Now That's Some Good Drama

You should look pleased with yourself, Don Draper. Not only are you the archetypal Alpha Male, but the show you appear in just got good. Really really good.


Just as Six Feet Under and Big Love really hit their stride in their second seasons, Mad Men just kicked off the last scraps of its metamorphonic cocoon and properly fluttered its wings for the first time. I've had issues with it in the past, but most of them are resolved now. The season premiere disappointed me, losing some of the goodwill the end of the first season had generated, but the last two episodes have pushed us past "like" and into "love".

Things that pleased me greatly include:

Don's showdown with the obnoxiously confident Bobbie Barrett, played with singular odiousness by Melinda McGraw, last seen being almost as odious on Journeyman as Dan Vassar's sister-in-law. It was shocking, graphic, erotically confusing (I thought he had stubbed his cigarette out on her leg or ladyparts or something equally awful), and amazing. He sure has got his mojo back at last.

The weak link in the show for us remains Betty Draper, an interesting character played by an indifferent actress (January Jones), who is either underplaying horribly or overplaying someone who is meant to be dead in the soul. While she looks the part (Grace Kelly-esque is insufficient to describe her perfect 60s blonde ice queen aura), she murmurs her dialogue in the most unconvincing way. To make things worse, her scenes are often almost parodic in their silliness. Last season she was almost having an affair with a young boy (well, not rally, but she did seem awfully drawn to him). Her confrontation with Arthur, the supposedly handsome horse-riding student who looks more like Judge Reinhold's consumptive kid brother to me, was overbaked, with the words "profoundly sad" bandied about way too often (though her response, that it was down to her people being Nordic, was a gem). Maybe the scene was meant to run as a parody of seduction speak, especially with a previous scene featuring Don and Bobbie being so slick as a consequence of their experience with extramarital dalliances, but no matter. It ended with the return of Betty's Shaky Hands! They've been missing since the second episode of the first season, but they're back, and shakier than ever!

The reveal that art is becoming Don's kryptonite. After his experiences with Miles Davis' Sketches of Spain last season, and Frank O'Meara poetry collections in the second season premiere, he's now sneaking out to catch La Notte in the afternoon. Next time he goes after Bobbie, she should throw a copy of Catch-22 at him. He'll shriek, fall to his knees, and then start reading it, oblivious to the world.

Actually, there is a bit of a back and forth on The AV Club Mad Men talkback about whether it is La Notte or La Jetee that Don is secretly watching on company time. It's probably the former, but Chris Marker's sci-fi slideshow is a good fit too, as the movie Don is watching looks like a series of static shots. If so, is this linked to Don's seemingly growing realisation that he is lying to himself if he thinks he is an out-of-time 50s businessman and not a 60s hippy? Or a psychopath, which is also possible. Even more shocking, perhaps he is a time-traveller! Only those pesky season one flashbacks with him hanging around with Ryan Chappelle from 24 disguised as a hobo renders that theory invalid.

The reaction of Harry after realising Kenneth was being paid far more than him was almost as good as his hesitant slapstick attempts to open his payslip and then reseal it. And then, to put a cherry on top, Harry makes the error of going to see Salvatore, whose withering sarcasm was beautifully judged. Though I had enjoyed the second episode, this scene in the third episode was the one that pushed me over the edge. It was spot on.

Don's awful demotion of his secretary in an act of sublimated rage and shame after Roger Sterling criticises him for sneaking off to watch a movie. Lois' responses, a mixture of fear and grudging acceptance, were superbly played by Crista Flanagan, whose demotion hopefully won't cut her out of the show altogether. What was most pleasing about the scene was that Don's monstrous behaviour was borne not just of his inherent 60s-era sexism (which has always seemed to be in conflict with his attraction to powerful women), but because of a character moment; his weakness for art (or the promise of some foreign erotica, if indeed La Notte contains any) is something he is truly ashamed of. His other vices of infidelity and drinking, are accepting as normal behaviour by his colleagues, whereas this could be seen as a sign of weakness or, more probably, evidence that he no longer fits in with the boys (several of whom seem to be evolving as the decade progresses without him being aware of it). And so he takes it out on Lois. It was horrible and hilarious at the same time.

The jawdropping scene from Flight 1 featuring Joan's racism and cutting criticism of faux-boho Paul made my head spin, and sat in stark contrast with the thoughtless racism of previous episodes. Joan isn't someone who takes African-Americans for granted; she is actively hateful. Plus, she still doesn't look quite the same as she did on Firefly and I can't put my finger on why. Good to see that the show has given us an unrepentant bitch to root against. Moral haziness is one thing, but right now she's just a horrible person, who is either unforgivably dreadful or entertainingly catty depending on the context. Paul's revenge (posting a photocopy of her driving licence on a bulletin board with her birthday highlighted) was fun too.

For the first time ever, despite Canyon's continued aesthetic annoyance over Don's flat butt, we're looking forward to next week's episode, which features Don and Betty taking the kids away for a weekend of awkward silences, chain-smoking, and maybe even some tears from Betty due to her Bottomless Nordic Sadness. Let's hope this newfound enthusiasm of ours isn't thwarted.

Remy the Rat PWNs Puppet Angel and Cleveland Heep

Pull that fine thick hair of his, Remy, you adorable rodent, you! Make him dance! And cook! Preferably something without garlic. The smell of burning vampire flesh can put off the diners.

On Saturday we caught Ratatouille, a movie released in the US so long ago that the Region 1 DVD release is in a couple of weeks. That this made my summer movie viewing a bittersweet experience is a statement as accurate as it is devoid of the shouty fury I unleashed upon learning about the outrageously long wait I had ahead of me. Even if Disney's reason for delaying the release that much was that an orphanage was saved from being pulled down, I'd still be pissed beyond reason. How many ratless months? How much suffering Chez Canyoneck? And why, so some megacorp can make a few extra bucks? Don't care! Orphans saved from begging on the streets? Don't care! Me want rat movie pronto. Stupid Buena Vista. Me smash megacorp for tardy release, and hold grudge for rest of year. That show them!

Thankfully, it was worth the wait. Actually, that doesn't even cover our reaction. My eyelids were peeled back for the length of the movie, blinking only when tears poured forth, which they did with increasing frequency as the movie progressed. As a result, I have a bone to pick with genius director Brad Bird. I was already pointlessly annoyed that I would not be able to pick my favourite film of the year from the double whammy of excellence that was Zodiac and The Bourne Ultimatum, and now this comes along. Three totally different movies, but all of them absolutely perfect. Ratatouille is the pinnacle of computer animation, filled with remarkably fluid movement, beautiful colours, believable textures, and to top it all, it provides more food for thought than almost every other movie I've seen this year.


Damn, I'm so late to the party. All of this has already been said, but I have to chime in, because my love for this movie is so overwhelming. Technically, it is as good as movies get. I felt like the silver screen was kissing my eyeballs, and just to rub it in, the pitch-perfect voicework and Michael Giacchino's adorable soundtrack were nuzzling my ears. If a movie could hug you, that's what Ratatouille would do from the first frame to the last.

If that was all the movie did, it would be enough to put it high up on any self-respecting film watcher's top ten list for the year (if list-making is your bag; certain other contributors to this site are not so keen), but Brad Bird expands and clarifies some of the themes introduced in his masterpiece, The Incredibles. Though I'm more than a little unsure about some of the potential Objectivist, Ayn-Randian philosophies suggested by that film, I find the idea of celebrating excellence very appealing. When I heard that Ratatouille featured a similarly controversial message to that of The Incredibles, I was worried that a trend was developing that might retrospectively make the lesson of the earlier movie seem less endearing. Was Bird going to use all of his movies to espouse some awful, selfish, right-wing nonsense I would find it hard to get behind?


Thankfully, I'm convinced the movie is less about promoting devotion to the all-powerful uber-mensch, and more about celebrating excellence and intelligence. I took from it a message about having faith in yourself and doing everything you can to do what you do best, even in the face of indifference or lack of support. Early on in the film Remy's talent and curiosity and yearning for knowledge are treated by his family as a waste of time and energy. His rat brethren might come around by the end of the film (without ever being able to see the big picture the way Remy does), but at the start of the movie they are an ignorant mob who distrust intelligence. I could hate the movie for making them step into line at the end, but it's not presented as the actions of an automaton army governed by the confidence of a Objectivist right-wing control-freak, but as an expression of trust in a natural leader. Arguments can rage for years about whether Disney just funded a fun, vibrant, colourful, kid-friendly adaptation of The Fountainhead, but I thought it was about trusting someone you love to do what they need to do to be happy, and encouraging and helping them in achieving their goal. It's one of the most uplifting endings I've been lucky enough to see.


Even better than that is the arc of Anton Ego, the curmudgeonly critic who haunts the movie as a passive antagonist until the final few minutes of the movie. I don't wish to ruin the end of the movie for those of you who have yet to see it (and if you read this and have any sense, you will rush to a cinema immediately), but there is a scene involving him that is filled with such simple, honest beauty that I blarted hot tears all over Canyon, who was in a similar situation, from what she told me later. My heart, it melted.

The see-sawing negative and positive treatment of Anton Ego and the art of criticism sadly reminded me of M. Night Shyamalan's Lady in the Water, which is one of the bitterest films I've ever seen. Stung by the reviews of The Village, Shyamalan and his very thin skin went all out to get his own back on critics. In the middle of his preposterous, badly-thought out, dreary tale of Scrunts (dog/lawn hybrids), Narfs (Bryce Dallas Howard after an injection of creepy), Tartutics (angry monkey warriors, and no, they're not as cool as that sounds), and Great Eatlons (just a really big eagle), Shyamalan introduces Harry Farber, a film critic (played by Bob Balaban), who thinks there is no originality left, and as a result is incapable of joy or empathy or anything. He treats everyone like dirt (including adorable semi-hero Cleveland Heep, played with typical intensity and commitment by Paul Giamatti), and his confidence in his own ability to parse the mechanics of story-telling nearly dooms Bryce Dallas Howard to death by LawnDog when he inaccurately interprets some unnecessarily complex rules of Narfdom conveyed in obnoxiously grandiose and slow-moving scenes of ear-tugging and, and, and... Ugh! It's too complicated, contrived, and stupid to go into in full detail. Just believe me, it's horrible horrible storytelling.

If anyone here has the DVD and has seen the deleted scenes, please tell me if there are any featuring Farber throwing kittens off his balcony, or making baby stew. He's practically that villainous and unpleasant in the movie. It's an even worse directorial decision than basing the plot around a writer who will save the world by writing the most important book ever, and then deciding that the only person qualified to play that part is, well, M. Night Shyamalan himself. Actually, it's a toss-up. Both decisions are monumentally wrongheaded.


The worst scene in the film (or in any film that year except for certain unsavoury scenes in Neil LaBute's ode to woman-hating, The Wicker Man) comes when Farber gets killed by Shyamalan's instrument of justice, the Rogue Scrunt. Farber is cornered as in the photo above, and has watched so many dull and uninspiring movies (unlike Shyamalan's, of course), that he now see everything through a Robert-McKee-Story prism. This is his external monologue prior to being eaten:

Farber: Hello? Is the bathroom on this level working? [Scrunt walks into view and menaces Farber] A dog inside the building! Go! Shoo! Why you're not a dog at all. My god, this is like a moment from a horror movie. This is precisely the moment where the mutation or beast will attempt to kill an unlikable side character. But, in stories where there has been no prior cursing, violence, nudity or death, such as in a family film, the unlikable character will escape his encounter, and be referenced later in the story, having learned valuable lessons. He may even be given a humorous moment to allow the audience to feel good about him. This is where I turn to run. You will leap for me, I will shut the door, and you will land a fraction of a second too late. [turns to walk away]
Scrunt: [Leaps onto Farber and starts eating him] Growl! This is for saying the twist in The Village was obvious! Rend! Tear! Signs was a masterpiece, you nasty hurtful meanies, and not an hour and a half of genius followed by twenty minutes of potentially career-killing stupidity! Chomp! I'm the best director in the world, and not the patron saint of arrogance and hubris like what you said! Slurp! You taste like poo, you poo man! And you smell like poo! Glurp! Who's laughing now? I just made a movie about how poo you are! [finishes eating, runs off into the night, sobbing]

It's literally jaw-dropping. I know executives told him he would never get away with filming that scene, but to still go ahead with it takes brass balls. (Confession; I might have added the Scrunt dialogue. Or I might not. You'll have to rent the movie and find out, won't you?) In case I come across as someone harbouring a grudge against Shyamalan, I will add a disclaimer. His style is one of the most distinctive in Hollywood, and though he could stand to speed his movies up just a bit, that style can work amazingly well. He has a directorial eye that is second to none. The Farber death scene might be monumentally dumb, but it's framed in such an original way and shot with such ravishing style and precision that the stupidity of it seems even worse in comparison. As for his other films, I liked The Sixth Sense a lot, and absolutely adored Unbreakable, which I think is his best movie. Even his dreck hasn't put me off his next movie, The Happening, which sounds fantastic.

Sadly, Signs was good, up to a point, and after that, he's disappointed me repeatedly. His style may be distinctive and his films may be beautiful, but only when he reins himself in. As soon as he goes too far with his stylistic tics, it falls apart. Critics who said The Village was nothing more than a Twilight Zone episode were not wrong. It's a 45 minute story padded out to over twice that length with lots of slow walking and ponderous dialogue scenes, albeit shot with typical beauty by the wondrous Roger Deakins, and performed with immense conviction by a talented cast.

Lady in the Water too has glorious, award-worthy photography by Christopher Doyle, and features some great performances, but takes forever to tell an absurd and badly worked out story, featuring fantasy characters forced to adhere to nonsensical behavioural rules that serve only to drag a thin story out to feature length. Why can't Narfs talk about their world and their relationship with Scrunts? Because Shyamalan says fairy tales are like that, so shut up and deal with the fact that that little arbitrary rule just added 20 very slow scenes to a movie that otherwise would have been over in half an hour. Why do all the Korean and Italian characters spend the movie shrieking and freaking out like a bunch of lazily written caricatures? Just say no to racial stereotyping, Shyamalan. And what was with Freddy Rodriquez's pointless rubber arm?


That just made me laugh every time it turned up. Small comfort, though. It broke my heart to see Lady in the Water, not just because it's an overlong and dreary vanity piece that's as technically perfect and beautiful as it is moronic, but because it's so so nasty, and confirmed reports of Shyamalan losing the plot while pitching the movie to Disney production president Nina Jacobson. I mean, I can kind of see why he reacted so badly. I've got a thin skin too, and I know if I got reviews that are half as severe as those received by Shyamalan (a notoriously criticism averse perfectionist), I'd cry for months. What I wouldn't do, though, is build an entire movie around that anger and upset. That's a hell of a complicated and expensive rattle to throw out of the pram.

Compare that to Brad Bird and Jan Pinkava's creation, Anton Ego. At first I thought Bird was also demonising critics with many unsubtle directorial choices: making Ego look like a cross between a vampire and an undertaker; hinting that he is somehow accidentally responsible for the death of Gusteau; designing a study for him that is shaped like a coffin; making his motivation a desire to destroy the restaurant for no other reason than that he enjoys giving bad reviews. I was seriously beginning to flash back to Harry Farber being mauled by a Rogue ShyamaScrunt. If Bird had gone that way for the entire film, it would have ruined Ratatouille for me completely. Remember I said I didn't want to ruin the film if you haven't seen it? Let's just leave it like this; bearing in mind what I think the worst finale of the film could have been, and how unsubtly the character was set up earlier, I was surprised at the direction Bird went in. Deliriously, joyously, tear-inducingly surprised. Shyamalan should be dragged from the set of The Happening and made to watch Ratatouille. Hopefully he will learn something about what criticism is, or can be. You never know, his heart might even melt.

This Week in TV: Week 3

Writing enormous TV posts like this make me feel like Tolstoy, if Tolstoy was obsessed with blogging about how crap Bionic Woman is? Playing Guitar Hero II has taken over our lives to such an extent that we're only now finishing up last week's TV, but still I soldier on. I'd drop some of these shows in order to have some room to do other things, but if the rumours about poor old Journeyman are true, our viewing list might already be about to shrink anyway.

Perhaps I should start with the good news; 30 Rock's very funny pilot was eclipsed by the magnificent second episode, a half hour so packed with jokes that it left us happily confused and breathless after just a few minutes. Tracy, Liz and Jack were all back to their best after an uncertain start, and Kenneth the Page was on fire, especially trying to seduce Tracy's wife. Best of all was the return of Will Arnett, now in the closet thanks to his involvement with the Church of Practicology, the religion invented by Stan Lee. Sorry, the alien king living inside Stan Lee. If Arnett was a recurring character, and NBC could stop trying to hawk t-shirts featuring jokes that haven't been featured on the show by the time the ad appears at the bottom of the screen, this would be the best show ever made. As it is, even taking that into account, it was the highlight of the week by a mile.


That's not to say there wasn't other good stuff out there. CSI, House, Ugly Betty, and Friday Night Lights were all at their best, or close to it. Sadly, many of the new shows are going horribly wrong, to the extent that we're beginning to think we were sold some horrible lemons. Whereas my doubts about the last couple of new seasons have quickly been allayed by the range of new shows, my hopes for this season have been dashed horribly. Of course, I'm aware that it's early days for everything, and there is always room for improvement.


For example, Chuck was certainly better than it has been (and Reaper was less so, making me wonder if there is some kind of seesaw of quality thing going on, in which case please stop it, shows), but Dirty Sexy Money and Bionical Woman were stultifying. The former is off Canyon's watch list, and the latter is almost off mine. They soiled almost everything else we watched just by being watched on the same machine.

Dirty Sexy Money, in particular, is just horrible. No longer shall I call it Dirty Stupid Monkey, as it doesn't deserve an affectionate nickname. So many things were wrong with the latest episode that I don't even know where to begin. The stupid bouncy-bouncy music that keeps popping up throughout, skewing the tone towards comic even when Peter Krause and Donald Sutherland (the only good thing about it) are discussing murder and betrayal; the stupid promotional considerations (I get that Bulgari sponsored this week's show, but forcing the mention into the show by having Billy Baldwin's big speech be conducted in a Bulgari shop was just stupid); Krause's bemused reactions to all of the "wacky" "shenanigans" of this "off-the-wall family". Canyon pointed out that she's so glad to see a happy Krause after being miserable, tortured Nate Fisher for five seasons of Six Feet Under, and she has a very good point, but this relentless chirpiness has begun to grate faster than John Krasinski's smirks at the camera in The Office. Actually, four seasons in and that still doesn't annoy me.


Krause's "OMG you sure are a freak" eye-rolling would be justified if anything in the show was actually outrageous, but for a show about a larger-than-life influential family dominating New York and being obsessively watched by the media, they're all pretty dull people, and their arcs so far are narcoleptic (Jeremy is in a relationship with someone his sister doesn't like! That's the definition of dramatic magic). Only Billy Baldwin's love affair with a transexual works, and that's because it's actually very sweet and not played for forced laughs, even though he himself is. Actually, everyone is, except for Peter Krause, Zoe McClellan, Donald Sutherland and Jill Clayburgh, who are so far removed from the monotonous and unamusing silliness polluting the rest of the show that they might as well be in a different programme.

Even worse than some of the casting (Natalie Zea, Seth Gabel, and Samaire Armstrong are all dreadful and annoying), is the lack of imagination on every level. The AV Club are blogging relentlessly about the new season, and whether story-of-the-week storytelling (Reaper, Chuck) has any place on TV now that we've been blessed with a newfound confidence in the commercial viability of long-form storytelling (Lost, The Wire). Dirty Sexy Money seems to be getting a break from them simply because it is built to work well as long-form, with multiple story possibilities thrown up by the large and controversial Darling dynasty, their internal and external rivalries, and the murder of Krause's father. And Samaire Armstrong's piss-poor approximation of the Paris Hilton it's okay to love. If you find selfish vacuity amusing or endearing, that is.


That's all well and good, but if the storytelling is bad, who cares how many story possibilities there are. The direction is flat and unoriginal; a scene early on in the third episode where Krause interrogates the younger Darlings about a sex tape and we see a montage of them appearing in front of him with "wacky" responses was embarrassing, tired, and poorly choreographed. The dialogue is even worse. When it's not doling out pointless exposition (the first scene repeating everything that was in the Previously On just three seconds earlier was the worst), it deals almost exclusively in cliches. Here are some choice examples:

Patrick: What part of "no" do you not understand?

Nick: We just assumed.
Patrick: Well, there it is, Nick. You assume, you make an ass out of you and me.

Juliet: (to Jeremy, on the phone) I've left, like, three messages!
Jeremy: (tied to a bed) Sorry, I've been kinda tied up.

Patrick: How many people get life right?
Nick: I don't know. But I do know, tomorrow's another day, another opportunity, another chance.
Patrick: I like that! (adds empty cliches to speech)

These are the jokes (and the morals), folks. How can empty, first-draft dreck like that get on air any more? We've been spoiled by The Sopranos and The Wire and Deadwood, and now expect the same care and detail in all dialogue on TV. Okay, those are HBO shows, and this is network, but if Lost and Veronica Mars and Friday Night Lights and Ugly Betty (at its best) and especially House can pull off dialogue of such a high-calibre, then so can DSM. It certainly needs it, because it has nothing else to offer. Nothing. It is truly dire. I even started wishing for John From StinkyNasty to come back, simply because even at its worst it could still sound so great and different (Ed O'Neill's scenes in particular could be lots of fun). DSM represents a retrograde step for The New TV, and must be stopped. Or improved drastically. Getting rid of the "Rebecca Colfax, Darling family publicist" running joke would be a good start. 30 Rock did it properly with Emily Mortimer's "I'm Phoebe, you might not remember me, we met in the gallery, I'm engaged to Jack, I have avian bone syndrome" joke.


I'm torn as to whether it was worse than Bionical Woman, which plumbed new depths this week. Worst moments included the girly dance bonding scene between Jaime and her brat sister (shown above, ringed by Sarah Corvus' evil optical interface), Miguel Ferrer trying to hide behind his desk so everyone forgets he's in the show, hacking internal circuitry by thinking hard, plot illogicalities like Sarah teaching Jaime how to do said hacking after they've been tracked several times instead of before, risible sub-plots about babysitting designed to give Jaime someone to fight in the "Insert fight scene here" slot towards the end of the show, and many many many many many more moments. And oh, God, if you thought the dialogue above was bad, check these pearls out:

Ruth: (to Jonas after he fools a lie detector) We've gotta find a way to teach this. How do you do it, anyway?
Jonas: I've been married. [Zing!]

Sarah: (appearing in a dream sequence for some reason) We're the only two people with sub-retinal charged coupling devices implanted in our optic nerves, but our human brain still filters out things it doesn't want to see. Don't let it. See everything. (cue mini-montage of Jaime looking around)

Jonas: I want her under lockdown now. I want this entire organisation on full alert. I want Corvus found and brought in, dead if necessary.
Nameless goon: (fondles gun suggestively) Roger that.
Jonas: I want her streaming optical interface tracked permanently, I don't wanna make a move unless we know when, where and why.

Jonas: (to Jamie) If Sarah Corvus wants something, she'll pretty much tear through a wall to get it. Just make sure that wall isn't you. (Cut to montage of Sarah working out by punching a wall to pieces with her bionical fists)

Jaime: (during another training montage) I guess I'm not used to thinking of myself as artificially intelligent.
Jae: That's not what I said. I said part of your programming includes artificial intelligence. The ability to learn. And more important, to unlearn. (Hey Ponytail Variant Yoda, guess what; people do that without chips in their brain! You've been in your underground bunker for too long, dude.)

Mysterious Homophobe from Grey's Anatomy: (during yet another goddamn training montage) You think Sarah Corvus is gonna bring gloves to a fight. No, something tells me she's gonna leave her little pads at home. What we need to find out is the animal. Now we all know that if your training is worth a damn, by now I should be able to take this crowbar and be able to swing it as hard and fast as humanly possible and not get within an inch of you. That's right, boys and girls. I'm about to get analogue on your ass. So whaddaya say, Summers. You ready to find the animal?
Jaime: Bring it on, bitch.
::Mysterious Homophobe swings crowbar exactly as hard as he promised to not ten seconds ago, just missing Jaime as she dodges::
Jaime: Are you insane?!??!?!?!

It's not just the appalling dialogue. The best thing I can say about Michelle Ryan is that her accent is absolutely flawless. I've completely forgotten she's English, and she seems to have forgotten her time here too. Wasn't she supposed to be really good in EastEnders? I remember her being not that brilliant in Jekyll, but then she was often onscreen with The Nesbitt in full ham-chewing mode and most actors would disappear into the wallpaper around that display. As for Katee Sackhoff's totally abstract performance as an evil (or is she??!?!) bionical woman, she's entertaining, but for all the wrong reasons. When the best thing about your show is the worst thing about another show (I'm no fan of Starbuck), you're in trouble. Her eye-rolling, quietLOUDquiet linereadings, and gurning have been fun, though.


As I said earlier, new shows have a choice to make; "worthy" long-form, "unworthy" plot-of-the-week, or a mixture of the two. Bionical Woman is ineptly trying the latter. There are subplots about her health and genetic make-up (there was talk of her grandmother having something wrong with her), and Mark Sheppard as a bad guy (Thomas Kretschmann was in the pilot, but he's vanished now). While that burbles on uninterestingly in the background, we have Jaime punching various un-named men for MacGuffin reasons, and it's not very diverting. Quite the opposite, in fact. It's not quite Torchwood-bad yet, but it's flirting with those depths.

The other two new nerd shows, Chuck and Reaper, are taking the plot-of-the-week template even further. The latter only hints at bigger arcs, such as the death of Andi's father. That might not even be an arc. So far the show seems happy to stay in a formula for the time being, and while it would be nice if the show had greater ambitions than just filling an hour every week, at least it does it with style and humour. Plus, the cast gelled in the pilot, and are getting better every week. Everyone gets the material, from the cast to the producers to the directors and writers. It may not be Buffy-quality, and I strongly doubt it ever will be, but it did something the first season of Buffy did that ensured it had a future beyond plot-of-the-week episodes; it set a tone, and it followed it through. Having a template that you can work from immediately is half the battle, so I'm still hopeful, even though this week was less fun than previous weeks. Anyway, it still has this smile, so it gets a pass.


Other shows introduced this season have been slower to establish a tone and a template, and if Bionical Woman is the worst offender, Chuck is also guilty. It's had a rough ride so far, but this week's episode was the best yet (and just in the nick of time, at least as far as we're concerned). The cast are starting to work out, and the writers are figuring out how to write specifically for them. It even has a little title sequence now, which is nice. Adam Baldwin still shines out, but Zachary Levy is becoming more likeable week by week. I think I even laughed once. Possibly at a bad guy getting hit in the face with a microwave oven. Because my Inner Child is large and in charge.

However, it still bugged me. Again the show put all of the pieces in place for laughs and thrills, but still kept missing the sweet spot over and over again. There was the odd moment where it worked like a charm instead of just hinting that it might work like a charm somewhere down the line, but it tickled at my annoyance synapses anyway. Only later did I realise what it was; it made me miss Alias. If you're going to have a new spy show on TV, you have to be better than the first two seasons of Alias. Chuck is not that good. I mentioned this to Canyon and she pointed out that Chuck is lighter in tone than Alias, and she's right, I'm being a bit unfair. So perhaps I shouldn't compare it to that. I'll compare it to a lighter spy show; Chuck has to be better than the hilarious and supercool first season of The Man From U.N.C.L.E. And again it fails the test. If it becomes its own thing, it could work out really well, but having two spy factions at war with each other, and an ostensibly foxy lady in a short skirt kicking people repeatedly, you're inviting comparisons to a recently screened and superior show that you just can't live up to. Sorry, Chuck.


More long-form drama happened in Heroes, which is playing the long game to such an extent that it feels like nothing will ever be resolved. This is the criticism that is levelled at Lost all the time, but Lost is about the anticipation and the wait and the slow reveal, so complaining about that is like complaining that chocolate tastes too chocolatey. Heroes, on the other hand, is revealing even less, and at a slower pace, and to make things worse, in the place of revelation is a series of ridiculous plot mechanics that, so far, are not at all interesting. The third episode was the best so far this season, but that's not saying much. The Hoirish plot is still risible, but at least Peter got to telekinetically move a truck around. That was fun. As was Claire's Richard-Donner-Supermanesque flight with the obviously superevil flying student guy.


Plus, it's always good to see Zachary Quinto, even without powers, and the nerd in me delighted in the miniature appearance by Nichelle Nichols (who, in my mind's eye, will forever be dancing half-naked in the moonlight, thanks to Star Trek V. Thanks for that, Shatner!). The cliffhanger with the Eighth Painting was great too, but as Canyon said, if they kill off Noah, that's game over for good. The show needs him badly.

Everything else did its thing, and did it well. The Office was mostly hilarious, though still too long and still flirting with over-the-top plots. Michael kidnapping a pizza delivery boy was perhaps a bit too far, but as he was just acting out his anger at that snotty little asshole Ryan, it made some sense. CSI continues to dazzle, this week featuring a guest-starring role for Harold Perrineau, which made me even more eager to see him return to Lost in February. Speaking of Lost, Tell Me You Masturbate Behind Locked Doors During Our Special Half Hour features not just Sonya "Penny Widmore" Walger, but also the newly enskeeved Ian Somerhalder, who does not look good as a hipster douche. Please, someone shave him/ban him from acting.


Now all we need is for Maggie Grace to show up as a love interest and this show jumps 15 levels of awesomeness (to level -18 on the Awesome Scale). Not because I like her, or liked Boone and Shannon. Just, you know, I miss Lost. ::cries::

Actually, we're beginning to enjoy Tell Me The Title Of The Show Again a bit more. It's not that it has changed at all. It's still the same ponderous, self-important, humourless show it started out as, and character development is measured in millimetres-per-episode, but the mood and pace has started to win us over. Yes, it commits all the worst crimes of bad independent cinema, and thinks that the route to dramatic relevance is nothing more than discussing "real" relationship issues in a "real" way, with "real" body parts on display (not counting the plastic dick employed in the first episode), but we're very very very slowly coming to derive some pleasure from it that doesn't involve making fun of it. Some of the bolder choices (the long scenes in the therapy room) are great, and making almost all of the characters unsympathetic is working out much better than expected. Best of all, Carolyn has finally given up on getting pregnant, therefore cutting down on her addiction to peeing on pregnancy tests and having unwatchable flameouts, which means Widmore Laboratories stock is gonna plummet. [/obscure Lost joke]


Another non-network show, Dexter, had its best episode last week, but it doesn't matter much. We're watching just out of obligation now, and if it wasn't for Michael C. Hall and the odd good scene with Julie Benz (now suddenly sticking up for the memory of her evil ex-husband, improbably enough), we'd have dumped it long ago. I'll get into it in more detail some other time, but the main reason we hate it is the ever-present narration, which is either face-slappingly obvious, cliche-ridden, or just badly written. We get that we need to see into the thoughts of Dexter, a character whose onscreen persona is a lie, but the narration often fails so badly that unintentional hilarity is the outcome instead of the blackly comic and piercing look into the heart of darkness that the show strives for. We stuck with it for a while, but one week he said:

Dexter Morgan: I'm not the monster he wants me to be. So I'm neither man nor beast. I'm something new entirely. With my own set of rules. I'm Dexter.

Show instantly broken. The anvilliciousness of it all kills any mood or suspense. It happens at least once a week, and provides a guilty pleasure for us:

Dexter Morgan: My sister doesn't understand me. It's easy for her to laugh and joke with her partners, easy for her to grin from one side of her mouth while eating various types of burrito. I can mimic the laughter, but the thing inside me that makes me laugh is broken. There's no doctor that can fix my laughing chip. It stays that way. I don't laugh. I just watch. I'm Dexter.

Dexter Morgan: Again I get stiffed by the guy who fixed my car. $400 for an oil change? It's criminal. So criminal, perhaps I could feed my hunger by visiting some justice on him. But no. Harry's code prevents me. That's not the way he taught me. I have to leave this guy alone, hope that some other serial killer comes along and chops him up real good and... Oh. Where was I? Getting confused here. Oh, now I remember. I'm Dexter.

Dexter Morgan: I see people go about their days, eating food. I can't eat food the way they do. I'm empty inside. No stomach. So I can't eat. I mean... Hold on. Sorry. No stomach? I'm talking metaphorically here. Of course I can eat food. I'm Dexter.

Thankfully, this week saw the possibility of a workaround; Dexter communing with his dead nemesis, Rudy the Ice-Truck Killer.


Even though Christian Camargo creeped us out, it was good to see him possibly returning in a dream capacity to reduce the reliance on the voiceovers. It's also nice to revisit Six Feet Under's trick of talking to the dead as a way to dramatise a character's inner life. Sadly, in the final scenes, Dexter lays his past to rest, and so next week I assume we're back to square one. Shame. At least Dexter is now in some peril, with his stash of body parts discovered and the loathsome Doakes on his trail, so perhaps the show will become a little more driven, but the supporting cast continue to let the team down. We're nowhere near giving up on it (especially now Keith Carradine is around as a profiler making life tough for Dexter), but it would be nice if it learned from its mistakes a little faster.


We're hoping House is also learning from its mistakes (such as leering at Cuddy, which is what House and Wilson are doing above, the perverts). The first three episodes of season four have been superb, with our anti-hero bouncing off his new retinue to hilarious effect. Of course, with each episode he whittles the size of his team down, so soon we're going to be left with (best case scenario) three new Cottages, or (worst case scenario) the old Cottages, back from exile and newly snotty. In a perfect world we'd keep the large staff. House's major flaw is the immovable and repetitive format, with most of the better episodes playing with that formula as much as the showrunners can. They've written themselves into a metaphorical corner, and the only thing keeping the show from falling into unwatchable irrelevance is this struggle to keep inventing subtle ways to fool the viewer that things are changing. Come on! [/Gob Bluth] Instead of doing that, just go all out. Keep the big staff for a bit longer, and when that starts to pall, change it again. We've still got the procedural investigative work, but with more room for humour. That's when the show works best. Having this new team around has been a real treat, but waiting for the inevitable retcon is frustrating. Damn, loving House is as annoying as it must be to love House himself.

I nearly forgot; Charlie Brooker's Screenwipe was mostly superserious but essential viewing, partly because his excoriating perspective on the news coverage of Madeleine McCann's disappearance was magnificent and rightly furious, but also because it featured a short film by Adam Curtis. His stock tricks were there: superb montage editing; excellent soundtrack choices (tracks from The Fog and Fight Club), sly humour. Sadly, the worst criticism of him is that he simplifies complex issues too much, and five minutes explaining why TV journalism has gone wrong over the past 30 years was just not enough. Still, a little Adam Curtis is better than no Adam Curtis at all, so it was brilliant anyway. If you've not seen his work before, go to these sites to see Century of the Self, and The Power of Nightmares. His other masterwork, The Trap, is available if you dig deep enough. They're the three most important documentaries you'll ever see.

Friday Night Lights has rebounded from the first episode's terrible plot mistake with some style, though to be honest the best thing I can say about it is that the showrunners are doing the best they can with a large hole in the hull of their ship. It still remains a marvel, though, with the best acting on TV right now. Jesse Plemons and Adrianne Palicki are performing miracles with their silly plot; the final scene horrified and thrilled us in equal measure. Kyle Chandler is the Archduke of Deadpan, and should never be out of work ever again, if there's any justice, and Brad Leland got big laughs, drunkenly making a fool of himself in front of the whole town. Best of all, Connie Britton's Tami is suffering from post-natal depression, and spends the whole episode on the verge of a nervous breakdown. She is utterly convincing, but it's painful to see. Where is her Emmy? Where? Someone give her an Emmy! Or Golden Globe! Do I have to actually construct a Caruso Award and send it to her agent? I'll do it! I've got some glue, and this house is filled with stuff I can mount on a piece of wood. My Wonder Girl action figure? Would that do?


I can't end this post with such a sad image. Ugly Betty is juggling its own formula, cleverly introducing another love interest for Betty before her old love interest leaves the scene. While cutesy Christopher Gorham waits on the sidelines, polar-opposite Freddy Rodriguez is wooing her by, well, being generally obnoxious and rude. He'd piss us off, but we're fans of his work on (this again?) Six Feet Under, so he gets a break for now, but they might be better off dialling down the nastiness just a little. No matter. Even if that goes wrong, we'll still have Michael Urie and Becki Newton as Marc and Amanda. I luffs them almost as much as they luff themselves.


Don't ever change, you vainglorious bitches.