Firefly was very much an ensemble show featuring nine fully-realized, complex characters with an intricate web of interpersonal relationships. Everybody on that show meant something to everybody else, but here we get only the basic overtones. Kaylee’s adoration of Simon. Mal’s unspoken love for Inara. Jayne’s slightly mutinous feelings towards Mal. We don’t have time for those little moments like River “fixing” Book’s Bible or Inara braiding Kaylee’s hair (seriously, that was a great scene). We can’t flush out these characters. There’s no time.
And that’s the main reason I don’t want people to see this movie if they haven’t seen the show. They just won’t appreciate what they’re seeing. When River first goes nuts in the bar, they won’t understand how shocking it is when she goes after Jayne and pulls a gun on Mal. They won’t understand what a twist the Reavers origin is. It won’t truly hit them when people die.
That’s right. If you’re still reading and haven’t seen the show or the film yet, this would be a good time to stop. We’re gonna get pretty thick into spoilers here. You’ve been warned.
Joss Whedon has never been shy about killing major characters off. In the last season of Angel, he killed off three. One of the best episodes of Buffy involved the death of Buffy’s mother. This is tricky business as a writer, killing characters we’ve grown to love. Yet, Whedon has been consistent in his execution over the years. The deaths are always powerful and never gratuitous. But the deaths in Serenity are not as successful as the ones in Whedon’s past, because for the uninitiated audience they’re going to feel abrupt and more than a little cold.
When I first learned that a major cast member would die in the film, I immediately thought it would be Shephard Book. Sure enough, Book dies defending a distant outpost where he apparently retired in between the show and the film. Book’s role in the film is little more than a cameo, and even though his brief appearance speaks volumes of his philosophically contentious relationship with Mal he doesn’t have enough screen time to warrant much empathy. In fact, the empathy is more likely going to be for Mal, who is traumatized a great deal by the loss. That’s unfortunate that such a consistently surprising presence on the show would be lost this way.
The other death in the film will probably be the big watercooler topic for Firefly fans. After piloting Serenity through a mind-boggling gauntlet of Alliance and Reaver ships, Alan Tudyk’s Wash is impaled on a spike launched from a pursuing Reaver vessel. I can’t properly articulate how shocking this moment was. How it came out of nowhere, in a moment of relative quiet. How it could happen to such a beloved character. I’d imagine some people are going to be pissed, but to a large degree I understand it. In fact, I don’t think the climax of this film would have been nearly the thrill it was if not for our dinosaur loving pilot’s unfortunate demise.
Whereas many writers know how to build mystery and intrigue, few know how to pack a punch with their resolutions. I stopped reading Stephen King because I realized, for all of his mastery of build-up, his conclusions are ass. Whedon had built himself quite a mystery with Firefly and I’m pleased to say his conclusion doesn’t disappoint. Every surprise in this film comes from a place I did not suspect. The secret River carries does not disappoint, and from the moment it is revealed the film hits a gear that only Batman Begins approached in the past year. The end of this film is phenomenal.
No writer can be tongue-in-cheek and wet-your-seat terrifying in the same breath like Whedon. More importantly, nobody can change gears so seamlessly. His writing by its very nature keeps you on your toes; he can do so many things well, predicting where he’ll go next is impossible. This is the writer who did an entire episode of Buffy as a Broadway musical and turned his vampire with a soul, Angel, into a puppet for an episode (then proceeded to have said puppet ripped to shreds by a werewolf). The guy’s imagination is staggering. I mentioned his witty dialogue, and Whedon is renowned for the savy pop culture references and surprising humor he brings to shows with extremely dark themes. Yet when Whedon throws the gauntlet down, it becomes very clear that great things are at stake.
Buffy was an extremely funny show, but look at its final few episodes and there is very little funny about them. Buffy had seen her fair share of apocalypses before her seventh and final season, and sometimes these end-of-the-world deals start to get a little old hat. So Whedon raised the stakes. In one of the most shocking moments I’ve ever seen on television, a supernaturally powerful priest (played by Firefly’s Nathan Fillion) presses his thumb into fan favorite Xander Harris’ eye. Very much the heart of Buffy’s team, we had a naïve belief that his sense of humor made him invincible. That one moment of simple, blunt violence changed everything. Suddenly, nobody was safe.
That’s what Wash’s death did for the climax of Serenity. It was that one blunt act of violence on a beloved character that removed any sense of security for us as viewers. As the Reavers backed Serenity’s crew into a corner, I was certain the body count would not stop at two. Then the crew begin to take hits, and not graceful pretty movie wounds (see Scarlett Johansson in The Island) but nasty, mortal wounds: a sword through the stomach, a poison round in the neck, a bullet in the chest. Battling against mindless savages, that’s how things should be. It felt real. It felt honest. It was terrifying. I loved seeing Malcolm Reynolds walking out of his battle with the Operative with his face pummeled and blood vessels broken in his eye. The battle was hell for its participants and they looked like it on the other side. I struggle to think of another film that gave its heros such an ass-whooping. It made the last twenty minutes of the film quite harrowing for everyone in the theater, and all because of one carefully chosen death.
The only objection to Wash’s killing is we never really get a chance to mourn for him. In the middle of the battle, there was no time for it. It was very cold, and we fans would probably ask for something better for our plucky pilot. Yet, it makes sense. Even Zoe’s stoicism made sense to a point -- she’s a soldier and they were in the midst of a war. Nevertheless, something was missing for Wash at the end of the film, and that’s unfortunate. Perhaps it was another time issue. I don’t know. Still, that doesn’t take away from what Wash’s death did for the intensity of that final sequence.
I want to see more of this crew, but its clear I’m not going to get as much as I would like. There was a time I hoped that this movie would be a break-out for many of its performers, but then I realized that’s not really what I want. However much I think these actors deserve great roles in the future, I don’t want them to vacate Serenity. Adam Baldwin is always going to be Jayne. Jewel Staite is always going to be Kaylee. And Nathan Fillion, you have leading man charm, but you were born to play Captain Malcolm Reynolds. I believe an actor is never as great as their breakout role, and this cast is terrific as the crew of Serenity. So why not stay at your best?
That being said I really don’t care to see them on film again, where their story is truncated and their relationships shallow. It’s wishful thinking, but I’d love to see them reappear on television (ala Family Guy) on FX or Sci-Fi. Film’s fine for sci-fi archetypes and grand mythologies like Star Wars and Lord of the Rings. But Firefly is different from them in that there are no grand quests, no great meaning. It’s about people -- regular, blue-collar folk -- making their way through life as best they can. The appeal is in getting to know them, living and growing with them. I love these characters and their stories. It’d be a shame to only see them every three or four years.
Final Grade for Serenity: B+
Alias 5.1: "Prophet Five"
Of all last season’s finales, Alias went out with the biggest bang. Sydney Bristow’s long-time love interest and short-time fiancee, Michael Vaughn confessed to leading a double life. “For starters, my name’s not Michael Vaughn” were his last words before a speeding SUV slammed into their car. Coming off a slightly less-than-average season, this was the type of shocking cliff-hanger that I didn’t believe Alias could pull off anymore. Yet there I was on my sofa with my jaw in my lap. I burst into a fit of delighted, malevolent laughter at this twisted surprise, and suddenly I couldn’t wait for season five to begin.
Then summer came. And it brought rumors. And those rumors unfortunately colored Alias’ premiere for me on Thursday night. I’ll admit I did it to myself. I didn’t have to keep track of the behind-the-scenes drama at my favorite shows, but if TV has become like heroin to me, I can’t just go cold-turkey through the summer. But that meant I would watch as each backstage nail slowly pounded its way into Alias’ coffin.
The first nail came in the form of -- you know, that metaphor’s not safe here; Jennifer Garner got knocked up by Ben Affleck. Next came news that the creators would be writing the pregnancy into the show. And finally the rumors that had dogged the show since its second season finally gained some serious steam: Michael Vaughn was going to die. Or, more to the point, the all-mighty “They” were going to “kill him off.” Considering how I felt about Alias’ premiere, the cold brutality of that phrase seems much more appropriate.
From the moment we rejoined Sydney and Vaughn in their wrecked car, something felt out of joint. I didn’t place it until this morning after an evening of contemplation, and I was saddened to find that not just one of my favorite TV characters died last night. Two did. You see, Sydney Bristow and Michael Vaughn no longer exist. They’ve become Jennifer Garner and Michael Vartan. The characters are gone. All that’s left is a tabloid shell of two actors who fell in love, broke up, and now have to maintain their chemistry as one of them is carrying Daredevil’s seed.
Now, I admit, again, to my own blame for some of my disappointment. I was the one checking TV Guide’s website every day to see what was going on with my favorite shows. I was the one soured by the idea of writing Jennier Garner’s pregnancy into the show. I was the one who put a hit out on Ben Affleck.
Hmm? What? I mean… What?
I knew this show would feel strained when it came back. That’s what happens when outside influences affect the creative process. Writing is at its best when its fluid and organic. Shows commonly start to slip when outside concerns impede the program’s direction. As much of an admirer as I am of Alias’ creator, J.J. Abrams, I know that any writer who puts shackles on his creative process is going to produce a lesser product. And judging by the season premiere, this is a lesser product.
Watching Alias on Thursday felt a little like going to your first family reunion as a young adult. As a child you remember the good times and how everybody seemed to get along. Then there’s that one year where the seams begin to show. You start to notice the uncle who never seems to have work and is always asking for money. The aunt who’s a little loose after her fifth Crown and Coke. The drop-out cousin. The mercurial grandfather. It suddenly becomes clear; these people don’t really get along.
That’s how Alias felt on Thursday. Whether it was the writing or the performances, one of the most interesting and charismatic couples on TV suddenly had all the chemistry of the Clintons in their second term. This is an episode that contained an apparent betrayal by Vaughn, the revelation of Vaughn and Syd’s baby, and Vaughn’s shockingly brutal death, yet there was not a single genuine moment of love between them. There were plenty of scenes that had the potential for it, but they all felt forced and contrived. In fact, they tried so hard to remind us that these two characters loved each other that it looked like the raging homophobe who hates them queers because he probably is one. The harder they try to hide the truth, the more they reveal it.
And the truth was pretty clear in this episode. Michael Vartan played the entire episode with a “fuck you” standoffishness that might have fit his character, but instead felt like a middle finger to the people who precipitated his dismissal. Jennifer Garner, who has a gift for making viewers feel her grief, seemed remarkably cold and distant throughout the episode. Vaughn, in a TV version of Sonny Corleone’s demise, is machine-gunned to death at point-blank range, yet Syd’s emotions would make you think he tripped down the steps. This show revels in operatic drama. There should have been slow-motion and screaming of the obligatory “Noooooooo!” To watch the character on this show I most admire “killed off” with such blasé, casual staging -- I was a little pissed. I mean, for God’s sake they even had him uttering the horror movie no-no “I’ll be right back” before attending the fateful meeting. Alias is better than that.
But this all comes back to the death of Sydney Bristow and Michael Vaughn. I would have thought I was being overly sensitive if it weren’t for the one moment of genuine emotion I felt during the show: the pallbearers. Weiss, Marshall, Dixon, and Jack carried Vaughn’s casket to the car, and I finally felt a sense of loss. Those four have fortunately been impervious to the backstage drama that has ruined the two leads; they are still their characters. When Jennifer Garner stares at Victor Garber, she’s still staring at Jack Brystow, not Victor Garber. God bless him, I’ll still watch this show out of loyalty, but Jack Brystow will always give me something compelling to watch. I don’t know if his facial expression has changed once during this show, but that one expression has made him the most interesting character on the show (next to the equally stoic Irena Derevko (Lena Olin)).
I’m sad this morning. This might be a painful year. I really love this show, but I think I may be broken in my capacity to enjoy it like I used to. Like the dismal Reunion, this show’s draw has fallen away from its characters. It’s now about the conspiracy-thick plot, and that’s disappointing. I know there are Alias apologists who will tell me that Vaughn will resurface somewhere during the course of this season. I agree. There was a lot of time where we see Syd and Vaughn through the hospital window without hearing what they’re talking about. I suspect his staged death was planned between the two of them. But again, that’s plot. Not character. And if these actors can’t put their baggage behind them, then it’s not going to matter. Michael Vaughn’s already dead.
Then summer came. And it brought rumors. And those rumors unfortunately colored Alias’ premiere for me on Thursday night. I’ll admit I did it to myself. I didn’t have to keep track of the behind-the-scenes drama at my favorite shows, but if TV has become like heroin to me, I can’t just go cold-turkey through the summer. But that meant I would watch as each backstage nail slowly pounded its way into Alias’ coffin.
The first nail came in the form of -- you know, that metaphor’s not safe here; Jennifer Garner got knocked up by Ben Affleck. Next came news that the creators would be writing the pregnancy into the show. And finally the rumors that had dogged the show since its second season finally gained some serious steam: Michael Vaughn was going to die. Or, more to the point, the all-mighty “They” were going to “kill him off.” Considering how I felt about Alias’ premiere, the cold brutality of that phrase seems much more appropriate.
From the moment we rejoined Sydney and Vaughn in their wrecked car, something felt out of joint. I didn’t place it until this morning after an evening of contemplation, and I was saddened to find that not just one of my favorite TV characters died last night. Two did. You see, Sydney Bristow and Michael Vaughn no longer exist. They’ve become Jennifer Garner and Michael Vartan. The characters are gone. All that’s left is a tabloid shell of two actors who fell in love, broke up, and now have to maintain their chemistry as one of them is carrying Daredevil’s seed.
Now, I admit, again, to my own blame for some of my disappointment. I was the one checking TV Guide’s website every day to see what was going on with my favorite shows. I was the one soured by the idea of writing Jennier Garner’s pregnancy into the show. I was the one who put a hit out on Ben Affleck.
Hmm? What? I mean… What?
I knew this show would feel strained when it came back. That’s what happens when outside influences affect the creative process. Writing is at its best when its fluid and organic. Shows commonly start to slip when outside concerns impede the program’s direction. As much of an admirer as I am of Alias’ creator, J.J. Abrams, I know that any writer who puts shackles on his creative process is going to produce a lesser product. And judging by the season premiere, this is a lesser product.
Watching Alias on Thursday felt a little like going to your first family reunion as a young adult. As a child you remember the good times and how everybody seemed to get along. Then there’s that one year where the seams begin to show. You start to notice the uncle who never seems to have work and is always asking for money. The aunt who’s a little loose after her fifth Crown and Coke. The drop-out cousin. The mercurial grandfather. It suddenly becomes clear; these people don’t really get along.
That’s how Alias felt on Thursday. Whether it was the writing or the performances, one of the most interesting and charismatic couples on TV suddenly had all the chemistry of the Clintons in their second term. This is an episode that contained an apparent betrayal by Vaughn, the revelation of Vaughn and Syd’s baby, and Vaughn’s shockingly brutal death, yet there was not a single genuine moment of love between them. There were plenty of scenes that had the potential for it, but they all felt forced and contrived. In fact, they tried so hard to remind us that these two characters loved each other that it looked like the raging homophobe who hates them queers because he probably is one. The harder they try to hide the truth, the more they reveal it.
And the truth was pretty clear in this episode. Michael Vartan played the entire episode with a “fuck you” standoffishness that might have fit his character, but instead felt like a middle finger to the people who precipitated his dismissal. Jennifer Garner, who has a gift for making viewers feel her grief, seemed remarkably cold and distant throughout the episode. Vaughn, in a TV version of Sonny Corleone’s demise, is machine-gunned to death at point-blank range, yet Syd’s emotions would make you think he tripped down the steps. This show revels in operatic drama. There should have been slow-motion and screaming of the obligatory “Noooooooo!” To watch the character on this show I most admire “killed off” with such blasé, casual staging -- I was a little pissed. I mean, for God’s sake they even had him uttering the horror movie no-no “I’ll be right back” before attending the fateful meeting. Alias is better than that.
But this all comes back to the death of Sydney Bristow and Michael Vaughn. I would have thought I was being overly sensitive if it weren’t for the one moment of genuine emotion I felt during the show: the pallbearers. Weiss, Marshall, Dixon, and Jack carried Vaughn’s casket to the car, and I finally felt a sense of loss. Those four have fortunately been impervious to the backstage drama that has ruined the two leads; they are still their characters. When Jennifer Garner stares at Victor Garber, she’s still staring at Jack Brystow, not Victor Garber. God bless him, I’ll still watch this show out of loyalty, but Jack Brystow will always give me something compelling to watch. I don’t know if his facial expression has changed once during this show, but that one expression has made him the most interesting character on the show (next to the equally stoic Irena Derevko (Lena Olin)).
I’m sad this morning. This might be a painful year. I really love this show, but I think I may be broken in my capacity to enjoy it like I used to. Like the dismal Reunion, this show’s draw has fallen away from its characters. It’s now about the conspiracy-thick plot, and that’s disappointing. I know there are Alias apologists who will tell me that Vaughn will resurface somewhere during the course of this season. I agree. There was a lot of time where we see Syd and Vaughn through the hospital window without hearing what they’re talking about. I suspect his staged death was planned between the two of them. But again, that’s plot. Not character. And if these actors can’t put their baggage behind them, then it’s not going to matter. Michael Vaughn’s already dead.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Lost 2.2: "Adrift"
It’s somewhat appropriate that the second episode of Lost’s season was titled “Adrift,” because it felt like so much treading water. With the island storyline advancing very little and with Michael’s largely superfluous flashback, this was the least compelling episode of Lost so far.
That being said, I have a sneaking suspicion that this episode will play better once this season reaches its climax. There was a great deal of sub-textual groundwork being laid here, and even at its worst Lost inspire plenty of raised eyebrows and WTFs:
“Are you him?”
In the first “present day” flashback in the show’s run, we are finally shown what happened to Kate and Locke at the bottom of the hatch. When Locke finds Kate prone on the floor, Desmond pops up behind him -- rifle in hand. Before Locke can say anything Desmond asks “Are you him?” Clearly Desmond is waiting for somebody, but when Locke can’t answer a riddle about snowmen it is clear that he is not “him.” Could “him” be Jack?
Don’t Take Crazy People’s Candy
When Jack drops down the hatch, Desmond locks Kate up in a bomb shelter storeroom. All of the food had the same label on it -- a label that also appears on Desmond’s fatigues. This didn’t frighten Kate though, who lustfully attacked an Apollo chocolate bar before escaping through the air vent in the ceiling.
“I haven’t seen one of those in twenty years.”
When a radar-like beep rings in the hatch, Desmond take Locke to the control room where a flip-clock ticker is counting down. Desmond then commands Locke to go over to the computer and type in what he says: “4...8...15...16...23...42...execute.” Locke, who works through faith most of the time, actually pauses to ask what the little program is going to do. It resets the clock to 108 (add up the numbers), but who knows what else it did.
The big WTF of the night
As Michael and Sawyer cling to the remains of the destroyed raft, a shark begins to circle the strandees. Always stalking but never attacking, I had almost forgot the shark was there until an underwater shot revealed its bright white belly -- and a tattoo. Low on the sharks stomach was the same logo that adorned the food in Desmond’s storeroom. This is one of those Lost touch’s that is so bizarre I can’t even begin to hypothesize.
Tiny morsels, no meal
Sadly, this episode played like a Where’s Waldo of future clues. That’s fine, but the characters are the guts of this show and there really wasn’t much “character” to this episode. Despite Harold Perinneau’s tremendous performance -- his breakdown on the skid was heartbreaking -- his flashback didn’t enlighten us to anything new. Aside from Micheal’s farewell gift to Walt (a polar bear), nothing in those scenes felt new or necessary.
And all of the drama in the hatch was especially irritating considering my advocacy for a two-hour premiere. Going back and showing Kate and Locke in the hatch felt cheap from a storytelling perspective when it took the entire episode to “catch up“ to where the first episode ended. Sure, showing things in order would have spoiled the twist of Jack and Desmond’s past, but that could have been worked around.
Oh well. On to next week. Michael and Sawyer have landed on the bad side of the island where they meet Jin running for his life from The Others. Jack, Desmond, Kate, and Locke are down in the hatch, and there’s no possible way they can flashback again (or can they?). Plus we have almost ten other major cast members who have yet to be brought back into the fold. If we don’t count Shannon’s run-in with Walt and Claire discovering Charlie’s Virgin Mary, the other cast members have barely been mentioned. What’s going on with Sayeed? How about Sun? Or Turniphead?
When a show is this good, there always has to be a “worst” episode. We’ve got this one in the bag. Now let’s get back to what made Lost such a great show: the large and diverse ensemble and the taught, imaginative storytelling. I’ll be waiting.
That being said, I have a sneaking suspicion that this episode will play better once this season reaches its climax. There was a great deal of sub-textual groundwork being laid here, and even at its worst Lost inspire plenty of raised eyebrows and WTFs:
“Are you him?”
In the first “present day” flashback in the show’s run, we are finally shown what happened to Kate and Locke at the bottom of the hatch. When Locke finds Kate prone on the floor, Desmond pops up behind him -- rifle in hand. Before Locke can say anything Desmond asks “Are you him?” Clearly Desmond is waiting for somebody, but when Locke can’t answer a riddle about snowmen it is clear that he is not “him.” Could “him” be Jack?
Don’t Take Crazy People’s Candy
When Jack drops down the hatch, Desmond locks Kate up in a bomb shelter storeroom. All of the food had the same label on it -- a label that also appears on Desmond’s fatigues. This didn’t frighten Kate though, who lustfully attacked an Apollo chocolate bar before escaping through the air vent in the ceiling.
“I haven’t seen one of those in twenty years.”
When a radar-like beep rings in the hatch, Desmond take Locke to the control room where a flip-clock ticker is counting down. Desmond then commands Locke to go over to the computer and type in what he says: “4...8...15...16...23...42...execute.” Locke, who works through faith most of the time, actually pauses to ask what the little program is going to do. It resets the clock to 108 (add up the numbers), but who knows what else it did.
The big WTF of the night
As Michael and Sawyer cling to the remains of the destroyed raft, a shark begins to circle the strandees. Always stalking but never attacking, I had almost forgot the shark was there until an underwater shot revealed its bright white belly -- and a tattoo. Low on the sharks stomach was the same logo that adorned the food in Desmond’s storeroom. This is one of those Lost touch’s that is so bizarre I can’t even begin to hypothesize.
Tiny morsels, no meal
Sadly, this episode played like a Where’s Waldo of future clues. That’s fine, but the characters are the guts of this show and there really wasn’t much “character” to this episode. Despite Harold Perinneau’s tremendous performance -- his breakdown on the skid was heartbreaking -- his flashback didn’t enlighten us to anything new. Aside from Micheal’s farewell gift to Walt (a polar bear), nothing in those scenes felt new or necessary.
And all of the drama in the hatch was especially irritating considering my advocacy for a two-hour premiere. Going back and showing Kate and Locke in the hatch felt cheap from a storytelling perspective when it took the entire episode to “catch up“ to where the first episode ended. Sure, showing things in order would have spoiled the twist of Jack and Desmond’s past, but that could have been worked around.
Oh well. On to next week. Michael and Sawyer have landed on the bad side of the island where they meet Jin running for his life from The Others. Jack, Desmond, Kate, and Locke are down in the hatch, and there’s no possible way they can flashback again (or can they?). Plus we have almost ten other major cast members who have yet to be brought back into the fold. If we don’t count Shannon’s run-in with Walt and Claire discovering Charlie’s Virgin Mary, the other cast members have barely been mentioned. What’s going on with Sayeed? How about Sun? Or Turniphead?
When a show is this good, there always has to be a “worst” episode. We’ve got this one in the bag. Now let’s get back to what made Lost such a great show: the large and diverse ensemble and the taught, imaginative storytelling. I’ll be waiting.
Friday, September 23, 2005
The O.C. 3.3: "The End of Innocence"
The O.C. managed some narrative landmines on Thursday that a year ago would have blowed the show up real good. And they did so in a way that showed an awareness of last season’s miscues. They teased regurgitating some of the more nauseating storylines of last season, but neglected to go where we would have expected after season two.
The major event of the episode involved the reading of the late Caleb Nichol’s will, the jumping off point for the major storylines of this season. The most anxious Newporter of all was special guest Jimmy Cooper, whose debt to a generic gangster-type has only gotten bigger since returning home. He’s so itchy to have a fortune to squander that he proposes that he and Julie get married at the end of the week, one day after the will-reading and the deadline for keeping his kneecaps. Always one for a party, Julie agrees and while they’re at it they decide to use Honeymoon #2 as an excuse to move the entire family to Hawaii.
Naturally, this stirs the libido of Orange County’s star-crossed lovers, Ryan and Marissa. With the help of Seth and Summer, who filch the set from Taylor Townsend’s production of South Pacific, Ryan designs a final romantic evening to get some Cooper-booty before his pouty soulmate is whisked away to the Aloha State. Besides the creepiness of Seth and Summer helping their friends score (though Ryan had to clarify in a throwaway line that the two haven’t yet slept together), they run into additional trouble when the Dean of Discipline (a.k.a. Mrs. Townsend) busts Seth returning the set. He takes the bullet for Summer and earns himself two months of detention. How very Saved by the Bell.
Meanwhile, the will reading ends up being somewhat anti-climactic in the moment, but devastating for the future of Newport. Despite Caleb’s intentions to split his money evenly between his family and his wife, he unfortunately went to the grave with his pockets turned out. The only thing to change hands at the reading was a letter Caleb wrote to Kirsten on the day he died. This prompted the return of Kelly Rowan’s hang-dog, depressive face, and she ran to the nearest seedy motel where she stared at a fresh bottle of vodka through the night.
I cursed out loud when I saw Kirsten buying the vodka, but it made her return home all the more satisfying. At least the creators of the show are using last year’s sub-par season as a tension builder. I thought they might actually have Kirsten go back to the bottle, but in a touching, low-key moment she asked for Sandy’s support as she read the letter her father left. Much to her shock, if not ours, it was an apology. What a delight to have Kirsten back with her family where she belongs (the final scene in the kitchen was too long in the coming), though the deceptive rehab hanger-on has been kicked out of her “daddy’s” cabin, and will soon spoil the reunion with more of her awful guest appearances.
But as the Cohen family reunites, the Cooper-Nichol-nearlyCooper family has fallen apart for the last time. When Julie and Jimmy walk out of the will-reading with nothing, Jimmy tries to flee the city, but catches a graceless, old-school beating (intercut with his daughter knockin’ boots) before he can escape. When Marissa receives a post-coitus phone call, she meets her beaten father on his yacht, only to hear another tale of his financial woes. Maintaining the strength of character that has benefited her so far this year, she tells him to leave and never come back. One scene later she’s holding a suddenly sympathetic and heartbroken Julie, and assuring her things are going to be all right. Who is this girl?
If the past two episodes were about returning to the show's roots, this episode felt like they had found their way back and now they were going to get busy with the rest of the season. Despite the psycho drunk still threatening, everything else this year is looking up. Marissa, the last character on the show without an identity, suddenly has as much guts as beauty. Jimmy has left a broken family to repair itself with absolutely no money. Marissa and Ryan face public school, while Seth and Summer are headed for a showdown with the Dean of Discipline at Newport.
These are good, simple narratives without all the stunt work that went on last year.
I like this show again. I commend the writers for finding their way back to the essence of the show. Here’s hoping they gah stay the course when things get a little tricky around midseason.
The major event of the episode involved the reading of the late Caleb Nichol’s will, the jumping off point for the major storylines of this season. The most anxious Newporter of all was special guest Jimmy Cooper, whose debt to a generic gangster-type has only gotten bigger since returning home. He’s so itchy to have a fortune to squander that he proposes that he and Julie get married at the end of the week, one day after the will-reading and the deadline for keeping his kneecaps. Always one for a party, Julie agrees and while they’re at it they decide to use Honeymoon #2 as an excuse to move the entire family to Hawaii.
Naturally, this stirs the libido of Orange County’s star-crossed lovers, Ryan and Marissa. With the help of Seth and Summer, who filch the set from Taylor Townsend’s production of South Pacific, Ryan designs a final romantic evening to get some Cooper-booty before his pouty soulmate is whisked away to the Aloha State. Besides the creepiness of Seth and Summer helping their friends score (though Ryan had to clarify in a throwaway line that the two haven’t yet slept together), they run into additional trouble when the Dean of Discipline (a.k.a. Mrs. Townsend) busts Seth returning the set. He takes the bullet for Summer and earns himself two months of detention. How very Saved by the Bell.
Meanwhile, the will reading ends up being somewhat anti-climactic in the moment, but devastating for the future of Newport. Despite Caleb’s intentions to split his money evenly between his family and his wife, he unfortunately went to the grave with his pockets turned out. The only thing to change hands at the reading was a letter Caleb wrote to Kirsten on the day he died. This prompted the return of Kelly Rowan’s hang-dog, depressive face, and she ran to the nearest seedy motel where she stared at a fresh bottle of vodka through the night.
I cursed out loud when I saw Kirsten buying the vodka, but it made her return home all the more satisfying. At least the creators of the show are using last year’s sub-par season as a tension builder. I thought they might actually have Kirsten go back to the bottle, but in a touching, low-key moment she asked for Sandy’s support as she read the letter her father left. Much to her shock, if not ours, it was an apology. What a delight to have Kirsten back with her family where she belongs (the final scene in the kitchen was too long in the coming), though the deceptive rehab hanger-on has been kicked out of her “daddy’s” cabin, and will soon spoil the reunion with more of her awful guest appearances.
But as the Cohen family reunites, the Cooper-Nichol-nearlyCooper family has fallen apart for the last time. When Julie and Jimmy walk out of the will-reading with nothing, Jimmy tries to flee the city, but catches a graceless, old-school beating (intercut with his daughter knockin’ boots) before he can escape. When Marissa receives a post-coitus phone call, she meets her beaten father on his yacht, only to hear another tale of his financial woes. Maintaining the strength of character that has benefited her so far this year, she tells him to leave and never come back. One scene later she’s holding a suddenly sympathetic and heartbroken Julie, and assuring her things are going to be all right. Who is this girl?
If the past two episodes were about returning to the show's roots, this episode felt like they had found their way back and now they were going to get busy with the rest of the season. Despite the psycho drunk still threatening, everything else this year is looking up. Marissa, the last character on the show without an identity, suddenly has as much guts as beauty. Jimmy has left a broken family to repair itself with absolutely no money. Marissa and Ryan face public school, while Seth and Summer are headed for a showdown with the Dean of Discipline at Newport.
These are good, simple narratives without all the stunt work that went on last year.
I like this show again. I commend the writers for finding their way back to the essence of the show. Here’s hoping they gah stay the course when things get a little tricky around midseason.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Lost 2.1: "Man of Science, Man of Faith"
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“Why are you so anxious to get down there?” Jack Shephard asks of John Locke as they stand over the freshly opened hatch and its shaft-to-nowhere. Had Jack asked this same question of Lost’s fans, he very likely would have been choked to death. Four months we have waited to see what that broken ladder leads to. Four months of rumors, teases, and a best drama Emmy win (a win for the show as much as for its fans). Four months of hearing the moans of the shark-jumpers: “They didn’t give us enough in the finale.” What’s in the hatch? Everbody wants to know.
The answer: Jose Canseco. Who knew?
Of course, I kid. Sort of.
Season two wastes no time giving the rabid fans what they’ve been waiting for: the contents of the hatch. Lost opens in a fancy loft as its occupant goes about his morning duties: eating, exercising, checking his computer, more exercising, administering injections into his arm. It’s unclear who he is, but the deco of the apartment and the athlete’s music selection (not to mention hair) has us placed in a flashback -- probably somewhere in the 80’s.
Then there’s the explosion. The man shuts down his apartment. A periscope falls from the ceiling and we’re jerked towards a series of mirrors placed about the apartment, and out into a shotty concrete hallway, and up to … wait for it… the hatch. Season one ends with the camera sinking down into the hatch. Season two begins with the camera rising up out of the hatch. A few minutes into the sophomore season and already viewers are, for lack of a better word, lost.
Oh how simple the old days were. Remember them? The ones where only one question occupied our thoughts: What’s in the hatch? Well, now we know. And how much don’t we know now because of it. I had to smile thinking of those viewers who complained that last year’s finale left them wanting. Can you imagine if this premiere had been that finale? And all those people had to wait four months for the answers to all the new questions?
I love this show.
Although it’s going to be infuriating trying to recap these episodes when there’s so much information in just one. I think we’ll have to go with bullet points.
Man of Science, Man of Faith
The title of this episode “Man of Science, Man of Faith” implies the brewing feud between Jack and Locke, but it is in fact speaking of only one of them: Jack. This episode’s flashbacks show us his first encounter with Sarah, his future wife (Julie Bowen). She’s brought in to the ER after an automobile accident in horrific shape, and Jack shows a cold bluntness when he informs Sarah of her diagnosis. Jack can’t bring himself to give her, nor her fiancee (who bails at the prospect of a life of catheter bags and wheelchairs), false hope. And despite promising Sarah he will fix her, he walks away from the operating table knowing that he failed.
But while running stairs in a nearby stadium, Jack runs into a peculiar foreigner who asks him why he’s running like the devil is on his heels. Jack explains the situation -- he promised to fix Sarah, but he didn’t. The personable Aussie (?) asks him how he can be so sure.
“That would be a miracle,” Jack says.
“And you don’t believe in miracles?” the Aussie replies. Jack snorts.
“See you in another life, perhaps," the man says as he runs away.
Jack returns to the hospital where he informs Sarah of the results of her surgery, this time with tears in his eyes; she'll be in a wheelchair for the rest of her life. Despite his sincerity, she thinks she’s putting him on.
“Then why can I wiggle my toes?”
Walt?
Though most of the episode focused on the hatch, it did feature its share of foreboding regarding the passengers not directly involved in that undertaking. Sayeed and Charlie have returned with Turniphead/Aaron and tell the other passengers that the black smoke was all Danielle’s doing (though it’s not clear if that’s true or not). Charlie feels confident that The Others were a hoax, but Sayeed is not so sure. Of course, we already know that they got a child, just not Claire’s child.
Speaking of that child, Walt is the only member of the raft party to show up in the premiere, but in typical Lost fashion it’s just the tip of another mysterious iceberg. After losing track of Vincent, Shannon and Sayeed head into the jungle to track the dog down. When they get separated, Shannon has a perplexing run-in with a soaking head-to-toe, gibberish-speaking Walt, who disappears before Sayeed returns. Shannon shares her experience with the rest of the survivors at the caves, but nobody seems to give her tale much credence.
Down the Hatch
After much discussion, Locke takes the initiative to head into the hatch, much to Jack’s chagrin (the back of the hatch door said QUARANTINE people, and unless that‘s French for soft and fuzzy, I would tend to be on Jack‘s side there). Kate quickly follows after Locke -- more of Jack’s chagrin -- and thanks to her initiative and delectable petiteness, Locke elects her to manage the hatch first. He lowers her down until a bright white light fills the shaft and she is pulled away(God bless him, he held on until his hands bled).
When Jack returns to the hatch (with automatic weapon in toe) and finds neither Locke nor Kate, he follows the cable down. Once below he encounters a barred entrance that magnetically attracts the key hanging around his neck. Suddenly crazy 80’s music begins to play once again, and Jack is led into a control room of sorts with reel-to-reels and a computer with…
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Locke tells Jack, who wheels on him with his automatic.
Locke is standing at the end of a corridor with his hands in the air, a gun to his neck. Jack argues with the gunman hiding around the corner until he reveals himself as... wait for it... The Aussie who so many years ago asked Jack if he believed in miracles.
In general…
The contents of the hatch didn’t change my life, but then they weren’t ever going to. The hatch proved to be exactly what I expected it to be -- a portal to more questions. It’ll be interesting to see the message board reaction to this episode. For people who complained about the finale, what they got tonight must truly piss them off. Even less makes sense now than at the end of last season. Who’s the muscle-bound American Psycho with the small arsenal and retro apartment at the bottom of the hatch? How did he get there? And why did he run into Jack before he got there? Why quarantined? Where’s Kate? And forget about trying to figure out Walt’s Exorcist moment.
Lost continues to astound. The way I see it, I could only have two criticisms of its return. First, it opened up a whole new set of mysteries. That’s a criticism, but not one you will hear from me. Some people just seem to want this show to end so they can see the big picture. These are the same people who ask questions during movies and always want to know how a magician does his tricks. Just shut up and enjoy the show people. This show is not about the destination so much as how we get there. When the show ends, if we still have questions, only then will the "too little info" criticism be valid. The other possible criticism is just pure greed. I could have done without the Lost retrospective (which didn’t even mention the numbers, by the way) especially seeing as the DVD came out a week ago. I would have much rather had another blockbuster two-hour premiere like last year. Then maybe more of this might make sense. Although this is Lost, so probably not.
A week has never been so long. And that means the magic is still there.
Lost 2.1 “Man of Science, Man of Faith” Grade : A-
“Why are you so anxious to get down there?” Jack Shephard asks of John Locke as they stand over the freshly opened hatch and its shaft-to-nowhere. Had Jack asked this same question of Lost’s fans, he very likely would have been choked to death. Four months we have waited to see what that broken ladder leads to. Four months of rumors, teases, and a best drama Emmy win (a win for the show as much as for its fans). Four months of hearing the moans of the shark-jumpers: “They didn’t give us enough in the finale.” What’s in the hatch? Everbody wants to know.
The answer: Jose Canseco. Who knew?
Of course, I kid. Sort of.
Season two wastes no time giving the rabid fans what they’ve been waiting for: the contents of the hatch. Lost opens in a fancy loft as its occupant goes about his morning duties: eating, exercising, checking his computer, more exercising, administering injections into his arm. It’s unclear who he is, but the deco of the apartment and the athlete’s music selection (not to mention hair) has us placed in a flashback -- probably somewhere in the 80’s.
Then there’s the explosion. The man shuts down his apartment. A periscope falls from the ceiling and we’re jerked towards a series of mirrors placed about the apartment, and out into a shotty concrete hallway, and up to … wait for it… the hatch. Season one ends with the camera sinking down into the hatch. Season two begins with the camera rising up out of the hatch. A few minutes into the sophomore season and already viewers are, for lack of a better word, lost.
Oh how simple the old days were. Remember them? The ones where only one question occupied our thoughts: What’s in the hatch? Well, now we know. And how much don’t we know now because of it. I had to smile thinking of those viewers who complained that last year’s finale left them wanting. Can you imagine if this premiere had been that finale? And all those people had to wait four months for the answers to all the new questions?
I love this show.
Although it’s going to be infuriating trying to recap these episodes when there’s so much information in just one. I think we’ll have to go with bullet points.
Man of Science, Man of Faith
The title of this episode “Man of Science, Man of Faith” implies the brewing feud between Jack and Locke, but it is in fact speaking of only one of them: Jack. This episode’s flashbacks show us his first encounter with Sarah, his future wife (Julie Bowen). She’s brought in to the ER after an automobile accident in horrific shape, and Jack shows a cold bluntness when he informs Sarah of her diagnosis. Jack can’t bring himself to give her, nor her fiancee (who bails at the prospect of a life of catheter bags and wheelchairs), false hope. And despite promising Sarah he will fix her, he walks away from the operating table knowing that he failed.
But while running stairs in a nearby stadium, Jack runs into a peculiar foreigner who asks him why he’s running like the devil is on his heels. Jack explains the situation -- he promised to fix Sarah, but he didn’t. The personable Aussie (?) asks him how he can be so sure.
“That would be a miracle,” Jack says.
“And you don’t believe in miracles?” the Aussie replies. Jack snorts.
“See you in another life, perhaps," the man says as he runs away.
Jack returns to the hospital where he informs Sarah of the results of her surgery, this time with tears in his eyes; she'll be in a wheelchair for the rest of her life. Despite his sincerity, she thinks she’s putting him on.
“Then why can I wiggle my toes?”
Walt?
Though most of the episode focused on the hatch, it did feature its share of foreboding regarding the passengers not directly involved in that undertaking. Sayeed and Charlie have returned with Turniphead/Aaron and tell the other passengers that the black smoke was all Danielle’s doing (though it’s not clear if that’s true or not). Charlie feels confident that The Others were a hoax, but Sayeed is not so sure. Of course, we already know that they got a child, just not Claire’s child.
Speaking of that child, Walt is the only member of the raft party to show up in the premiere, but in typical Lost fashion it’s just the tip of another mysterious iceberg. After losing track of Vincent, Shannon and Sayeed head into the jungle to track the dog down. When they get separated, Shannon has a perplexing run-in with a soaking head-to-toe, gibberish-speaking Walt, who disappears before Sayeed returns. Shannon shares her experience with the rest of the survivors at the caves, but nobody seems to give her tale much credence.
Down the Hatch
After much discussion, Locke takes the initiative to head into the hatch, much to Jack’s chagrin (the back of the hatch door said QUARANTINE people, and unless that‘s French for soft and fuzzy, I would tend to be on Jack‘s side there). Kate quickly follows after Locke -- more of Jack’s chagrin -- and thanks to her initiative and delectable petiteness, Locke elects her to manage the hatch first. He lowers her down until a bright white light fills the shaft and she is pulled away(God bless him, he held on until his hands bled).
When Jack returns to the hatch (with automatic weapon in toe) and finds neither Locke nor Kate, he follows the cable down. Once below he encounters a barred entrance that magnetically attracts the key hanging around his neck. Suddenly crazy 80’s music begins to play once again, and Jack is led into a control room of sorts with reel-to-reels and a computer with…
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Locke tells Jack, who wheels on him with his automatic.
Locke is standing at the end of a corridor with his hands in the air, a gun to his neck. Jack argues with the gunman hiding around the corner until he reveals himself as... wait for it... The Aussie who so many years ago asked Jack if he believed in miracles.
In general…
The contents of the hatch didn’t change my life, but then they weren’t ever going to. The hatch proved to be exactly what I expected it to be -- a portal to more questions. It’ll be interesting to see the message board reaction to this episode. For people who complained about the finale, what they got tonight must truly piss them off. Even less makes sense now than at the end of last season. Who’s the muscle-bound American Psycho with the small arsenal and retro apartment at the bottom of the hatch? How did he get there? And why did he run into Jack before he got there? Why quarantined? Where’s Kate? And forget about trying to figure out Walt’s Exorcist moment.
Lost continues to astound. The way I see it, I could only have two criticisms of its return. First, it opened up a whole new set of mysteries. That’s a criticism, but not one you will hear from me. Some people just seem to want this show to end so they can see the big picture. These are the same people who ask questions during movies and always want to know how a magician does his tricks. Just shut up and enjoy the show people. This show is not about the destination so much as how we get there. When the show ends, if we still have questions, only then will the "too little info" criticism be valid. The other possible criticism is just pure greed. I could have done without the Lost retrospective (which didn’t even mention the numbers, by the way) especially seeing as the DVD came out a week ago. I would have much rather had another blockbuster two-hour premiere like last year. Then maybe more of this might make sense. Although this is Lost, so probably not.
A week has never been so long. And that means the magic is still there.
Lost 2.1 “Man of Science, Man of Faith” Grade : A-
Saturday, September 17, 2005
What I Want from Emmy Night
I can’t say that I ever cared about the Emmys. When you favorite show as a child is MacGyver, you’re not gonna have much to care about come awards night. About the only time I had a mild interest in the television awards was the year of Rachel’s pregnancy on Friends. I really wanted to see Jennifer Aniston and the show rewarded for a tremendous season so late in its run. But other than that, I really haven’t had any personal investment in the show.
But tomorrow night, I’ll spend my Sunday evening rooting for a handful of performers and programs that have given me a new understanding of great storytelling. I’m not fully invested in the entire slate of awards, but these five will have my full attention.
Lead Actor in a Comedy:
When I came back from my internship at NBC in Burbank, I couldn’t say enough about this upstart show called Scrubs. I was fortunate enough to spend a day with this cast during an extensive promotional photo shoot, and even having not seen the show (though I would at press tour) the cast was universally approachable and personable. After dealing with some Hollywood types on previous shoots, it was a pleasure running into this cast that I wanted to succeed.
At the top of that cast was Zach Braff, the one person I didn’t recognize at the shoot. For somebody who was clearly in over his head when the show began, Braff has shown remarkable versatility handling the diverse requirements of a hard-to-define comedy. He handles the absurdity cut-aways -- like the Fonz as ER magician -- as well as the more serious dramatic moments with remarkable skill. Comedy is hard, and Scrubs’ brand of comedy damn near impossible.
But Braff isn’t the only performer carrying a show built on difficult comedic situations. Jason Bateman has established himself as a remarkably savy and subtle comic mind as the head Bluth on Arrested Development. Surrounded by lunacy, Bateman’s straight-man reactions to his family are funnier than most of the broad comedy that the show excels at. This show does not work without him, and considering it’s the funniest show on television, that makes him television comedy’s MVP.
This is the only category where I’m hedging my bets, because I’d be thrilled for either of these actors.
Best Comedy Series:
If Arrested Development is the funniest comedy on television, Scrubs is the most versatile. For four seasons Scrubs has managed to turn out a consistently hilarious show with a surprisingly warm heart. Every episode deals with the trying conditions of a hospital, with death meeting life with unfortunate frequency, but does so with a humor that felt revolutionary after the dearth of hospital procedurals in the late 90’s. It has maintained all of its freshness over the years, and if Emmy refuses to recognize the brilliant John C. McGinley they can at least honor his show.
Best Actor in a Drama:
This one should be academic. Hugh Laurie took what could have been a completely unlikable, but brilliant physician and turned him into a must-watch character. House is not innovative in its plotting. In fact, it’s shockingly predictable. But none of it matters with Gregory House at the helm. I look at this category much as how I view the MVP award in baseball. My vote goes to the guy whose loss would completely desimate his team. Can you imagine House without, well, House? It’d probably look a lot like ER. The horror. This is my best chance for a good night.
Best Supporting Actor in a Drama:
This is my favorite character on television. Terry O’Quinn had the honorable distinction of having the “oh shit” moment that cemented Lost as the must watch show of the year. When John Locke backed away from his travel agent’s desk revealing himself as a wheelchair bound parapalegic, viewers knew they were in from an unpredictable ride.
And the personification of this unpredictability is John Locke. From his first mysterious moments where he alternated from knife-throwing bushman to orange-peel smiling, creepy old man, it was impossible to get a read on this messiah-in-training. Simultaneously stirring our sympathies and our suspicions, O’Quinn’s masterfully subtle performance jerks viewers back and forth between allegiance and aversion. With the mystery of the island still in its infancy, Locke has been able to maintain a moral ambiguity that has been the most fascinating character arc of the show. Hopefully, they’ll be able to maintain that as the castaways divide between Jack’s camp and Locke’s camp. If O’Quinn’s performance this season was any indication, viewers are in for a torturous decision.
Best Drama:
I’ve already written an entire blog on this show, so this should be no secret. Not only the best show this year, the best show I’ve ever seen. Unfortunately, it may be a little too “different” to garner the night’s highest honor despite it’s extraordinary quality (see Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and early X-Files). I’m not holding me breath, but something tells me that if the voters actually watched this show its superiority will be impossible to ignore. Unfortunately, from what I understand about the Emmys, they’re renowned for ignoring the best of television.
But tomorrow night, I’ll spend my Sunday evening rooting for a handful of performers and programs that have given me a new understanding of great storytelling. I’m not fully invested in the entire slate of awards, but these five will have my full attention.
Lead Actor in a Comedy:
When I came back from my internship at NBC in Burbank, I couldn’t say enough about this upstart show called Scrubs. I was fortunate enough to spend a day with this cast during an extensive promotional photo shoot, and even having not seen the show (though I would at press tour) the cast was universally approachable and personable. After dealing with some Hollywood types on previous shoots, it was a pleasure running into this cast that I wanted to succeed.
At the top of that cast was Zach Braff, the one person I didn’t recognize at the shoot. For somebody who was clearly in over his head when the show began, Braff has shown remarkable versatility handling the diverse requirements of a hard-to-define comedy. He handles the absurdity cut-aways -- like the Fonz as ER magician -- as well as the more serious dramatic moments with remarkable skill. Comedy is hard, and Scrubs’ brand of comedy damn near impossible.
But Braff isn’t the only performer carrying a show built on difficult comedic situations. Jason Bateman has established himself as a remarkably savy and subtle comic mind as the head Bluth on Arrested Development. Surrounded by lunacy, Bateman’s straight-man reactions to his family are funnier than most of the broad comedy that the show excels at. This show does not work without him, and considering it’s the funniest show on television, that makes him television comedy’s MVP.
This is the only category where I’m hedging my bets, because I’d be thrilled for either of these actors.
Best Comedy Series:
If Arrested Development is the funniest comedy on television, Scrubs is the most versatile. For four seasons Scrubs has managed to turn out a consistently hilarious show with a surprisingly warm heart. Every episode deals with the trying conditions of a hospital, with death meeting life with unfortunate frequency, but does so with a humor that felt revolutionary after the dearth of hospital procedurals in the late 90’s. It has maintained all of its freshness over the years, and if Emmy refuses to recognize the brilliant John C. McGinley they can at least honor his show.
Best Actor in a Drama:
This one should be academic. Hugh Laurie took what could have been a completely unlikable, but brilliant physician and turned him into a must-watch character. House is not innovative in its plotting. In fact, it’s shockingly predictable. But none of it matters with Gregory House at the helm. I look at this category much as how I view the MVP award in baseball. My vote goes to the guy whose loss would completely desimate his team. Can you imagine House without, well, House? It’d probably look a lot like ER. The horror. This is my best chance for a good night.
Best Supporting Actor in a Drama:
This is my favorite character on television. Terry O’Quinn had the honorable distinction of having the “oh shit” moment that cemented Lost as the must watch show of the year. When John Locke backed away from his travel agent’s desk revealing himself as a wheelchair bound parapalegic, viewers knew they were in from an unpredictable ride.
And the personification of this unpredictability is John Locke. From his first mysterious moments where he alternated from knife-throwing bushman to orange-peel smiling, creepy old man, it was impossible to get a read on this messiah-in-training. Simultaneously stirring our sympathies and our suspicions, O’Quinn’s masterfully subtle performance jerks viewers back and forth between allegiance and aversion. With the mystery of the island still in its infancy, Locke has been able to maintain a moral ambiguity that has been the most fascinating character arc of the show. Hopefully, they’ll be able to maintain that as the castaways divide between Jack’s camp and Locke’s camp. If O’Quinn’s performance this season was any indication, viewers are in for a torturous decision.
Best Drama:
I’ve already written an entire blog on this show, so this should be no secret. Not only the best show this year, the best show I’ve ever seen. Unfortunately, it may be a little too “different” to garner the night’s highest honor despite it’s extraordinary quality (see Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and early X-Files). I’m not holding me breath, but something tells me that if the voters actually watched this show its superiority will be impossible to ignore. Unfortunately, from what I understand about the Emmys, they’re renowned for ignoring the best of television.
Five Reasons "The O.C." is Must-See Again
For media junkies like me, I can’t say enough about Netflix. I’ve been exposed to a plethora of films and programs that I never would have seen without those little red envelopes. At times, the experience has been horrifying; John Waters’s “Pink Flamingos” comes immediately to mind. Other times I’ve discovered hidden gems like the surrealist Swedish film “Songs from the Second Floor” and the quiet drama “The Station Agent.”
But the real blessing of Netflix for me is television. Programs that I couldn’t bother to make time for during their initial broadcasts were easily accessible on DVD, and I could watch them on my own time. While shows like Battlestar Galactica and Dead Like Me were/will be perennial DVD shows for me, the one show that became appointment television after first encountering it through Netflix was The O.C.
I know Jasmyne put me onto this, but I can’t remember why. I’m sure that I entered into the whole deal with more than my share of skepticism, but I’ll be damned if the show didn’t win me over. As I often do with DVD shows that I like, I burned through the first season with a ferocious quickness. Now, usually a show like this -- a teen-centric, beautiful-people, prime time soap opera (i.e. Reunion) -- can quickly be identified as one you will either watch or not. But I’d make a case for The O.C. for people who like smart television. Naturally, I don’t mean West Wing smart, but there’s a cleverness to The O.C. that no amount of advertising can get across. Look past the pretty people. This hottie’s got a brain too.
Of course, I was saddened to see that after I began endorsing the show, it faltered in many of the areas in which it excelled for its extended first season. Characters who I loved I began to loath. The humor and wit became too obvious and self-referential. And as with many shows involving likable characters, the writers’ plots didn’t do them justice. Season two ended with a thrilling finale, but even its most ardent fans had to wonder whether the tremendous first year had more to do with beginner’s luck than actual skillful storytelling.
Well, two episodes into the third season of The OC, it feels like things are getting back to normal. The O.C. has passed its probationary period with flying colors, and here are the five reasons why the show has become must-see again.
1. Sandy is back as the moral center of the show (with Kristen soon to follow? Please?)
One of the most refreshing things about the inaugural season of The O.C. was it didn’t dramatize the marriage at the head of the show. On a show where tawdry melodrama would rule, having Sandy and Kristen Cohen as a moral center did wonders for those with a tendency to roll their eyes at these pretty people programs. As honorable as they are likable, their show presented their marriage as perfectly imperfect; it wasn’t without problems, but their squabbles rose out of natural domestic issues (kids, jobs, etc.) rather than TV plotting.
The creators of The O.C. hit the jackpot with Kelly Rowan and Peter Gallagher -- two handsome performers who bring humble performances to a show that thrives on over-the-top dramatics (see #3). We like these two actors, and in turn, like their characters (or perhaps vice versa). Gallagher specifically manages the transition from cooler-than-we’d-like-to-admit dad to serious business lawyer type with aplomb. We enjoy his goofy exchanges with his son, but we still buy it when he throws the gauntlet down against an overzealous DA or his father-in-law. We want this family to succeed and it is easy to get behind them even when they make mistakes, because we know it’s for the betterment of their family.
But in The O.C.’s second season, it seemed the writers didn’t quite know what to do with these two good people. This is drama, after all, and it’s hard to do drama without returning to the big, the obvious, the dramatic. The stuff that’s been done. So we have to watch the two of them tease with infidelity (more infuriating than irritating) before Kristen becomes a full-blown alcoholic. In season one I relished these two characters' time onscreen, but in season two I couldn’t wait for their scenes to be over. Quite a turn-around. Even though I can’t say enough about Kelly Rowan’s performance when her family finally intervened on her behalf, that didn’t quite make up for us having to watch her character arc in the first place.
But season three is two episodes in and already Sandy is back on his high horse (where we like him) defending his foster-son Ryan with his legal troubles and trying to keep his family together with Kirsten away at rehab. Meanwhile The O.C. string of brutal guest stars (in execution not in performance) continues with Jeri Ryan as a rehab buddy who is doing everything she can to keep Kirsten from returning to her family, and again I’m finding myself dreading each moment Kelly Rowan is onscreen -- and that’s just not right. If the producers learned anything from last season it should be that we don’t like foreigners jumping in and disrupting our Cohen family (see Kim Delaney, Billy Campbell). There’s enough drama when they’re together as a family. Stick with that, and we’ll be golden.
2. Old School Ryan Atwood
There is no greater O.C. pleasure for me than watching Ryan Atwood go “old school” and crack somebody’s jaw. Season two, despite a lot of teasing, seemed bent on domesticating the prodigal bad boy. They placed him with a genuinely sweet girlfriend (Shannon Lucio) and edged his character closer and closer to Seth with his emerging witticism. But that’s not the character we’ve grown to love (in a totally manish way).
Benjamin McKenzie has drawn a number of comparisons to Russell Crowe (even on the show) because of his mastery of the slow-burn and his commitment to those moments when he gets to finally go off. Like Bud White, Crowe’s L.A. Confidential alter-ego, Ryan Atwood is a troubled man with a good heart. That’s why we stick with him. We’d like to see him grow into an upstanding young man. But while he’s still a kid, we want that foolish passion to erupt from time to time.
Season three looks like it may give us that. Coming off a ferocious brawl with his brother to wrap up season two, Thursday’s episode concluded with Ryan bloodying the Dean of Discipline’s nose. The slow burn went straight out the window. I could have seen this moment dragging on for several episodes, so when it came I was so shocked and thrilled that I nearly came out of my seat. I was laughing so maniacally my mother thought I had lost my mind. It was a great moment. Now, with Ryan and Marissa joining the ranks of us public school hellions, it appears that Old School Ryan Atwood is here to stay.
3. Julie Cooper-Nichol is Julie Cooper again.
This one I didn’t get until my friend Jasmyne pointed it out to me. Julie Cooper, the central love-to-hate character of Orange County, really wasn’t herself last year. She was, for lack of a better word, castrated by her marriage to the equally love-to-hate Caleb Nichol. With such a contentious relationship between two strong-willed, devious villains, it’s impossible not to take sides, and when we’re taking sides it means one of these delicious characters isn’t living up to their villainous potential. And for the better part of last season, that character was Julie Cooper-Nichol.
For too much of last year, Julie was on the defensive. First the ex shows up with that cheap porn film we all do in our twenties. Then she almost enlists said ex to kill her hubby who’s threatening divorce before the prenup takes hold. But she backs out. Then she considers killing him herself. But she backs out. She’s just a big Machiavellian tease. Where’s the commitment we expect of our bad girl?
Well, she’s back with a bullet. In the first episode, she threatened to smother Ryan’s brother with a pillow if he didn’t falsely claim that it was Ryan, not Marissa, who shot him. That’s how she starts the season? What’s she going to do when the gravy train of Caleb’s estate derails? I’m thrilled by the possibilities.
4. Shooting somebody gave Marissa a backbone.
Mischa Barton is gorgeous. Startling, expressive eyes. Shy grin. Supermodel body. Up until this season, that was about all I could say for Marissa Cooper. Gosh, she shore is perty. The writers had perfect camoflauge for their incompetence with this character -- she’s a teenager. She’s finding herself. The writers can’t find anything for her to do, besides the tired damsel in distress thing, so they pass it off as she’s just a young kid looking for her place in the world. Bulcoughit.
But something has happened to Miss Cooper. Putting a bullet through another person’s spine has, ironically, given her a backbone. Despite being terrified, she stepped into her attempted rapists recovery room to convince him to do the right thing and tell the truth about his shooter. That was something we never would have seen out of her just a year ago, but there she was stepping up for her boyfriend, instead of the other way around.
The moxie wasn’t a one-shot deal, either. She tells her intrusive mother to stay out of her life. When threatened with expulsion from her ritzy private school, she tells the Dean of Discipline she has no remorse for shooting Trey and she’d gladly do it again. And later that same episode, she tells Ryan she doesn’t need his blasted white knight heroics anymore. While I doubt that’s completely true, it’s nice to see her fighting the system solo. Brave choice by the writers that I hope they don’t abandon. If for no other reason I can finally determine if Mischa Barton can actually act. It still perplexes me.
And finally….
5. Summer and Seth are a couple. Keep it that way.
Just as the idea of Sandy and Kirsten exploring marital extra-curriculars bores me, the contrived manipulations the show employed to keep Summer and Seth apart/unhappy through last season aggravated me more than any of last season’s miscues, mostly because I started to develop an intense dislike for Summer. And despite Mischa Barton’s beauty and Kelly Rowan’s class, Rachel Bilson strikes all of my heart’s weak spots: spunky brunette with a sharp wit and a memorable cameo on Buffy the Vampire Slayer (it’s a really short list). So as much as watching her fluster as she fell for the nerdy Cohen in season one was adorable, watching her come up with every ridiculous reason not to reconcile with him was infuriating.
I like to root for couples to succeed. That’s what half of these shows are predicated on. I wanted Ross and Rachel to get together in the end. Ed is still one of my top three favorite shows and the whole thing was about getting Ed and Carol together. So, it’s no surprise that I would root for Summer and Cohen when they’re such delightful comic foils for each other. The show does not lack of a will-they-or-won’t-they couple with Ryan and Marissa in constant turmoil. So it’s imperative that the show find some other function for Seth and Summer.
And they may have done that. In the first episode, while Ryan isolates himself in his pool house, Seth and Summer stand at the window contemplating the next course of action. The banter was classic Seth and Summer without that cloud of pout hanging about it like last year. They seem to be headed for the supportive couple role for their friends, and that's a good place for them to be. By the time Captain Oats (“good listener”) and Princess Sparkle (“just stands there and looks pretty”) showed up to console the recently expelled Marissa, I was committed to liking these two again. Which is a relief. I don’t know what I would do if I didn’t have Summer in my life.
So, there it is. Five solid reasons to jump back on The OC bandwagon, and I probably could have come up with one or two more. If you had doubts after last season, put them to bed. You haven't missed much. Jump back into Orange County right away. Before those baseball playoffs show up again.
But the real blessing of Netflix for me is television. Programs that I couldn’t bother to make time for during their initial broadcasts were easily accessible on DVD, and I could watch them on my own time. While shows like Battlestar Galactica and Dead Like Me were/will be perennial DVD shows for me, the one show that became appointment television after first encountering it through Netflix was The O.C.
I know Jasmyne put me onto this, but I can’t remember why. I’m sure that I entered into the whole deal with more than my share of skepticism, but I’ll be damned if the show didn’t win me over. As I often do with DVD shows that I like, I burned through the first season with a ferocious quickness. Now, usually a show like this -- a teen-centric, beautiful-people, prime time soap opera (i.e. Reunion) -- can quickly be identified as one you will either watch or not. But I’d make a case for The O.C. for people who like smart television. Naturally, I don’t mean West Wing smart, but there’s a cleverness to The O.C. that no amount of advertising can get across. Look past the pretty people. This hottie’s got a brain too.
Of course, I was saddened to see that after I began endorsing the show, it faltered in many of the areas in which it excelled for its extended first season. Characters who I loved I began to loath. The humor and wit became too obvious and self-referential. And as with many shows involving likable characters, the writers’ plots didn’t do them justice. Season two ended with a thrilling finale, but even its most ardent fans had to wonder whether the tremendous first year had more to do with beginner’s luck than actual skillful storytelling.
Well, two episodes into the third season of The OC, it feels like things are getting back to normal. The O.C. has passed its probationary period with flying colors, and here are the five reasons why the show has become must-see again.
1. Sandy is back as the moral center of the show (with Kristen soon to follow? Please?)
One of the most refreshing things about the inaugural season of The O.C. was it didn’t dramatize the marriage at the head of the show. On a show where tawdry melodrama would rule, having Sandy and Kristen Cohen as a moral center did wonders for those with a tendency to roll their eyes at these pretty people programs. As honorable as they are likable, their show presented their marriage as perfectly imperfect; it wasn’t without problems, but their squabbles rose out of natural domestic issues (kids, jobs, etc.) rather than TV plotting.
The creators of The O.C. hit the jackpot with Kelly Rowan and Peter Gallagher -- two handsome performers who bring humble performances to a show that thrives on over-the-top dramatics (see #3). We like these two actors, and in turn, like their characters (or perhaps vice versa). Gallagher specifically manages the transition from cooler-than-we’d-like-to-admit dad to serious business lawyer type with aplomb. We enjoy his goofy exchanges with his son, but we still buy it when he throws the gauntlet down against an overzealous DA or his father-in-law. We want this family to succeed and it is easy to get behind them even when they make mistakes, because we know it’s for the betterment of their family.
But in The O.C.’s second season, it seemed the writers didn’t quite know what to do with these two good people. This is drama, after all, and it’s hard to do drama without returning to the big, the obvious, the dramatic. The stuff that’s been done. So we have to watch the two of them tease with infidelity (more infuriating than irritating) before Kristen becomes a full-blown alcoholic. In season one I relished these two characters' time onscreen, but in season two I couldn’t wait for their scenes to be over. Quite a turn-around. Even though I can’t say enough about Kelly Rowan’s performance when her family finally intervened on her behalf, that didn’t quite make up for us having to watch her character arc in the first place.
But season three is two episodes in and already Sandy is back on his high horse (where we like him) defending his foster-son Ryan with his legal troubles and trying to keep his family together with Kirsten away at rehab. Meanwhile The O.C. string of brutal guest stars (in execution not in performance) continues with Jeri Ryan as a rehab buddy who is doing everything she can to keep Kirsten from returning to her family, and again I’m finding myself dreading each moment Kelly Rowan is onscreen -- and that’s just not right. If the producers learned anything from last season it should be that we don’t like foreigners jumping in and disrupting our Cohen family (see Kim Delaney, Billy Campbell). There’s enough drama when they’re together as a family. Stick with that, and we’ll be golden.
2. Old School Ryan Atwood
There is no greater O.C. pleasure for me than watching Ryan Atwood go “old school” and crack somebody’s jaw. Season two, despite a lot of teasing, seemed bent on domesticating the prodigal bad boy. They placed him with a genuinely sweet girlfriend (Shannon Lucio) and edged his character closer and closer to Seth with his emerging witticism. But that’s not the character we’ve grown to love (in a totally manish way).
Benjamin McKenzie has drawn a number of comparisons to Russell Crowe (even on the show) because of his mastery of the slow-burn and his commitment to those moments when he gets to finally go off. Like Bud White, Crowe’s L.A. Confidential alter-ego, Ryan Atwood is a troubled man with a good heart. That’s why we stick with him. We’d like to see him grow into an upstanding young man. But while he’s still a kid, we want that foolish passion to erupt from time to time.
Season three looks like it may give us that. Coming off a ferocious brawl with his brother to wrap up season two, Thursday’s episode concluded with Ryan bloodying the Dean of Discipline’s nose. The slow burn went straight out the window. I could have seen this moment dragging on for several episodes, so when it came I was so shocked and thrilled that I nearly came out of my seat. I was laughing so maniacally my mother thought I had lost my mind. It was a great moment. Now, with Ryan and Marissa joining the ranks of us public school hellions, it appears that Old School Ryan Atwood is here to stay.
3. Julie Cooper-Nichol is Julie Cooper again.
This one I didn’t get until my friend Jasmyne pointed it out to me. Julie Cooper, the central love-to-hate character of Orange County, really wasn’t herself last year. She was, for lack of a better word, castrated by her marriage to the equally love-to-hate Caleb Nichol. With such a contentious relationship between two strong-willed, devious villains, it’s impossible not to take sides, and when we’re taking sides it means one of these delicious characters isn’t living up to their villainous potential. And for the better part of last season, that character was Julie Cooper-Nichol.
For too much of last year, Julie was on the defensive. First the ex shows up with that cheap porn film we all do in our twenties. Then she almost enlists said ex to kill her hubby who’s threatening divorce before the prenup takes hold. But she backs out. Then she considers killing him herself. But she backs out. She’s just a big Machiavellian tease. Where’s the commitment we expect of our bad girl?
Well, she’s back with a bullet. In the first episode, she threatened to smother Ryan’s brother with a pillow if he didn’t falsely claim that it was Ryan, not Marissa, who shot him. That’s how she starts the season? What’s she going to do when the gravy train of Caleb’s estate derails? I’m thrilled by the possibilities.
4. Shooting somebody gave Marissa a backbone.
Mischa Barton is gorgeous. Startling, expressive eyes. Shy grin. Supermodel body. Up until this season, that was about all I could say for Marissa Cooper. Gosh, she shore is perty. The writers had perfect camoflauge for their incompetence with this character -- she’s a teenager. She’s finding herself. The writers can’t find anything for her to do, besides the tired damsel in distress thing, so they pass it off as she’s just a young kid looking for her place in the world. Bulcoughit.
But something has happened to Miss Cooper. Putting a bullet through another person’s spine has, ironically, given her a backbone. Despite being terrified, she stepped into her attempted rapists recovery room to convince him to do the right thing and tell the truth about his shooter. That was something we never would have seen out of her just a year ago, but there she was stepping up for her boyfriend, instead of the other way around.
The moxie wasn’t a one-shot deal, either. She tells her intrusive mother to stay out of her life. When threatened with expulsion from her ritzy private school, she tells the Dean of Discipline she has no remorse for shooting Trey and she’d gladly do it again. And later that same episode, she tells Ryan she doesn’t need his blasted white knight heroics anymore. While I doubt that’s completely true, it’s nice to see her fighting the system solo. Brave choice by the writers that I hope they don’t abandon. If for no other reason I can finally determine if Mischa Barton can actually act. It still perplexes me.
And finally….
5. Summer and Seth are a couple. Keep it that way.
Just as the idea of Sandy and Kirsten exploring marital extra-curriculars bores me, the contrived manipulations the show employed to keep Summer and Seth apart/unhappy through last season aggravated me more than any of last season’s miscues, mostly because I started to develop an intense dislike for Summer. And despite Mischa Barton’s beauty and Kelly Rowan’s class, Rachel Bilson strikes all of my heart’s weak spots: spunky brunette with a sharp wit and a memorable cameo on Buffy the Vampire Slayer (it’s a really short list). So as much as watching her fluster as she fell for the nerdy Cohen in season one was adorable, watching her come up with every ridiculous reason not to reconcile with him was infuriating.
I like to root for couples to succeed. That’s what half of these shows are predicated on. I wanted Ross and Rachel to get together in the end. Ed is still one of my top three favorite shows and the whole thing was about getting Ed and Carol together. So, it’s no surprise that I would root for Summer and Cohen when they’re such delightful comic foils for each other. The show does not lack of a will-they-or-won’t-they couple with Ryan and Marissa in constant turmoil. So it’s imperative that the show find some other function for Seth and Summer.
And they may have done that. In the first episode, while Ryan isolates himself in his pool house, Seth and Summer stand at the window contemplating the next course of action. The banter was classic Seth and Summer without that cloud of pout hanging about it like last year. They seem to be headed for the supportive couple role for their friends, and that's a good place for them to be. By the time Captain Oats (“good listener”) and Princess Sparkle (“just stands there and looks pretty”) showed up to console the recently expelled Marissa, I was committed to liking these two again. Which is a relief. I don’t know what I would do if I didn’t have Summer in my life.
So, there it is. Five solid reasons to jump back on The OC bandwagon, and I probably could have come up with one or two more. If you had doubts after last season, put them to bed. You haven't missed much. Jump back into Orange County right away. Before those baseball playoffs show up again.
Friday, September 16, 2005
Justifying My Drug Problem
“Uh God. Where is it?”
My brother is crashed out on the table, his face splashed into his Rice Chex.
“WHERE IS IT?”
Bubbles rise out of the milk and he lifts his head ever so slightly. Soggy Chex adhere to his forehead like soggy bilsters. I find the box and shake it over my hand. Nothing.
“Did you take the last one?”
Andrew responds with a gaping mouth. My father walks into the room sniffling incessantly and rubbing his eyes. I wheel on him.
“Did you take the last one?”
“I had to. It was two-thirty in the morning, and I couldn’t sleep. And I had to work at seven.”
“Well, did you get more?’
“Didn’t have time.”
“Didn’t have time? I’m dying here!”
Now I know why crack houses look like they do. My consistently happy family environment has quickly dissolved around the soothing narcotic that is Claratin-D. The path to a slaughterhouse conclusion for our familial ties has been hastened by the fact that three-quarters of my family is suffocating through a mask of their own snot. And thanks to the Midwest cornering the market on meth production, most retailers will only sell two boxes at a time. They’re operating under a strongly erroneous assumption that meth junkies are more dangerous than us Claratin addicts. The only difference is we have all our teeth and our dealers own Congress.
There is no more pathetic feeling than being laid up with “allergies,” yet since my return to the Rock I've been destroyed from the lungs up. I’m a big fan of breathing, can't say enough about it. I highly recommend it to all my friends -- and not in that Woody Harrelson O2 bar way. Good old-fashioned, atmospherically-derived oxygen. Best there is. And when I don’t get it, I’m not pleasant to be around. So, in the best interest of the world around me, I’ve turned into quite the hermit since returning home. People generally don’t like being choked by perfect strangers. Ask the Wal-Mart checkout girl who’d only allow me the two boxes of Claratin.
And what’s really silly is the Claratin only almost kind of helps. It’s so barely effective that it’s bordering on a superstition; the little pill has given me good results before. Break the pattern and invite the wrath of the gods. Only desperation inspires this kind of superstitious thinking. Just look at the little old ladies who think molesting slot machines is going to help them get that last bonus logo that gives them the fifteen free spins. I’ve seen nickel machines who get more affection in a night than I have in a quarter century of life.
But now I understand. I empathize with their line of thinking. They want so much to believe that what they’re doing makes a difference. Just like I want so much to breathe. So, I alternate sleeping on the couch in the front room and my bed in the back of the house. If one night happens to be better than the one before it, it’s because I changed where I slept, and I’ll ride that until proved otherwise. I shower twice a day, not because I think I’m dirty, but because I can feel those allergens on me like the blood on Lady MacBeth’s hands. It’s there. I can feel them. Don’t tell me they’re not there. Out. Out damn snot.
You know you’ve hit rock bottom when removing your eyeball to ease congestion has become not only a logical course of action, but a reasonable one. I have a pencil in the corner of one right as I write this. It kind of helps. But one twist of the wrist and I could make it all better. Who knows? I could make the eye-patch work. It’s unique. Unique is marketable. Might do hell to my batting average though.
Ugh. Damn it. Usually I revise anything I write, but that’s just not gonna work for me here. I am clearly not getting enough oxygen to the appropriate neurons. That will probably do more to illustrate my point (if I have one) than anything my deficient (at this time) intellect can put down here. All I can think about is my nuisance of an eyeball.
Vile jelly.
Say no to drugs kids.
My brother is crashed out on the table, his face splashed into his Rice Chex.
“WHERE IS IT?”
Bubbles rise out of the milk and he lifts his head ever so slightly. Soggy Chex adhere to his forehead like soggy bilsters. I find the box and shake it over my hand. Nothing.
“Did you take the last one?”
Andrew responds with a gaping mouth. My father walks into the room sniffling incessantly and rubbing his eyes. I wheel on him.
“Did you take the last one?”
“I had to. It was two-thirty in the morning, and I couldn’t sleep. And I had to work at seven.”
“Well, did you get more?’
“Didn’t have time.”
“Didn’t have time? I’m dying here!”
Now I know why crack houses look like they do. My consistently happy family environment has quickly dissolved around the soothing narcotic that is Claratin-D. The path to a slaughterhouse conclusion for our familial ties has been hastened by the fact that three-quarters of my family is suffocating through a mask of their own snot. And thanks to the Midwest cornering the market on meth production, most retailers will only sell two boxes at a time. They’re operating under a strongly erroneous assumption that meth junkies are more dangerous than us Claratin addicts. The only difference is we have all our teeth and our dealers own Congress.
There is no more pathetic feeling than being laid up with “allergies,” yet since my return to the Rock I've been destroyed from the lungs up. I’m a big fan of breathing, can't say enough about it. I highly recommend it to all my friends -- and not in that Woody Harrelson O2 bar way. Good old-fashioned, atmospherically-derived oxygen. Best there is. And when I don’t get it, I’m not pleasant to be around. So, in the best interest of the world around me, I’ve turned into quite the hermit since returning home. People generally don’t like being choked by perfect strangers. Ask the Wal-Mart checkout girl who’d only allow me the two boxes of Claratin.
And what’s really silly is the Claratin only almost kind of helps. It’s so barely effective that it’s bordering on a superstition; the little pill has given me good results before. Break the pattern and invite the wrath of the gods. Only desperation inspires this kind of superstitious thinking. Just look at the little old ladies who think molesting slot machines is going to help them get that last bonus logo that gives them the fifteen free spins. I’ve seen nickel machines who get more affection in a night than I have in a quarter century of life.
But now I understand. I empathize with their line of thinking. They want so much to believe that what they’re doing makes a difference. Just like I want so much to breathe. So, I alternate sleeping on the couch in the front room and my bed in the back of the house. If one night happens to be better than the one before it, it’s because I changed where I slept, and I’ll ride that until proved otherwise. I shower twice a day, not because I think I’m dirty, but because I can feel those allergens on me like the blood on Lady MacBeth’s hands. It’s there. I can feel them. Don’t tell me they’re not there. Out. Out damn snot.
You know you’ve hit rock bottom when removing your eyeball to ease congestion has become not only a logical course of action, but a reasonable one. I have a pencil in the corner of one right as I write this. It kind of helps. But one twist of the wrist and I could make it all better. Who knows? I could make the eye-patch work. It’s unique. Unique is marketable. Might do hell to my batting average though.
Ugh. Damn it. Usually I revise anything I write, but that’s just not gonna work for me here. I am clearly not getting enough oxygen to the appropriate neurons. That will probably do more to illustrate my point (if I have one) than anything my deficient (at this time) intellect can put down here. All I can think about is my nuisance of an eyeball.
Vile jelly.
Say no to drugs kids.
Sunday, September 11, 2005
Is "Reunion" Worth Attending
Fox has cornered the market on hour-long prime-time soap operas featuring exceptionally pretty people. The network that gave us Beverly Hills 90210, Melrose Place, and The OC has gone back to the Ralph Lauren well again for Reunion -- a new prime time soap opera with a twist. The show focuses on six high school friends over the course of twenty years (each episode representing one year) as a detective (Six Feet Under’s Mathew St. Patrick) investigates the murder of one of the six. The big mystery -- who killed whom -- is not surprisingly the major hook of the show, but a great hook, no matter how great, is not enough to keep viewers.
Last year saw a handful of successful/critically acclaimed shows based around a central mystery. Lost is the most obvious, but the most relevant comparison to Reunion would be UPN’s Veronica Mars. The driving force of the plot engine for Veronica Mars was the murder of Veronica’s best friend Lilly Kane, but the show would not have been as wonderful as it was without the myriad complex and compelling characters (most notably Kirsten Bell's Veronica) involved in the mystery. The show was called Veronica Mars, not Who Killed Lilly Kane. And this is the distinction that Reunion seems to have missed. Lost and Veronica Mars are about characters, even though they involve interesting gimmicks. Reunion is a gimmick, its characters be damned.
I wouldn’t have given this show a shot had it not been for Alexa Davalos. A relative unknown, Alexa co-starred with Vin Diesel in Chronicles of Riddick but her most memorable role came as Gwen Raiden, a red-leather-clad assassin with the power of lightning, on Joss Whedon’s Angel. Appearing in a handful of episodes over the course of the series, Davalos demanded attention with her exotic sex appeal, striking charisma, and killer kung-fu moves (why couldn't see have shown up on Alias?). I don’t know where all that was on Thursday night; this striking young actress seemed gah bland.
As a writer, I subscribe to the belief that an actor is only as good as his/her material, and Reunion’s material is pedestrian and obvious. With the series starting in 1986, pop culture references abound (again focusing on the gimmick rather than the characters), but they’re handled in such an amateurish fashion, succeeding only in drawing attention to themselves. A character calling WHAM the next Beatles is not funny. It's not clever. It's certainly not subtle. It’s stupid. Nobody, no matter how musically retarded, would have ever made such a comment. If this is the best the show can get out its gimmick, they’re spoiling the one interesting thing the show had going.
But this sort of obvious handling shows up everywhere in the show. The one character we see in the present day is a frosty, chain-smoking, business woman with black nail polish. Who is this character in 1986? Of course, she’s the naïve, good girl. Shocker.
It’s clear from the opening episode and the promos for the upcoming season that the show intends to make everybody a suspect in the murder. This again seems obvious, and is an indication of the writers’ skill. A more interesting, more compelling show would have us agonizing over who committed the murder, not just curious about it. If we were fully invested in these characters, we wouldn’t want any of them to have committed the crime. Already the good-girl-turned-goth-feminist has lost my empathy (I'm actually sorry she wasn't the one killed), and I doubt any of the other characters will be handled with any more skill or ingenuity.
I’ll keep tabs on the show to find the answer to the big mystery, but that’s about it. I don’t feel like suffering through these uninspired characters to get there.
Last year saw a handful of successful/critically acclaimed shows based around a central mystery. Lost is the most obvious, but the most relevant comparison to Reunion would be UPN’s Veronica Mars. The driving force of the plot engine for Veronica Mars was the murder of Veronica’s best friend Lilly Kane, but the show would not have been as wonderful as it was without the myriad complex and compelling characters (most notably Kirsten Bell's Veronica) involved in the mystery. The show was called Veronica Mars, not Who Killed Lilly Kane. And this is the distinction that Reunion seems to have missed. Lost and Veronica Mars are about characters, even though they involve interesting gimmicks. Reunion is a gimmick, its characters be damned.
I wouldn’t have given this show a shot had it not been for Alexa Davalos. A relative unknown, Alexa co-starred with Vin Diesel in Chronicles of Riddick but her most memorable role came as Gwen Raiden, a red-leather-clad assassin with the power of lightning, on Joss Whedon’s Angel. Appearing in a handful of episodes over the course of the series, Davalos demanded attention with her exotic sex appeal, striking charisma, and killer kung-fu moves (why couldn't see have shown up on Alias?). I don’t know where all that was on Thursday night; this striking young actress seemed gah bland.
As a writer, I subscribe to the belief that an actor is only as good as his/her material, and Reunion’s material is pedestrian and obvious. With the series starting in 1986, pop culture references abound (again focusing on the gimmick rather than the characters), but they’re handled in such an amateurish fashion, succeeding only in drawing attention to themselves. A character calling WHAM the next Beatles is not funny. It's not clever. It's certainly not subtle. It’s stupid. Nobody, no matter how musically retarded, would have ever made such a comment. If this is the best the show can get out its gimmick, they’re spoiling the one interesting thing the show had going.
But this sort of obvious handling shows up everywhere in the show. The one character we see in the present day is a frosty, chain-smoking, business woman with black nail polish. Who is this character in 1986? Of course, she’s the naïve, good girl. Shocker.
It’s clear from the opening episode and the promos for the upcoming season that the show intends to make everybody a suspect in the murder. This again seems obvious, and is an indication of the writers’ skill. A more interesting, more compelling show would have us agonizing over who committed the murder, not just curious about it. If we were fully invested in these characters, we wouldn’t want any of them to have committed the crime. Already the good-girl-turned-goth-feminist has lost my empathy (I'm actually sorry she wasn't the one killed), and I doubt any of the other characters will be handled with any more skill or ingenuity.
I’ll keep tabs on the show to find the answer to the big mystery, but that’s about it. I don’t feel like suffering through these uninspired characters to get there.
The Truth About "Lost"
After watching the intricate mysteries of shows like Twin Peaks disappoint and the expansive mythologies of shows like the X-Files dissolve, one has to take any assurances from the minds behind Lost with a grain of salt. They say they already know their endgame. They know what the island is, what the monster is, what the numbers mean. Maybe they do, but what else would they say? “We’re just making this up as we go.” Please.
Lost is my favorite television program of all time, but my love for the show did not assuage doubts that all of these dangling threads created in its first dazzling season could be satisfactorily tied up. This show has so many balls in the air -- the hatch, the monster, the others, the numbers -- it seems inevitable that one or more will drop. Or at least, it seemed that way before I got season 1 on DVD.
I’m now convinced. Watching last season one episode after another doesn’t reveal anything concrete -- like the monster or the numbers -- but there’s a momentum to the show that can only be sensed watching the episodes in rapid succession. Secrets revealed at the conclusion of the season are hinted at from the very beginning. Things build slowly and patiently, but very deliberately. That can only happen when the writers are aware of the endgame. The makers of Lost aren’t stalling because they don’t know the answers to their questions. They have the answers, so why rush?
Lost was huge at my old workplace. Between myself, my creative-minded friend Bob, and a couple message board junkies we spent the day following the season finale pondering what it all means. Upon viewing the show on DVD, I think most of that discussion is moot not because our theories weren’t justified, but because the path of this show is very apparent. The survivors of Oceanic Flight 815 are clearly dividing between the scientific, rational-minded doctor Jack and the faith-based former paraplegic Locke. Everything seems to center around this impending conflict. And it seems that may have been the island’s intention all along.
Of course, this doesn’t tell us anything about the hatch, or the numbers, or why the others took Walt, but it is apparent on DVD that the writers of this show aren’t worried about what lies behind all these mysteries. They had all that figured from day one. The show isn’t about what truth is out there, but how the characters are going to find out and what they are going to do about it. For a show this dense in mythology, it really is the most exquisite, character-driven, ensemble piece on television.
I cannot wait for season two to debut, because the anxiety that I felt during the first season -- my questions about the writers’ preparations -- has abated. When the writers say they have the first 5 years of the show planned out, I believe them. It shows in the crafting of the first season. It is clear this show knows where it’s going, and I cannot wait to see how it gets there.
Lost is my favorite television program of all time, but my love for the show did not assuage doubts that all of these dangling threads created in its first dazzling season could be satisfactorily tied up. This show has so many balls in the air -- the hatch, the monster, the others, the numbers -- it seems inevitable that one or more will drop. Or at least, it seemed that way before I got season 1 on DVD.
I’m now convinced. Watching last season one episode after another doesn’t reveal anything concrete -- like the monster or the numbers -- but there’s a momentum to the show that can only be sensed watching the episodes in rapid succession. Secrets revealed at the conclusion of the season are hinted at from the very beginning. Things build slowly and patiently, but very deliberately. That can only happen when the writers are aware of the endgame. The makers of Lost aren’t stalling because they don’t know the answers to their questions. They have the answers, so why rush?
Lost was huge at my old workplace. Between myself, my creative-minded friend Bob, and a couple message board junkies we spent the day following the season finale pondering what it all means. Upon viewing the show on DVD, I think most of that discussion is moot not because our theories weren’t justified, but because the path of this show is very apparent. The survivors of Oceanic Flight 815 are clearly dividing between the scientific, rational-minded doctor Jack and the faith-based former paraplegic Locke. Everything seems to center around this impending conflict. And it seems that may have been the island’s intention all along.
Of course, this doesn’t tell us anything about the hatch, or the numbers, or why the others took Walt, but it is apparent on DVD that the writers of this show aren’t worried about what lies behind all these mysteries. They had all that figured from day one. The show isn’t about what truth is out there, but how the characters are going to find out and what they are going to do about it. For a show this dense in mythology, it really is the most exquisite, character-driven, ensemble piece on television.
I cannot wait for season two to debut, because the anxiety that I felt during the first season -- my questions about the writers’ preparations -- has abated. When the writers say they have the first 5 years of the show planned out, I believe them. It shows in the crafting of the first season. It is clear this show knows where it’s going, and I cannot wait to see how it gets there.
Fall TiVo 2005
Over the last year or two, I’ve undergone a considerable aesthetic evolution. My latest stage seems a natural progression after spending a majority of my life enraptured by film before romancing the expanse and scale of fiction. In the past decade, largely spurred on by HBO’s revolutionary Sopranos, dramatic television has replaced film as the premiere source of thoughtful, engrossing entertainment. I struggle to think of any writers in film whose projects I desperately anticipate, but there are more than a dozen writers and producers who have me itching for the beginning of the television season this month. Of course, this is just a thoughtful and verbose way of justifying my transformation into the most passionate of television junkies. God bless DVR or I’d never get out of the house.
For the next nine months or so, this site, while occasionally introducing new inspired essays from yours truly, will feature weekly reviews of a handful of my favorite shows. I consider it my duty to spread the word on what many of you may be missing, and to keep my fellow fans abreast of my own opinions of these shows. Consider me your one-stop watercooler.
Here’s a run-down (in chronological order) of what I’m looking forward to this fall.
Thursday, September 8
The O.C. – A guilty pleasure I discovered on DVD, The O.C. involved a little more guilt and a little less pleasure in its sophomore year. The self-referential humor felt labored and the self-awareness that had allowed grown men like me to stomach the soap opera took a bit of a hiatus. Usually, the second season is the choppiest for break-out hits, so I’m keeping this show on four episode probation. The last several episodes of last season indicated the show might have found its footing again; the stir-the-pot special guests, lesbian dalliances, and place-holder girlfriends and boyfriends went buh-bye in favor of the core foursome of Seth, Summer, Marissa, and Ryan in an operatic conclusion that had its fans – perhaps for the first time all season – raving. (FOX 8 ET)
Tuesday, September 13
House – The success of this show makes little sense on paper. It’s another medical procedural (something we’ve had no shortage of since the Clooney days of ER). Its main protagonist is a blunt, unfriendly doctor who is never meaner than when he’s dealing with his suffering patients. Did I mention he’s a drug addict? Still, break-out star Hugh Laurie embodies the brilliant Doctor Gregory House with just enough humanity and more than enough intelligence to make the character appealing, if not likeable; the performance should get the virtual unknown Laurie an Emmy this year. The plotting of the show follows a predictable pattern, but that only makes it more powerful when it breaks from form – as in the tremendous “Three Stories,” where we learn the impetus for House’s nasty temperament. It was easily in the top three hours of television I saw all year. This was a pleasant dark horse discovery. (FOX 9 ET)
Wednesday, September 21
Lost -- This is the greatest television show I have ever seen, and considering my passion for many shows that have come before it (24, Firefly, Ed) that is no small praise. This show has everything I could want from serial television: epic storytelling, twisted mysteries, morally ambiguous characters, and smart smart SMART writing. There is so much going on in this show that I’m not even going to bother describing it all. Season 1 came out on DVD today. Buy it. Watch it. Join the fanbase. It’s that simple. If you don’t enjoy this show, I won’t disagree with you. But I will pity you. God must have left something out of your framework. (ABC 9 ET)
Veronica Mars -- Let me put this simply. Veronica Mars has all the attributes of my dream girl: disarmingly cute (without being too “movie star”), viciously intelligent with a nasty wit (she gives good sass), and a tender heart beneath a somewhat calloused and defensive front. Played by the effervescent Kristen Bell, this protagonist’s spunk is immediately infectious. Obsessed with the murder of her best friend that subsequently led to her ostracism from schoolmates, her family’s dissolution, and her father public shaming, Veronica relentlessly pursues the truth while dealing with a multitude of complex suspects and characters. As much as the mystery keeps one going from one episode to the next (I watched the entire thing on my computer in a weekend), the heart of this show is in Bell’s nuanced performance. She makes Nancy Drew look like Malibu Barbie. This show desperately deserves an audience (though ironically I will be continuing my online viewing of this show because the UPN affiliate here is so atrocious I might as well use rabbit ears). (UPN 9 ET)
Thursday, September 29
Alias -- TV fans basically fall into two categories: jump-the-sharks and apologists. The first group, while calling themselves fans, are really just rabid cynics waiting for the first trickle of blood in the water that might indicate a show has lost its way. These people are generally grouchy and impatient, entertainment’s version of arm-chair quarterbacks. Lost, while coming off one of the greatest seasons of any show ever, still had its share of “fans” who groused about the mysteries getting deeper and more complex rather than wrapped up in a pretty bow. This show is so good, that I’m almost afraid to find out all the answers, because no resolution could probably live up to this show’s unrivaled set-up. It could go on forever and never tell us another thing for all I care. But this might just betray my status as a J.J. Abrams apologist. It’s not that I believe he can do no wrong (even when his resume includes Felicity, Alias, and Lost), but I firmly believe that even when he isn’t at his best he is still better than most. I repeated this line over and over during Alias’ 2004-2005 season as the show tried to broaden its audience and sacrificed some of the relentless pacing it had maintained in previous years. What is interesting is that Alias took a similar approach to Lost in the pacing of its “reveals.” It didn’t throw its long-established mythology out the window, but instead chose to hold back and give out small, tasty bits of information every now and again. The home-stretch of last season saw Alias return to form, leading up to perhaps the nastiest shock in the history of the program (“First of all, my name’s not Michael Vaughn.”). I’ll accept accusations of my status as a die-hard apologist because even after two below-par seasons for Alias, all was forgiven in that final, punishing moment of season 4. This premiere is a dead-heat with Lost for my most anticipated. And writing this just made me more excited.
Those are the can’t-miss shows I have on my docket. It is worth mentioning that at some point 24 (following its best season ever) and Scrubs will return (in the winter). I also have several new shows that get a chance to join the elite I just mentioned: Prison Break (fascinating, however implausible), Reunion, Bones, Threshold, Invasion, and Supernatural. Also, Smallville, a show with which I have had a contentious relationship for three years, will get one last shot for casting Buffy/Angel’s James Marsters (aka Spike) as Brainiac, though remains on thin ice as one of the most inconsistent shows I still catch find myself coming back to.
For the next nine months or so, this site, while occasionally introducing new inspired essays from yours truly, will feature weekly reviews of a handful of my favorite shows. I consider it my duty to spread the word on what many of you may be missing, and to keep my fellow fans abreast of my own opinions of these shows. Consider me your one-stop watercooler.
Here’s a run-down (in chronological order) of what I’m looking forward to this fall.
Thursday, September 8
The O.C. – A guilty pleasure I discovered on DVD, The O.C. involved a little more guilt and a little less pleasure in its sophomore year. The self-referential humor felt labored and the self-awareness that had allowed grown men like me to stomach the soap opera took a bit of a hiatus. Usually, the second season is the choppiest for break-out hits, so I’m keeping this show on four episode probation. The last several episodes of last season indicated the show might have found its footing again; the stir-the-pot special guests, lesbian dalliances, and place-holder girlfriends and boyfriends went buh-bye in favor of the core foursome of Seth, Summer, Marissa, and Ryan in an operatic conclusion that had its fans – perhaps for the first time all season – raving. (FOX 8 ET)
Tuesday, September 13
House – The success of this show makes little sense on paper. It’s another medical procedural (something we’ve had no shortage of since the Clooney days of ER). Its main protagonist is a blunt, unfriendly doctor who is never meaner than when he’s dealing with his suffering patients. Did I mention he’s a drug addict? Still, break-out star Hugh Laurie embodies the brilliant Doctor Gregory House with just enough humanity and more than enough intelligence to make the character appealing, if not likeable; the performance should get the virtual unknown Laurie an Emmy this year. The plotting of the show follows a predictable pattern, but that only makes it more powerful when it breaks from form – as in the tremendous “Three Stories,” where we learn the impetus for House’s nasty temperament. It was easily in the top three hours of television I saw all year. This was a pleasant dark horse discovery. (FOX 9 ET)
Wednesday, September 21
Lost -- This is the greatest television show I have ever seen, and considering my passion for many shows that have come before it (24, Firefly, Ed) that is no small praise. This show has everything I could want from serial television: epic storytelling, twisted mysteries, morally ambiguous characters, and smart smart SMART writing. There is so much going on in this show that I’m not even going to bother describing it all. Season 1 came out on DVD today. Buy it. Watch it. Join the fanbase. It’s that simple. If you don’t enjoy this show, I won’t disagree with you. But I will pity you. God must have left something out of your framework. (ABC 9 ET)
Veronica Mars -- Let me put this simply. Veronica Mars has all the attributes of my dream girl: disarmingly cute (without being too “movie star”), viciously intelligent with a nasty wit (she gives good sass), and a tender heart beneath a somewhat calloused and defensive front. Played by the effervescent Kristen Bell, this protagonist’s spunk is immediately infectious. Obsessed with the murder of her best friend that subsequently led to her ostracism from schoolmates, her family’s dissolution, and her father public shaming, Veronica relentlessly pursues the truth while dealing with a multitude of complex suspects and characters. As much as the mystery keeps one going from one episode to the next (I watched the entire thing on my computer in a weekend), the heart of this show is in Bell’s nuanced performance. She makes Nancy Drew look like Malibu Barbie. This show desperately deserves an audience (though ironically I will be continuing my online viewing of this show because the UPN affiliate here is so atrocious I might as well use rabbit ears). (UPN 9 ET)
Thursday, September 29
Alias -- TV fans basically fall into two categories: jump-the-sharks and apologists. The first group, while calling themselves fans, are really just rabid cynics waiting for the first trickle of blood in the water that might indicate a show has lost its way. These people are generally grouchy and impatient, entertainment’s version of arm-chair quarterbacks. Lost, while coming off one of the greatest seasons of any show ever, still had its share of “fans” who groused about the mysteries getting deeper and more complex rather than wrapped up in a pretty bow. This show is so good, that I’m almost afraid to find out all the answers, because no resolution could probably live up to this show’s unrivaled set-up. It could go on forever and never tell us another thing for all I care. But this might just betray my status as a J.J. Abrams apologist. It’s not that I believe he can do no wrong (even when his resume includes Felicity, Alias, and Lost), but I firmly believe that even when he isn’t at his best he is still better than most. I repeated this line over and over during Alias’ 2004-2005 season as the show tried to broaden its audience and sacrificed some of the relentless pacing it had maintained in previous years. What is interesting is that Alias took a similar approach to Lost in the pacing of its “reveals.” It didn’t throw its long-established mythology out the window, but instead chose to hold back and give out small, tasty bits of information every now and again. The home-stretch of last season saw Alias return to form, leading up to perhaps the nastiest shock in the history of the program (“First of all, my name’s not Michael Vaughn.”). I’ll accept accusations of my status as a die-hard apologist because even after two below-par seasons for Alias, all was forgiven in that final, punishing moment of season 4. This premiere is a dead-heat with Lost for my most anticipated. And writing this just made me more excited.
Those are the can’t-miss shows I have on my docket. It is worth mentioning that at some point 24 (following its best season ever) and Scrubs will return (in the winter). I also have several new shows that get a chance to join the elite I just mentioned: Prison Break (fascinating, however implausible), Reunion, Bones, Threshold, Invasion, and Supernatural. Also, Smallville, a show with which I have had a contentious relationship for three years, will get one last shot for casting Buffy/Angel’s James Marsters (aka Spike) as Brainiac, though remains on thin ice as one of the most inconsistent shows I still catch find myself coming back to.
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