He-Man Vs. Machete – Requiem

Ext: Forest near Eternos. Prince Adam walks beneath towering trees. Probably covered in purple leaves. Not sure. Will check Complete Masters of the Universe boxset for confirmation. Adam is accompanied by his faithful feline companion, Cringer, and the floaty pain in the ass Orko. On his back is a paper tag, on which is written (C) Filmation.

Orko: Prince Adam, might I remind you, if you do not hurry you shall be late for the anniversary party of your parents, the King and Queen of all Eternia. They would be most displeased!

Prince Adam: Oh Orko, why hurry? It’s a glorious day and the forest has never looked as beautiful. Right, Cringer?

Cringer: I don’t know about you, but I think even on a good day there could be something lying in wait. ::gulp::

Prince Adam: ::laughs a big bellowing laugh:: (Note to animators – use stock laughing footage) Oh Cringer, you’re such a cowardly cat! Surely you remember the Battle of Tranmaxia, where I finally banished the dastardly Skeletor from the kingdom of Eternos once and for all, with the help of my faithful companions Man-At-Arms and Teela. It was a rout, Skeletor’s evil band thrown to the four winds thanks to virtuous forces of might, courage, and the Power of Grayskull!

Cringer: If you say so, but that doesn’t make me feel that much better. ::gulp::

Prince Adam: You know, for a large tiger-thing that can transform into a fearsome Battle Cat, you’re a real loser.

Orko: Prince Adam, this conversation isn’t getting us any closer to the castle. If we’re late, the King will have my head on a platter, even though, as you can see from the dark, empty space under my hood, I don’t even really have a head!


Prince Adam: Why is it so hard to just enjoy nature for a while? Huh? Guys? Seriously, it’s a nice day, and all I get is the yapping. If it’s not you, it’s my faithful companions Man-At-Arms and Teela, both of whom, while lovely people and fine warriors, are pretty much the antithesis of fun. Can you both just get off my case for a bit? Dang!

Orko: But sire, perhaps you’re underestimating the fury of your parents! They have told me that GLURK!

From nowhere a knife slices through the air, hitting Orko right in the center of the big O on his chest, flinging him back into a tree, pinning him there.

Cringer: Adam! What did you do that for?


Prince Adam: Why Cringer, I would never do such a thing! Perhaps this is an ambush by Skeletor’s forces!

Cringer: I don’t believe that for a second. I’m getting out of here! ::flees::

Prince Adam: Worthless cat jerk! That does it. ::raises sword above his head:: By the Power of Greyskull, bitches! (Note to animators, stock footage looking a little overused by now, but stick with it. Animating new character has depleted this week’s budget.)

A burst of cosmic power infuses Adam with, as mentioned above, the Power of Greyskull, and he transforms into the mighty warrior He-Man, all muscles, hair and loincloth.


He-Man: Now, with my mighty sword, I shall wreak terrible vengeance on the head and face of my foe, even though I feel like buying him a drink. That floaty jerk was really beginning to chap my toned ass.

A thin whistle splits the air, as another throwing knife flies towards He-Man, connecting with his sword with sufficient force to knock it from his grasp. Stunned, he watches as it disappears into the thick Eternian undergrowth.

He-Man: Very impressive, my skilled enemy. Perhaps this is a new recruit in Skeletor’s army of ne’er-do-well’s. His skill with a knife is commendable. I shall call him Knifedor, in honour of his talent. This does not matter, though. Even without my mighty power sword I can still vanquish this evil-doer. I did once hang around with Superman, after all (Note to legal, see if DC are going to allow us to use that name. If not, just loop in Fisto or something.)

Fast as a darting hummingbird of death, a throwing knife shoots from a different bush, and He-Man dodges, the knife pinging off his chestplate.

He-Man: Hey! Watch the nipples, dastardly cur!

He-Man wrenches an enormous branch from a tree and prepares himself for battle. A shrub twitches, and He-Man leaps forward at astonishing speed, loincloth flapping heroically. Within the bush is He-Man‘s foe; Machete! The golden warrior’s attack takes the knife-wielding assassin unawares, and he is sent flying. Upon coming to rest, he leaps up and assesses his prey.

Machete: Nothing personal, man, but I got a big bag of gold from some bone-faced dude to rub you out.

He-Man: Skeletor hired an assassin? That coward. Fine, if that’s the way he wants it, come and get it!

Before He-Man can connect with his foe, Machete flips back into the undergrowth, and is lost. He-Man grits his perfect teeth and crashes forward into the bushes, and a piercing cry is heard, followed by a thud.

Machete: ::looking into a deep dark hole:: Like I said, blondie, nothing personal. I’ll look after your cat and your sword for you, if you want. ::pulls the sword from the tree:: What? This shit is plastic. Crazy asshole.

Next week: Skeletor reneges on his deal, Prince Adam wakes up at the bottom of a large pit with a really bad headache but the same crappy page-boy haircut as usual, and Machete wreaks his bloody revenge with the help of his league of swordsmen!


(Not really, but at least now you know there’s a happy ending.)

Yes, the fight poll has closed, and the result was five votes for Machete, and three for He-Man. Not a conclusive victory, so perhaps the musclebound do-gooder will be able to climb from the pit and aid Machete in his quest to separate Skeletor from his enormous Eternian wealth! (Writing heroic dialogue tends to stay with you, I guess.)

New poll! Who is your favourite Ghostbuster? Pete Venkman, Ray Stantz, Egon Spengler, Winston Zeddemore, or honorary Ghostbuster Louis Tully?

A Large List of Music I Enjoyed This Year

Usually when someone makes a list of their favourite music of the year, they consider the large (or small) amount that they came into contact with, and will strip out all of the crap, then all of the not-so-crap, then the good, then the very good, and merely leave the outstanding, the life-changing, the most perfect albums and songs. I admire that, and think it is a great skill to have. I too try to do that, but this year, screw it. I’m just going to namecheck very nearly every album I’ve heard, and then contrive a bunch of nonsensical categories for them to fit into. To the one or two albums I heard this year that didn’t get on here, I’m sorry.

Favourite Albums of the Year:

Person Pitch – Panda Bear
Strawberry Jam – Animal Collective
Neon Bible – Arcade Fire
Because Of The Times – Kings of Leon
In Rainbows – Radiohead
Cease To Begin – Band of Horses
And The Refinement Of The Decline – Stars of the Lid
Release The Stars – Rufus Wainwright
Icky Thump – The White Stripes
The Stage Names – Okkervil River

Honourable mentions:

All of a Sudden I Miss Everyone – Explosions in the Sky
Some Loud Thunder – Clap Your Hands Say Yeah
Armchair Apocrypha – Andrew Bird
Saltbreakers – Laura Viers
Mirrored – Battles

Best album that was released in the US in 2006 but in the UK in 2007 and I want to put on the main list but feel it would be wrong to do it:

Boys and Girls in America – The Hold Steady

Best album that was released in the UK in 2006 by a band I have seen live and I actually had a copy of but only got around to listening to as a result of their Mercury Music Prize nomination:

Fur and Gold – Bat for Lashes

Disappointments of the Year:

Drums and Guns – Low (It’s obviously a brilliant and thought-provoking album, but I found it impenetrable and it left me cold. Basically, it was like being called an idiot by an album, and I’m taking revenge by sticking it down here.)
Hello Love – Be Good Tanyas (I hate putting this here as the first half of the album is wonderful, but the latter half washes over me totally. I’ve tried and tried and tried to warm to it, but it’s not happening.)
Volta – Bjork (It’s almost a return to form, but falls frustratingly short of the mark.)

Albums that might have gotten into the list given more time and more listens:

Magic – Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band
Sound of Silver – LCD Soundsystem
Boxer – The National
The Flying Club Cup – Beirut

Favourite Jazz Album of the Year:

Being There – Tord Gustavsen Trio [I think you mean the Turd Ferguson Trio. Embarrassing. -- Canyon]

Favourite Hippety Hop Album of the Year:

Liberation – Talib Kweli and Madlib

Favourite Protest Album of the Year:

We’ll Never Turn Back – Mavis Staples

(Yes, they were pretty much the only jazz, hip-hop, and protest albums I heard this year, but if you don’t tell anyone, I won’t either.)

Favourite Instrumental Soundtrack of the Year:

The Fountain – Clint Mansell feat. Mogwai and The Kronos Quartet (Runner-up: Zodiac by David Shire)

Favourite Compilation Soundtrack of the Year:

Once (Runner-up: Black Snake Moan)

Album I would never buy as the band would probably use the money to fund their happy slapping empire:

Favourite Worst Nightmare – Arctic Monkeyfuckers

Favourite album that makes me seem like I’m down wiv ver kidz:

Men’s Needs Women’s Needs Whatever – The Cribs

Favourite Singles of the Year:

Atlas – Battles
Fireworks – Animal Collective
No Cars Go – Arcade Fire
Stuck Between Stations – The Hold Steady
Conquest – The White Stripes
Joanna Newsom and the Ys Street Band EP – Joanna Newsom
Get Lucky – New Young Pony Club
Men’s Needs – The Cribs
All My Friends – LCD Soundsystem
Wanderlust – Bjork (not a single yet, but it will be)

Favourite Album Tracks of the Year:

Unless It’s Kicks – Okkervil River
The Runner – Kings of Leon
Yankee Go Home – Clap Your Hands Say Yeah
I’ll Work For Your Love – Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band
Islands on the Coast – Band of Horses
Ootischenia – Be Good Tanyas
Hiding on the Staircase – New Young Pony Club
99 and 1/2 – Mavis Staples
Reckoner – Radiohead
Between My Legs – Rufus Wainwright
Gold – Interference
Drink Deep – Laura Viers

Sweetest song about a drug overdose:

Chill Out – The Hold Steady

Best post-rock cover version of a Stephen Sondheim song:

Don’t Bother They’re Here – Stars of the Lid (covering Send In The Clowns)

Best old blues standard by an actor who has played a Jedi, an superhero, a supervillain, a junkie, a shark expert, and an Afro-wearing former hitman who now walks the earth like Kane from Kung-Fu:

Stack-O-Lee – Samuel L. Jackson (also the best scene in Black Snake Moan)

Most Pointless Album of the Year:

Proof of Youth – The Go Team (Even though Chuck D is on it, it sounds identical to the previous album. It has the same progression through the album, the same structure, practically the same samples. I gather the main chap in the band has defended it, stating that he’s the only person making music like this so he should keep to the same furrow, but my God, man, there’s honouring the rules of the new genre and then there’s copying and pasting into a new folder.)

“Don’t Get It” Album of the Year:

Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga – Spoon (The critics fell over themselves with this, and obviously there is some ambition and a lot of variation, but it puzzled me, as did the praise. It’s alright, but really rather bland.)

Overrated Album of the Year:

Myths of the Near Future – Klaxons (Amy Winehouse, or Bat for Lashes, wuz robbed.)

Annoyingly Ubiquitous Hero of the Hipster-o-cracy:

Mark Ronson (As I’ve said before in other circles, he’s the Mike Flowers it’s mandatory to like, except that Mike Flowers was awesome, and Ronson is a dreary, name-dropping, too-cool-for-school rash on the arse of pop, and he can go away now kthxbai.)

Worst Album of the Year:

Leaving The Nest – Benjy Ferree (I tried to give this a proper listen, but everything about it made me angry and nervous. It was on Domino so I thought I would like it, but it baffled and annoyed me. Like a medieval lute player got transported to Mars and came back to play arrangements of their folk music. Never again!)

Worst Song of the Year:

Young Folk – Peter, Bjorn and John (Shut up shut up shut up shut up!!!! You’re nothing but a cute whistly bit and then three minutes of bland indie-pop and the love you engender is entirely unjustified. I HATE YOU!!!!)

Other Worst Song of the Year:

1234 – Feist (After hearing her first album, I wasn’t sure if I liked her or not. When I realised she was part of Broken Social Scene, I figured I should give her a chance. One million unwanted but enforced listens of this song later, and I’ve up made my mind. Go away, Feist. You annoy me.)

::re-reads list:: I do go on, don’t I.

This Week in TV: Week 12

As the last few shows air their last written and filed episodes, each week gets emptier and emptier, leaving us free to do other things, such as watch movies (we’re going through a lot lately), go back and see the stuff we missed the first time (Gossip Girl, Dexter and Mad Men are on our list), or play more Guitar Hero (which accounts for my knackered wrist). Plus, these posts should get smaller. After all, only four shows that we regularly watch got aired last week; Journeyman, CSI, 30 Rock and Pushing Daisies. However, I just came off a crappy shift at work and some scumbag on my street is sabotaging my bins (it sounds so silly on paper, whereas in real life it unleashes the rage), so I’m as mad as hell, and I probably will take it anymore, though I will not be a happy chappy while I do take it. I’ll try to intersperse the rage with stuff I liked.

Most Annoying Cliffhanger of the Week:

If I was going to say, which was the most dramatic cliffhanger, it would be a toss-up between the revelation of Aunt Lily’s real relation to Chuck (hint: not aunt) and Warrick’s suspension from CSI, but the low-key shocker at the end of Journeyman was the one that caused me the most agita. At the start of the episode, Livia is in her own time in the 40s, and we see that she has a boyfriend. At the end of the episode, she has a fiancee.


Quite dramatic, but the thing that annoys me most is that, of course, NBC has canceled this excellent show just as it begins to attract the attention of the fanboybase and the blogosphere and Herc at AICN, and now we’re seeing things that obviously were going to play out over the season but now will be dropped with a thud. How would this have played out? Would she tell Dan? How would that affect him? Is he still in love with Livia? Is Livia’s fiancee (Henry) still alive in the present? If not, how would that affect her? Would she try to help him? Or does she already know his fate and is using that knowledge? Does she know her own fate? Is she still in love with Dan? Was she ever?


Bear with me, I’m not quite done yet. Did Livia just get that “instinct” thing that Journeypersons get that tell them what their task is, and it said she should seduce Dan and then disappear, leaving him grieving and ready to begin a relationship with Katie? Or does Livia love Dan? How is she coping with the fact that she probably spent only a few months between seeing Dan for the “last time” before dying and then seeing him on his first time-trip, in which time he had moved on, got married, and had a child? The show throws up millions of character-based questions on top of the overall time-travelling mystery, and how many of them can be answered in the next two episodes? I am so pissed at the cancellation of this show that I cannot express it without using words and sentences that will warp the internet like a mega-dense object warps space/time. Let’s just say that NBC are not on my Christmas card list, no matter how much I love 30 Rock and Friday Night Lights. Screw them and their much vaunted Clash of the Choirs. Thanks for ruining Christmas, jerk-asses. (ETA: Christmas isn’t actually ruined by this news, but those heartless NBC arse-nodules sure tried anyway!)

Still Funnier Than “Pimp My Trike” Visual Gag of the Week:

30 Rock‘s The Girlie Show is obviously meant to be pretty dreadful stuff, but seriously, is this worse than Studio 60‘s dire Crazy Christians sketch?


Everyone loves farting. It’s a scientifically proven fact.

Most Despicable Omission of the Week:

The Golden Globes nominations have been announced, and there’s a lot there to like (two nominations for Big Love!) and a lot to be pissed about (no nominations for Jeanne Tripplehorn, Chloe Sevigny or Ginnifer Goodwin??!?! WTF??!?!), but possibly the most egregious snub is for Pushing Daisies. It got three nominations (yay!), and two of them were for Lee Pace and Anna Friel. Excellent stuff. They started off well and have gotten better as they’ve grown into their characters. However, where in the name of unholy Cthulhu is Chi McBride’s fully deserved nomination for supporting actor?


I get that the Best Actor/Actress nominations are more spread out, with more categories and more possibility to shine, but even though McBride was eligible in the overstuffed category of Best Performance By An Actor In A Supporting Role In A Series, Mini-Series Or Motion Picture Made For Television, meaning he had more competition, it’s still out of line that he didn’t get a mention. Of course, Kristin Chenoweth got snubbed as well, and that makes me angry as well, but I’m taking up cudgels over McBride because as much as I love Chenoweth in Pushing Daisies, her break-up with Aaron Sorkin partially inspired the creation of Studio 60, so I’m still a little mad at her about that.

Leaving aside that bitterness, it baffles me as to how McBride could have been snubbed. Two nominations for Entourage? Jeremy Piven and Kevin Dillon might be great on that show, but by now Piven’s only getting nominations because of his past wins. He’s not suddenly turned all crap, so they can’t not nominate him, but they feel they should nominate Kevin Dillon as well, so the supporting actors (Pfft. Like anyone considers Thingy Grenier the lead) gets two nominations right off the bat. Any other time I wouldn’t care, but it means nothing for Chi, and that shit ain’t right. Here’s Emerson and Ned to facially describe my mood.


i.e. Not pretty.

Most Entertainingly Exasperated Person of the Week:

Last year, Sir Gerry Robinson tried to fix a poorly running hospital in the quizzically titled Can Gerry Robinson Fix The NHS? (Answer: apparently not, though not through lack of trying.) We managed to get through it despite the knee surgeries (they involved hammers) and eye surgeries (I won’t describe those, because I might hwoark), mostly because Sir Ger was a hugely entertaining host. Usually TV presenters are required to be dispassionate (unless they’re appearing on Who Do You Think You Are, You Son-Of-A-Bitch, in which case they must cry), which is why he was so mesmerising. With every obfuscation and vacillation, he got more and more frustrated, rubbing his hands over his reddening face, gasping in amazement like a dying fish, and talking directly to the camera with rising agony. His sentences were along the lines of, “I asked the manager if he was able to hire new nurses, and his response… his response was… well, it was… ::sigh:: it was just. Un. Believable!”

This week he went back to see what had happened one year later, and everything was going swimmingly, with metal knees banged into place and eyes fiddled with. ::retch:: At least, he had managed to inspire the staff of Rotherham Hospital to change their working habits and strive for efficiency, which was great. However, to Sir G’s immense face-rubbing horror, the government’s “See, we do care about the NHS by spending wads of cash on it” initiatives were making a mockery of their progress, accidentally punishing them by creating a new walk-in centre nearby that would leach off money and easy-to-treat patients. On paper more private trusts sounded great (which is all that matters to a short-sighted politician), but it served no purpose other than to doom the established and improving hospital.

Sir Gezza got to talk to some oily suit-wearing Mr. Smith style creep whose explanations of why the drop-in centre would work out were cyclical, incoherent, and unconvincing. This triggered yet more face-rubbing and sighing from Sir Gerry, but this time we were following his example. Please BBC, send a copy of this to Michael Moore. As much as Moore was right to go after privatised medicine, he needs to see this too. Centralised control isn’t working either, much as I hate to say it. The show was a real eye-opener (much as the first was) and, thanks to the unusual and likeable onscreen presence of Serge Erry, accidentally entertaining too. If unutterably depressing and frustrating.

Bittersweet Show of the Week:

Much has been made of the cutesy tone of Pushing Daisies, with its Jim Dale voiceover, overdesigned sets, and twee murder plots (dandelion-powered cars, taffy drownings, mortal beatings with a baseball bat that has the word “kindness” etched into it, etc.), and there is something to that. However, while the production design is filled with details that will either annoy you or make you smile (such as Olive’s pajamas and quilt covers matching her bedroom wallpaper), the showrunners have stealthily removed the most cloying detail, namely the sickmaking lovey-dovey relationship between Chuck and Ned, as well as making Chuck subtly smell of death. No one notices it except for olfactory genius Oscar Vibenius, played by Paul Reubens, but still, it’s a peculiar and morbid touch.


Ned and Chuck are still together, of course, but over the past couple of episodes the miserable reality of their situation has stripped them of their giddy joy. Not only are they unable to touch each other but Ned’s power killed Chuck’s father and has forced Chuck into hiding from her family. Horrible for them, great for the show. Any worry that their chirpy romance would make the show hard to stomach has been allayed. Instead there’s the bittersweet sense that the romance might actually be doomed despite the starcrossed nature of their love. The scene with Ned finding a heartbroken Chuck was unexpected and affecting, unlike any scene between them to this point.


Add to that Emerson’s relentless pissiness, the increasingly dark humour (they really make the resurrection scenes as dark as possible) and the easily forgotten fact that the show is a weekly murder mystery (often with an alarmingly high body count), and it’s hard to keep levelling the cutesiness criticism at it. This week saw some frozen-corpse jokes involving dogs pissing on snowmen used to hide dead bodies, ice-picks chipping ice away to expose decaying flesh, and a head block stuck to the back of one guy’s head, in what was possibly my other favourite sight gag of the week.


This week was the Christmas episode, and only the ultra-cynical 30 Rock matched it for anti-Yuletide sentiment. How many Christmas specials can you remember that end with two lovers debating whether to temporarily resurrect a decaying loved one just so one of them can get one minute of hasty closure?


That’s some brass cohones they’ve got on that show.

Easter Egg of the Week:

Didn’t notice this when I first saw it, so thanks to those who alerted me to it. (Click on it to get the full detail)


Thanks also for spotting, “It’s not a Lemon party without Old Dick.”

Cheapest Shot of the Week:

I know Pushing Daisies is prohibitively expensive, and I get that they have to save money somehow, but come on guys, when looking for a snowy street to slot in as the view from a window, don’t just steal a shot from a movie everyone’s seen before.


A cookie for the first person to name the film it’s stolen from.

Performance of the Week:

Until this point, Katie, played by Gretchen Egolf, has been somewhat overshadowed by gruff Journeyman Kevin McKidd and internet sensation Moon Bloodgood, having been stuck with the role of frustrated wife/mother. It could have been worse. If the show hadn’t been so gratifyingly bold, she would have been kept in the dark about Dan’s time-travelling leading to multiple iterations of wifely paranoia and threats of divorce. Though frustrated wife is still not the best role, it’s been written well, and Egolf has done a great job with it.

This week, she got to push the envelope even further, as she deals with the shooting of Agent Richard Garrity in her kitchen (man, Mark “Ryan Chappelle from 24” Schultze, who played Garrity, really gets no luck), not to mention being terrorised by the loathsome Aeden Bennett. Instead of brushing the incident under the carpet, we see Katie organising a large Christmas event for the family, doing her best to keep herself busy. Just to make things awkward she becomes haunted by the apron she had been forced to wear by her tormenter.


Each time she comes across it her reaction is more extreme, leading to a mini-breakdown in front of her mother-in-law. Of course, in keeping with the tone of the show, her reactions are low-key and believable, as is her fractious relationship with Dan’s mother. It’s a terrific, subtle performance, and it made me sit up and take proper notice of her for the first time. I feel a bit bad for not giving her a chance earlier. According to her IMDb page she’s not done too much work, but I have seen (and adored) Anthony Minghella’s version of The Talented Mr. Ripley, though I don’t remember her in it. Interesting fact, if it is indeed a fact: according to IMDb (which is authoritative, n’est-ce pas?) The Talented Mr. Ripley had two working titles; The Mysterious Yearning Secretive Sad Lonely Troubled Confused Loving Musical Gifted Intelligent Beautiful Tender Sensitive Haunted Passionate Talented Mr. Ripley, and The Strange Mr. Ripley. I mean, come on. The Strange Mr. Ripley? That’s a really moronic title.


Back in the world of Journeyman, Dan’s mother helps Katie deal with Dan’s disappearances, having dealt with her own husband’s absences, by telling her she doesn’t need Dan, and can survive on her own. Oddly enough, that does the trick. Dang, at this rate, he’s gonna end up divorced. How will the show cope with that incredible possibility? Oh, that’s right. It won’t. Because NBC canceled it. The corporate scumwads.

Casting Choice I’m Never Going To Be Able To Get My Head Around of the Week:

Though I was amazed to have lived long enough to see the downright peculiar sight of Michelle Ryan onscreen with Miguel Ferrer, nothing beats the discombobulation I get when I see Anna Friel acting alongside Paul Reubens.


That’s daddy-murdering Beth Jordache talking to Pee-Wee Herman! Wow, the 21st century truly is an age of wonders.

Sneakiest Introduction of a Plot Thread of the Week:

While Journeyman has so far focussed on the romantic quadrangle of Dan, Livia, Katie and Jack, a fifth element was introduced a few weeks in; a love interest for Jack, Dr. Teresa Sanchez, played by Lisa Sheridan. Her introduction was kinda sketchy, with a meet-cute date getting disrupted by Dan, and it seemed like she was just there to give Jack someone to hang out with and make Katie jealous. As the weeks wore on, she continued to pop up, and we thought little of it. She didn’t seem to trust Dan, but that’s fair enough, neither did Jack. Then, as Jack comes into the time-travel fold, she is left out and her suspicions increase. Was she in league with poor dead Mark Schulze? Or Elliott Langley, the mysterious quantum physicist? Nope, she’s a doctor, and thinks like a doctor. Dan is acting like a bi-polar depressive, and she recognises the signs.


Jack catches her snooping around looking for anti-depressants and is furious that she would sniff around his brother like that (amusing considering that’s exactly what he had been doing just a little while ago), but Teresa drops a bombshell; depression is hereditary, and she’s worried her new child, fathered by Jack, will end up the same way. There had been no inkling that news of the pregnancy was coming, and instantly Teresa becomes important and part of the tangled web of relationships on the show. What will happen to her child? Will she get rid of it, as was hinted strongly? Even if she keeps it, will she stay together with Jack? Or will Katie leave Dan and unintentionally tempt Jack away from Teresa? Oh, that’s right. The show has been cancelled, so we’ll never know. I almost forgot about NBC’s cowardice and lack of foresight. Silly me. I should write it down on the back of my hand so I don’t forget!

Not Quite, But Almost, Grin of the Week:

As there was no new Reaper this week we should retire the Grin of the Week award, but it’s necessary to reward this near-miss from the recently un-nominated Chi McBride, who apparently recovers from carbon monoxide poisoning as if from a fruity dream.

Most Upsetting Show of the Week:

CSI is one of the grisliest shows ever made, not afraid to show autopsies and murders and crime scenes and all sorts of unpleasantness. This week, however, saw a different kind of nastiness; dogfighting. Tracy Jordan might have dabbled with the “sport” and wrung some laughs out of it earlier this year, but with our criminalist heroes stumbling across a dogfighting ring, the laughs dried up faster than a turkey slice in a pub Sunday roast. They even managed to show some of a fight, which made us both very unhappy.


It got worse than that screencap suggests. A couple of minutes later and a gunfight breaks out between the scummy dregs of humanity and the police, a rarity on the flagship CSI (but nothing special on the Miami variant). Some of the dogfighters get blasted to evil shreds, and I say HA! because yuk, youse guys is scum. Even worse than the NBC execs who cancelled Journeyman. Far far worse, in fact. That’s some serious evil.

Still, it gave us some quality Nick Stokes time, which is always a good thing. George Eads is a big dog-lover in real life (at least according to Canyon, who is similarly a fan, of both dogs and George Eads), and it’s the perfect episode. After Warrick’s raging bullshit from the previous episode, it’s good to see the opposite approach. Nick is obviously sickened by the dogfighting and eager to take down the bad guys, but he at least attempts to be dispassionate, opting instead for some quality gloating when he gets his man.


Classy guy.

Most Suspended Idiot of the Week:

Warrick, on the other hand, goes off at a suspect at the end of the episode and gets suspended by a horrified Gil. Way to go, douchenheimer. What did you think was going to happen?


This is the sort of thing that happens in CSI: Miami every couple of weeks. They’re always getting framed or involved in murders (or shot by nailguns or caught buying drugs for their terminally ill sister etc. etc. etc). Guess Gil’s more of a man than H, seeing as how he stands up to Warrick and gets him canned for a couple of weeks. H would swear to clear the presumed-guilty CSI with his most earnestest orange expression on his face. On a good week he’d get to shoot a perp and either kill or wound him badly, though leaving him conscious so he can threaten to kill him. I can’t see Gil ever doing that.

Best Guest Stars of the Week:

Nothing can top the mighty 30 Rock for quality guest stars, happily following in the footsteps of Arrested Development by hiring excellent actors and giving them juicy parts to play. This week featured the first appearance of the Lemon clan, played by Anita Gillette, Andy Richter, and veteran funnyman Buck Henry.


Even better, the return of scheming mother Elaine Stritch, making Jack’s life a living hell. Not only was she great, but she brought out the best in Alec Baldwin (yes, he managed to be even more incredible than usual). His hissing delivery of the line, “Really? Life is too short? Because your life seems endless,” just about finished me off.


It’s fair to say he’s got next year’s Emmy in the bag as well. Perhaps the Golden Globe as well! That’s if he got nominated, that is. For all I know the voters nominated Zach Braff over him this year, for his work in re-popularising the gurn as a valid comedic move.

That feels so much better. Next week, the final journey for the Journeyman, and pretty much nothing else. Unless I’m lazy and wait until after the Kylied-Up Doctor Who Christmas Special airs. Without Martha in it I might not be able to muster the energy, though. ::still bitter after all these years::

Darjeeling Has Limited Appeal to Haters

Yesterday I skived off work (if you can call leaving an hour early when you have flexitime hours skiving) to see Wes Anderson’s The Darjeeling Limited, and enjoyed it immmensely, even though I have it on good authority by that changing tide of opinion I see on the internet that he is well past his prime five movies into his career. While I don’t care about that, I will say that I understand the problem. The Onion summed it up with more pith and humour than I can right now; the guy just keeps telling the same story with the same visuals and the same fussy style.


To that list of tics, add the other recurring techniques and visuals: slow motion with plaintive 60s track in the background, either during a solemn moment or tracking shot (three times in Darjeeling Limited); formalist games (chapters in Royal Tenenbaums, a short film called Hotel Chevalier prior to The Darjeeling Limited); a jarring emotional mood switch about two-thirds of the way through the movie; zero smiling; verbose dialogue; garish set design and an obsession with certain props (the cutesy, numbered luggage that freaked me out by baring my initials). If these things affected you emotionally during Rushmore and The Royal Tenenbaums but irked you during The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou, The Darjeeling Limited will probably tip you over into hating him and his preppy hair outright.

With every movie he makes, Anderson strips more casual film buffs from his fanbase, as the tics that annoy people are repeated and show no sign of being retired any time soon. I get that, and sympathise, but I can’t join in, and the reasons are purely subjective. You know the word umami? (ETA: According to Canyon, Yahoo News has been talking about it today, a while after I started writing this, which is kinda freaky). It means “mouth feel” (at least the way I remember it), and is a tough-to-quantify element in taste that makes certain foods satisfying. MSG has it, which is the main reason it is added to meals. Ketchup is rife with umami, though I have difficulty believing that, as ketchup is repellent slime that has no business being anywhere near a plate.

Wes Anderson’s movies make my eyes and brain feel like a tongue being pampered by umami fairies. The colours, the precise (some might say finicky) composition, the mannered performances and dialogue; I just lap them up. I’m sure most people have a creative artist who does that to them, someone whose work just fits in your head and makes you happy. In honour of my tortured metaphor, I shall hereby refer to such an artist as an umamist; someone whose work makes you joyful, even if they have quirks that should stop you from appreciating them as they have done to others. For example, I love his command of the frame, and other people find his compositions too fussy.


I have already gone on about these compositions while criticising Barry Sonnenfeld for doing similar shots. I’m not sure why I find Anderson’s compositional tricks so gorgeous and Sonnenfeld’s stuff ghastly. Perhaps it’s because he won’t have his actors look into the camera too often. Often they are face-on, but looking away to the side. Having characters look straight into the camera (and usually saying nothing, which really pisses me off) gets on my nerves. The only director who can get away with it is Jonathan Demme, and I think that’s because he keeps the camera close and static (again, something that Anderson does). Sonnenfeld does that too, but will dolly in as well, which gets me down. He also can’t direct actors as well as Demme and Anderson, but that’s not where I want to go with this.

Anderson’s use of the entire frame also makes me want to hug him. He’s so eager to fill the widescreen frame, and even though it comes across as static and mannered, it’s all so beautiful and painterly that it (oh man, am I really going to say this?) ravishes the eye (I did it! I can only ask you forgive me). Often his shots are almost symmetrical, but he keeps switching it up, like with this image here.


His conscious decision to have the camera horizontal at almost all times and not tilted pays off well too. Quick pointless comparison: Publicity shot from above…


…and how the shot looks in the film.


Yum to the latter one! Anderson very rarely tilts the camera up or down, keeping it on a dispassionate horizontal plane. Fine for short shots, but especially in The Darjeeling Limited he has long shots with much movement and action, and the only way he can capture this is to spin the camera around or crane it up or down, as if the camera is stuck to the head of Number Five from Short Circuit. Again, I can see why that formality annoys many viewers, but suck it, umami haters. Me likey.

Enough about the pretty. Who cares if the story doesn’t work? Let’s just say that if I were to recommend an American Empirical movie to someone who has not seen one before, I would almost certainly point out Rushmore, as it was my first too. If not that, there’s a good chance I would skip his next two films (I love them but they have flaws) and nominate The Darjeeling Limited. It’s not perfect, but it’s written on a similarly small (and satisfying) canvas, avoiding the sprawling narrative template that made the middle two movies less neat but more detailed (manna to obsessive compulsives like myself, but offputting for people who want more focus and less post-modern flummery).

As with The Royal Tenenbaums, the film concerns a fractured family, but this time we follow three brothers (Jack, Francis and Peter Whitman. Like Walt Whitman, geddit?), as they journey through India in an attempt to find some spiritual closure following the death of their father. The narrower focus works beautifully, each line and look and event telling stories about their relationships with each other and the people around them. Of course, it’s funny that Anderson tells this tighter tale in a country as glorious and panoramic as India. Most of the movie takes place in a cramped train, the countryside either obscured by curtains or viewed through a tiny window, with the camera focusing primarily on the faces of the characters.


Only when the Whitmans start to overcome their psychic obstacles do we see them in the midst of the beauty of India, one memorable shot zooming backwards, away from the brothers, further and further, reducing them to dots at the top of an enormous mountain. Aside: no matter how much Anderson might annoy many viewers, it’s worth seeing The Darjeeling Limited for Robert Yeoman’s dazzling photography. Some shots are so lovely that shrinking them down for this blog is never going to do them justice. The only film I’ve seen this year with such eyeboggling colours is Zhang Yimou’s Curse of the Golden Flower.


There’s some broad comedy, often about filial aggression or the presence of Americans abroad (they are treated like the mythical gallumphing Yankee abroad, and while they’re not that bad, they do cause a lot of trouble), but most of the laughs come from the tensions between them, the distrust and cliques they have built through the years leading to various passive disagreements and annoyances. To a hater these jokey moments and the silly things they get upset about (Wilson’s domineering streak, the numbered luggage, a belt that is stolen and gifted and retracted and regifted throughout) would be a distraction, but it’s a conceit used more sparingly than in previous movies, which featured jaguar sharks and polka-dot mice, among other things. When the details pay off, it’s satisfying enough to justify the preciousness. Case in point, Wilson’s annoying personality quirk is explained late in the movie and got a big laugh from the dozen or so skiving cineastes sitting behind me.

Another nice touch is the return of many of Anderson’s troupe of actors, including Kumar Pallana (The Gupta Himself!), Anjelica Huston, Wally Wolodarsky (The Simpsons writer/producer who has hovered at the edges of the WesAndersoniverse since Rushmore), Waris Ahluwalia, and a very anxious Bill Murray, whose early appearance made the travel-deadline-phobic me go into a fit of stress that hung around for a few scenes. The picture you see here is from an early screening of the film, and I honestly have no idea what he’s doing. Is he an emissary of the umami fairies?

Of course, it also signals the return of Jason Schwartzman (here co-writing, along with Anderson and Roman Coppola), who is immoral and yet strangely endearing, possibly because he is dwarfed by his brothers and seems to bring out their protective instincts. Owen Wilson is, of course, present and correct as ever, though I would say I’d like his to start writing with Anderson again. As much as I have liked the last couple of movies, I think it would be good for him if he concentrated on that side of his creative personality for a while (man, I sound like a hen-pecking mother). The new element is Adrien Brody, seen here with Wes Anderson in his usual super-prep mode.


Until now I’ve never understood the appeal of Brody, who I gather is ugly-sexy, or fugly-sexy-cool, or some modern phrase denoting hott yet somehow nott. Part of my mystification is because I’ve not seen The Pianist, but he had great difficulty elbowing everyone out of the way so he could shine on King Kong. Naomi Watts managed it with ease, but he just sank into the CGI background. Here, though, he’s relaxed and funny and heartbreaking. The biggest emotional beats, oddly, come from him, whether he’s crying at one of Schwartzman’s short stories or holding a baby while grieving. The big third-act tone-change happens to him, and his transformation from affectless hipster kleptomaniac to affectless shell-shocked hero is brilliant. With invisible effort he expresses the inner change superbly.

This event also brings in another formal trick, one Anderson has not used before. Until that point many of the details of the movie make no sense. The luggage, the perfume, the objects stolen by Brody; they’re all unexplained, until Anderson flashes back to the year before, and in that scene all of the mysteries of the movie are resolved as meaning comes crashing in. It’s a wonderful device, cascading backwards through the film (and Hotel Chevalier as well), making what seemed like flat moments come alive with emotion.

Perhaps this is one of the main reasons I like Anderson so much. You can either find new stories or new ways of telling old stories. He certainly seemed eager to tell the same story over and over again. The three movies prior to this one have an identical protagonist arc: disgraced genius tries to win redemption, appears to fail, and at his lowest moment does the right thing for unselfish reasons and forgiven by the people he loves. This movie changes that up by having three characters looking for redemption, and chasing another character (their mother), hoping she will try as well. The brothers do well, but while they are willing to race around India getting into fights and nearly getting killed in their search for some meaning and emotional calm, she is not interested, having found her own path. To a cynic, that would seem like not much difference from the previous films, but to a fan it’s a fascinating incremental deviation from the norm.

Okay, I’ve gone on for aaaaages now trying to justify my admiration for this director and this movie, and it might not make any difference to those damnable hataz, but think on this. Woody Allen once made movies of incredibly stuffy formalism, often beautifully filmed, and usually about the same themes with similar plots, with only tonal differences to distinguish them. He was (rightly) praised, Anderson is (wrongly) damned. Fair enough, he’s not made Manhattan or Annie Hall or Husbands and Wives, but still. I’m sure that argument is airtight! Oh yeah.

::And with that, the stench of desperation becomes too much for the blogosphere. Somewhere, a server barfs::

This Week in TV: Week 11 (Part 2)

It’s with a saddened heart I continue my piercing, pissy, puisant comments about That Week in TV, as it has turned out that NBC has decided against renewing the episode order for Journeyman, choosing instead to keep Chuck going even though it’s limping along, narratively, like a two legged woolly mammoth in the middle of a heatwave. As usual it’s a case of one show getting young viewers (and being aired at a reasonable hour), and another show appealing to adults who have less disposable income but being aired at 10pm. Idiotic. While at first the new season appeared to be weak, the improvements in Pushing Daisies, Reaper and Journeyman have been very welcome (and we’re hearing good things about Gossip Girl, which appears to be the good Josh Schwartz show of the season, and will be watched by us as soon as the strike begins to really bite). That still only means three (maybe four) shows were worth our continued attention, and none of them have done very well. Reaper has low ratings, but is on CW where that’s par for the course. Pushing Daisies has a bigger following than Journeyman, but it’s still not the breakout hit ABC were hoping for. And this is all before we get into the strike situation, and how that’s affecting things. Kevin Falls, Journeyman creator, has said that the strike could end up saving Journeyman, but he’s a classy guy and hopes that’s not the case.

Although NBC isn’t ordering a full-season of Journeyman, it hasn’t officially canceled the show either. In fact, there’s a remote chance it could get a second season pickup if the strike continues through the spring, when the town is usually developing pilots for the next TV season. “If there is scorched earth and there are no pilots, then that’s a whole different thing,” admits Falls. “There is probably a better than average chance that we would come back. But nobody wants that. I would throw my show on the sword if this strike would end beforehand. Too many people suffer from a long strike.”

No matter what happens, not getting to see the full season plan come to fruition (it’s in the article, but beware, it contains spoilers) is regrettable. NBC may run three of my favourite shows (Friday Night Lights, The Office, and 30 Rock), but right now we’re not on speaking terms. ::does obscene Italian hand gesture in general direction of NBC HQ::

Ah well, it was pretty obvious this would happen, so I shouldn’t act surprised. I shall continue, through the tears. ::sniff:: I wonder how internet and lad’s mag superstar Moon Bloodgood is taking it?


Oh, she’s got a husky to keep her company. That’s alright then.

Saddest Hair Loss of the Week:


The Pasdar, a hairstyle that could have swept the nation if it had more screentime over the past few weeks, TIM KRING!, was sadly laid to rest this week with the shocking (and downright show-crippling) shooting of Nathan Petrelli, former senator and flying ace, gunned down by a mysterious assassin just as he was about to finish the sentence, “I have the ability to fly” to a gathering of journalists. Nicely timed, mysterious assassin who has probably yet to be cast. Pasdar has been Heroes‘ MVP this season, bringing some snarky attitude to what has otherwise been ponderous and grumpy in place of the effortlessly low-key atmosphere of the first season. Rumour has it that of the two characters “killed” this week, only one is actually dead. While I may not have been the biggest hater of Niki (I was curious to see how her power was going to play out), I’d very much appreciate Kring’s sudden interest in the opinion of the fanbase play out with him listening to the cries of “Pasdar death but noooooo!” and let Ali Larter go. Look, even her superpowered family is upset about Pasdar’s death.


Seriously, they are not reacting to Niki’s flaming demise at all, even though it looks that way. If you saw the show and it looked like they were mourning Niki, you saw the work of an editing hacker. For serious. No comebacks!

Best Directed Scene of the Week:

Friday Night Lights is often a masterclass of directing, as well as writing, acting, lighting, catering, and many other things. It could cure the sick and change the rotation of any celestial body it felt like as well, I’m sure. That said, even with a quality level and artistic ambition far above pretty much everything else on TV right now (or ever), this week featured a breathtaking set piece, as Dillon Panthers newbie Santiago plays his first ever game. Even for a new character he has been pretty sidelined so far, interacting with most of the main characters for a couple of minutes each episode, being used as a device to show new aspects of their personalities (Tyra’s snobbery, Buddy’s generosity, Coach’s… well, his pissiness, which is not entirely new). This week he got a sequence to himself, first being driven to the game by Buddy and expressing his fear by having a big hissyfit, screaming insults at Buddy and disparaging the game (which was probably more hurtful to his benefactor than anything he could say about him personally). Somehow, Buddy’s response (threats and fury) inspired Santiago, who grumpily snarls, “I hate you!” but goes to the game anyway.


The game is a disaster, with the first half going conclusively to the opposing team. What was so superb about that is that Buddy must have realised at that point that Santiago was so scared he would probably choke on the field, but if he didn’t play he would never trust Buddy, and would begin to reoffend again. Buddy never does anything he thinks will harm Dillon’s game, but finally he sees he has no choice but to do what’s right for a single person, even if it screws up the Panthers defence. Gambling on the possibility that Santiago would surprise everyone, Buddy begs Coach to let him play, and in the third quarter, he relents. And it goes badly.


Bewildered, scared and frustrated, Santiago chokes horribly, and thanks to the visual template created by Peter Berg in the movie and the show pilot, the camera is right next to him as he tumbles and screws up. Coach reacts in his usual manner.


With everything looking bleak, and third down reached, Santiago scans the manic crowd, and the sound of their cheering drowns out everything, until we hear a low growl coming from him and his fellow Panthers. The look in his eyes at this point is, frankly, terrifying.


It might be a cliche that the scared character comes through in the end, but it’s used a lot because it’s effective and can be moving when done right. Knowing what the stakes are, thanks to weeks of slow character development, it doesn’t matter that you know he will be alright. The moment he sacks the quarterback and changes the momentum of the game still works because by now his success is important, not just for him but for Coach and Buddy and, by God, the whole damn town!!!

During this five minute sequence there is barely any dialogue, just sound collages and incoherent shouts, with the cameras placed as close to the action as possible. It’s the sort of scene you expect in a movie, but to see it on TV, where tight schedules make it hard to create effective visual set-pieces, shows that technology and skill and training and understanding of the medium has grown to such a point that this kind of superb, moving, nerve-wracking storytelling is possible on a regular basis, if extra effort is expended.


And yes, Buddy apologising for shouting and then telling Santiago he won the game with a single play made me cry. A lot. Stop judging me!

Most Welcome Guest Director of the Week:

Shades of Caruso loves William Friedkin. Loves! Do we love every movie he has made? Oh hell no. Jade? Love the Mighty Caruso though we do, that is a piece of shit movie, and Joe Eszterhas is a hack who has had a couple of lucky strikes to his name (three if you count the colossally entertaining Showgirls). That’s not his worst film. Rules of Engagement, with Sam Jackson and Tommy Lee Jones, is possibly the most despicable movie I own, ideologically repulsive and galactically overwrought. Peter Bradshaw sums it up way better than I could in his Guardian review. Speaking of which, Friedkin also directed The Guardian, in which a family is terrorised by an evil tree. Not a triffid, a tree. Turns out Friedkin took his name off the film, replacing it with Alan Von Smithee. That’s right. Allan Smithee was not a good enough pseudonym. It had to have a Von in there. You’d think he was being funny, but having seen him in interviews, he has no sense of humour about himself at all.

Other crimes include terrorising and injuring his cast members on The Exorcist, wearing cravats and high pants and aviator shades (see above and below for examples), and praising Joe Carnahan’s absurd Narc just because he thought it was a homage to his filmography. So why were we thrilled to hear he was directing an episode of our favourite crime procedural?


Because he is so very entertaining. And unable to see how ridiculous he often is (his commentary for the aforementioned Rules of Engagement is my favourite ever, so unguarded are his comments). And because he has made some of my favourite movies, obviously. The Exorcist and The French Connection, predictably, but I also remember loving Sorceror when I was younger (importantly, that was before I saw Clouzot’s The Wages of Fear, so who knows if I’ll still like it if I saw it now). Recently he did a great job directing Ron “Awesome” Shelton’s Blue Chips, starring Nick “Also Awesome” Nolte, as well as directing one of the best (and certainly most underrated) action movies of the last ten years, The Hunted.

In a way it was the proto-Bourne Ultimatum, stripped down to the essentials and almost entirely devoid of the absurdity that can often mar his films. Tommy Lee Jones has about 15 lines of dialogue, Benicio Del Toro is like a machine (or an animal, or a machinimal), and the final 40 minutes is a long chase scene. It’s all so spare, with barely any event getting in the way of telling the story of two stone killers trying to kill each other, sometimes with stones. It sounds boring, but it’s riveting, and brutal, and thrilling.

Of course, he also directed To Live and Die in L.A., featuring a young and never-sexier William Petersen, running around at the speed of light and getting his Little Billy out for the camera. It’s not that great a movie, and when we watched it recently we just laughed at it from the first frame to the last (sexxy John Pankow? Erm…) but it’s so…


…large, I guess is the right word, so unafraid to do whatever it takes to get a response from the audience, that I can’t help but love it a little, from the vibrant Robby Muller photography to the super-dated Wang Chung soundtrack to the relentlessly erotic mise en scene (apologies for putting a first year Film Studies phrase in there, but seriously, most of the film has a neon pallette, with strip clubs and their neon-ness playing a large part in the plot). Plus, of course, the awesome car chase, which has become a recurring Friedkin motif, whether he likes it or not.

So, it’s all very interesting to us as both Friedkin fans and CSI fans, and so cool to see Petersen reunited with the man who convinced him to shamelessly display his genitals. But CSI is not like the films mentioned above. There’s not much sex (and it’s rarely lascivious), no garishness (just well-balanced colours), no overt tackiness. It has a glossy sheen and treats the underbelly of Las Vegas with tact and a non-judgemental manner. Surely CSI: Miami, with its clumsy handling of moral issues, melodramatic plotlines, and sleazy sensationalism (which are factors in our affection for both show and director), would be a better fit. So how would Friedkin modify his directorial impulses to fit the CSI: Classic template?


By framing a drug-addled, hallucinating, shag-happy Warrick for the bloody murder of a stripper/hooker and setting almost the entire episode in a neon-soaked strip club, of course. It even opened with a car chase. So I guess the writers wrote the episode specifically for him? I guess? ::sigh::

That’s not to say it was bad. Warrick’s screw-ups are a standard plot device since season one, and this season has hinted that the break-up of his marriage has affected him far worse than it might have seemed when he makes offhand comments about it. Having his woes come centre-stage does another wonderful thing that CSI does on occasion; create episodes based on the troubles of the actors. Gary Dourdan has recently been in trouble for beating up a TMZ photographer, so that wild streak of his seems to have been parodied in this episode. It’s reminiscent of Marg Helgenberger’s episode about cosmetic surgery, which was cheekily filmed while her Botoxed forehead didn’t move an inch for an entire season. Not even a twitch. We couldn’t believe the brass balls of the producers for doing that. This episode was a bit like that, and the extra frisson worked well.


Also good was a wonderfully creepy scene where Warrick investigated a weird barbecue pit behind the strip club. Nothing much happened, but the atmosphere was deeply troubling. It was such a pleasure to watch, knowing the guy still had it. Of course, he still had to go and screw it up by going off the deep end, ending the episode with a lengthy hallucination/sex scene, which included topless Dourdan for the ladies…


…and a semi-naked imaginary-knife-wielding hottie who ends up dead a bit later, at which point Warrick unleashes a “Nooooooooo!” that would make Darth Vader’s Revenge of the Sith “Noooooooo!” cower in fear.


Overall, it was another triumph for our hero Friedkin, but as usual, a triumph tainted with the stench of failure. There may be directors I love because they never get it wrong (or at least, very rarely), and some directors I hate because they never get it right, but Friedkin belongs in that unique subset: a director I love and hate and love to hate, because he gets things wonderfully right and horribly wrong, sometimes in the same movie. Or scene, even. I really need to see Bug ASAP.

Goofiest Facial Expression of the Week:

Question: Why was Milo Ventimiglia cast as Sylvester Stallone’s son in Rocky V? Here’s a hint:


That’s some serious currybum face going on there. Perhaps he absorbed the powers of someone who could propel bowling balls through his ass. Useful if going up against the animated bowling-pin army of a particularly inventive mad scientist, but otherwise not good for much.

ETA: a concerned citizen has pointed out that Milo Ventimiglia was actually in Rocky Balboa: The Balboening, and not Rocky V: This Time It’s Personal And The Other Four Times Didn’t Quite Count. I apologise profusely, and will eat a bowling ball as punishment.

Bizarre and Miraculously Non-Gratuitous Nudity of the Week:

Friedkin’s CSI episode featured a lot of gyrating ladies in their shiny knickers, which Friedkin would probably have explained away as his attempt to show the dark heart of Vegas, and not lots of miscellaneous flesh. He can win as many awards as he likes, like this one presented to him by a couple of film professors and Mark Kermode in his best zoot suit, but at his heart, he’s a salacious son of a bitch, bless him.

However, Reaper managed to get hott lady skin on TV and make it a plot point. Sock and Ben realise that Cady, if the daughter of Ray Wise, will have 666 on her body somewhere. Contriving to erect a hot tub in his front yard, Sock and Ben get Cady alone and convince her to strip by saying it’s the only way they’ll ever trust her with their friend Sam. And she does.


Actually, that bit is a bit crazy, even though she convinces both Sock and Ben to strip too. Maybe Cady is a wild child and we don’t know it yet. Or maybe kids these days do that sort of thing all the time. Back in my day the sight of an ankle would turn men into sexual werewolves, but then our local vicars were prowling the streets with silver-bullet shooting crucifixes in order to stop the sexx. (These are all metaphors, by the way. I come from the West Midlands. No one in the West Midlands has ever come up with something as cool as a gun shaped like a crucifix, especially one built to kill lycanthropes.)

“What in the Wide Wide World of Sports is a-going on here?!?!” Sight of the Week:

Christopher Gorham is adorable as Henry in Ugly Betty. We’ve been rooting for him and Betty, and panicked during the gloomy Charlie-months, even though Charlie was played by the equally adorable Jayma Mays. Canyon has commented on his cuteness in the past, and I can see that. He’s a good looking guy. But OMG seriously, what. The hell? Is this?!??!!??!?!?


That’s not a trick of the eye. He works out. I get that. But is he having his intestines removed? Are they hidden in a tesseract located in his abdomen? And what’s going on with his upper body? It’s enormous! His arms are big too. Not Benjamin McKenzie girder-style guns, but still, plenty big for a guy who gets hired to play bookish nerds. I’m a bookish nerd, and I once worked out, but if I ever ended up looking like that I’d sprint to the nearest Wendy’s and gluttonise myself on their wonderful Jalapeno Double Melts (limited edition! Buy five today!), just to get that belly back.


For God’s sake, he looks like an man-sized ant in a wifebeater. The second episode of Ugly Betty was, as I said before, much better than the previous one, by an order of magnitude, but the sight of this torso, and him dancing badly, was deeply troubling.

Face/Off of the Week:

Hiro Nakamura vs. Adam Munroe? Useless Mohinder Suresh vs. Sylar? Niki Thingummybob vs. the elemental force known as fire? Nuh-uh. Julie Taylor vs. Tami Taylor!


It burnt up the screen. The tension building up between mother and daughter all season has boiled over once before, but just to make that metaphor redundant, it boiled over again this week, with an incoherent and frankly scary screaming match. It was, as is often the case with Friday Night Lights, utterly believable.


In the final touching scenes, it seemed that they had put their troubles to one side for baby Gracie’s baptism, but it didn’t feel like anything had really been resolved. With typically astute writing, Julie the brat was not so bratty as to misunderstand her responsibility on the important day, but not so mature that her frustration with her mother was resolved. Hopefully there will be many more rucks, as this was a great scene (and Canyon’s favourite moment of the episode).

Next week, no digressions about werewolves, no Grin of the Week (no Reaper!), and more Journeyman, prior to being shoved into a corner and forgotten by network execs with a lump of coal where their hearts should be, and probably not much else. My typing finger will be most grateful for the break.

This Week in TV: Week 11 (Part 1)

Considering there were less shows on TV this week, I actually have more to wonk on about than usual, what with the “volume” finale of Heroes, the reunion of To Live and Die in LA legends Billy Peterson and Billy Friedkin, and two episodes of Ugly Betty (not because two were aired, but because we missed one). So, I’m splitting this in two, so I can finish the rest of it tomorrow and get to bed (I have no choice; Man-Thing is on Sky Movies and I can’t find the remote). Anyway, let’s get this out of the way right now, because I bet the suspense is killing you.

Grin of the Week:

Ray Wise!


That’s never changing. Get used to it.

Canyon’s Highlight of the Week:


Reaper
has gone from being our favourite new show of the season to a show we greatly enjoy but tend to forget about not long after, but this week saw all of the elements fit together pleasingly, with the non-female cast at their best, the female cast finally getting suspicious of Sam and his reaping buddies (though it took a ridiculously long time to happen, at least it finally is), Donavon “Ted the douche” Stinson getting a finger broken by an angry bookie (funnier than it sounds), and an interesting new plot element coming into play; Sam’s new girlfriend Cady, played by Jessica Stroup.


Is she the Devil’s daughter? As she seems to kill everything she touches, including the doomed goldfish shown above, it seems like that might be the case. It’s hard to say too much about the show most of the time, as what it does well is play off the chemistry of the leads, with a lot of the heavy lifting done by Tyler Labine. Sock is one of the most appealing characters of the new season, a cross between Shaggy and Jack Black, which is enough to make many people stay away. A shame, as his timing and delivery is pitch-perfect. As good as Bret Harrison and Rick Gonzalez are (and even though they’re improving every week), they are still straight men to Labine, who controls the screen every time he’s around.


Only Ray Wise is more lovable than him, but that goes without saying.

My Highlight of the Week:

Controversially, it was the “volume” finale of Heroes, which was packed with plotholes and tonal errors and silly dialogue and silly deaths and all sorts of nonsense, but was much more propulsive than the rest of the season put together, and managed to make the first season finale look even worse than it already did. Though the show is seemingly broken beyond repair (unless a new writing team is brought in, and sharpish), this did have its good points. Hiro’s revenge on “Adam Monroe” was excellent, Sylar’s Popeye moment was hilarious, and Elle’s realisation that she can be a good person if she tries hard enough was nicely handled. It’s the first time this entire season that I’ve been glad Kristen Bell has been around.


Partially, my heightened enjoyment was attributable to my new relaxed approach to watching it. Knowing it will probably suck has made it a more entertaining viewing experience, as I have now stopped trying to compare it to season one’s highpoints (which, as Canyon pointed out during this episode, were actually fewer than I remember). It’s a fun show, but it’s not ever going to compare with our real favourites. I remain fond of it, though. Canyon, on the other hand, seems to actively dread it now, and while my mocking is affectionate, hers has become ruthless. She even dissed Matt and Peter’s think-off, which I loved, silly expressions, fish-eye lenses and all.


Bzzzzzzt! I’m thinking the hurty words at you! With my face!


Zzzzzzzzzzzzzing! I’m thinking them right back, two times! To the bridge!

Lowlight of the Week:

Due to our trip to the US, we dropped the ball on what was screened each week, meaning we missed an episode of Ugly Betty (this strike isn’t helping matters. With The Office gone for a while and other shows reaching the end of their runs, we don’t know what’s going on). Upon realising this we were overjoyed. Ugly Betty! We love it! Silly transitional wipes and all! And then we watched the missed episode, and our hearts sank. Truly, this was a fresh hell. How bad? Trying to make Alan Dale the comic relief. He’s a fun serious actor, but even The O.C. knew not to do that.


Though it might sound like I’ve completely lost all perspective and entered the world of the Internet Crazies when I say this, it is scary when a beloved show misfires so completely that there are no saving graces left. Case in point: Alias was, for two seasons, one of the best shows on TV. It had some problems, but often they were fixed quickly, and each week offered something of quality. The first season was especially good, as good as any network show I’ve ever seen. Even the show reboot that happened midway through the second season worked well, and was kicked off by possibly the best Alias episode ever, Phase One. And then the third season started with a two-year leap forward that removed all dramatic tension from the show, added a multitude of dreary questions, and changed every character into a blander version of themselves. It was catastrophic, and even though I tried, I just couldn’t muster any further interest in the show. (I know, I was talking about Ugly Betty. This will all make sense soon, I promise.)

There were no warning signs that Alias was about to spin off the tracks, but suddenly it was a shadow of its former self. Did the show fall asleep next to a pod and wake up with no emotions? What’s scary is that this can obviously happen to any show we like, and this episode of Ugly Betty, filled with dead lines, shameless mugging, desperate plotting, obvious tricksiness, and Dirty-Sexy-Money-level writing, made us fear for the worst. I just checked the credits of the horrid episode again, after IMDb conflicted with my memory. The show credits say the writer is Charles Pratt Jr., a veteran soap writer who worked on General Hospital among others, but IMDb is telling me it was Bill Wrubel. Whoever it was, I can’t imagine them wanting to own up to having written this. Joke after joke fell flat, to the point that we could barely watch actors we enjoy trying to find the laugh. It even unfunnyised Amanda. Amanda for God’s sake!


It was so wrong and Bizarro-World inept that it made us think the show was broken. Stupid really, considering the writer’s strike has meant they’re dragging in producers to write episodes (the same thing happened with the dreadful Wicked advert they aired a few weeks ago), but for a moment, it was as if the show was never going to get back to its normal self. And it upset us. Yes, there are far worse things in the world than a show going bad, but one of the things I love about TV shows is realising the showrunners, the producers, the writing staff, and sometimes even the network execs, have reached a point where they know exactly what kind of show they’re making, what stories they can tell, what points they can make.

Suddenly a show that’s good reaches the next level, with jokes and plots written for the actors, arcs clicking into place, continuity increasing in complexity; it can be really satisfying. Classic example: the arrival of Spike and Angelus in Buffy turned it from a diversion to the best show on TV (EVER!!!). Journeyman started off okay, but when Dan’s stash of stolen money started to play a bigger part in the show, it leapt to that next level, and became our favourite new show of the season. Pushing Daisies has done the same recently, and is a huge joy.

Sadly, the opposite is also true. A good writer leaves, a new producer comes on, cast members fall out or get big heads, networks start to fiddle with the format. When Bryan Fuller left Heroes, it hobbled it. When Ron Moore began developing Caprica, his focus left Battlestar Galactica and the show began to fall apart. When Josh Schwartz began developing new shows for Fox (on their say-so, the big jerks) and took his best writers to help him out, The O.C.‘s third season became an endurance test, haemorrhaging viewers and good will. Goddamn, that show sucked for 25 whole weeks, improving only once Marissa died a horrible death, and that was in the very last scene of the whole season. Dammit Fox, just let your showrunners do one show at a time! Slavedrivers!!!

So, was this the beginning of the end for Ugly Betty? Can you bear the suspense? Of course not! The following week, written by reliable writers Jon Kinnally and Tracy Poust, was not the best episode ever, but it had some amazing moments, tons of laughs, and a paintball sequence that featured Rebecca Romijn-Stamos-O’Connell dressed like a cross between Barbarella and Tina Turner in Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome. It was top notch.


So I worried for nothing. And wrote about it at length. Please believe me, I do have some perspective on things. I’m not one of the Crazies. For instance, I do not wish death on Jennifer Garner. This exempts me. Because I say so.

Performance of the Week:

Not much to say, really, other than that Jesse Plemons is bringing it every week, and the murder storyline, created by the showrunners to showcase his talent, is justified for that reason alone. He has been staggeringly good.


And Glenn Morshower, as his father, has been every bit as good. That said, no one else on TV this week has done anything as heartrending as Plemons’ final scene, with Landry not charged for the murder of the evil rapist, but still haunted by his guilt. Impressive stuff.

Most Badass Moment of the Week:

Striding into Primatech Paper HQ, Pisspoor Peter Petrelli and Sark (sorry, David Anders is so linked to that role in Alias that I can’t separate him from it) chewed bubblegum and kicked ass, sans bubblegum. Peter fired lightning bolts and telekinetically hurled previously unseen Company henchmen around, and Sark tripped some guys up with Hiro’s sword. Even the potentially moment-ruining sight of a stuntman ineptly bracing himself for a telekinesis-caused somersault for a good few seconds before leaping into the air didn’t ruin things.


In the scheme of things it was not the most nerdcool moment ever, but it did what this show should always be doing; having the superpowered people do superpowered things. As a kid I would despair when Lou Ferrigno only got a couple of minutes screentime in The Incredible Hulk, or KITT didn’t even do a big jump in Knight Rider. Now that I’m older I understand about budget constraints and how cool moments mean nothing without good writing and well-developed characters, but my God, we’re talking about a show with about a dozen superpowered navel-gazers moping about. Surely one or two of them could do something fun or badass each week. I’m not even talking about my previous rant, where I called for more heroics (though that’s still a valid complaint). If you can’t have the characters saving others or helping them out, just have them doing wacky powery stuff. This action sequence was hardly the most complicated thing to shoot. Just throw a couple of people at a wall, blow up a couple of small objects, add a CG effect or two, and the viewers will be happy. Damn, if a little thing like that can make Milo Ventimiglia and David Anders look like the coolest motherfuckers on the planet, it’s worth the expenditure and effort.

Worst Guest Star of the Week:

Who was your favourite Slayer? Buffy? Hell no, go to the back of the class and suck an egg. Kendra? Nice try, but WRONG! The correct answer, of course, is Faith, the bad Slayer who tortured Wesley, killed a human, got stabbed by Buffy prior to throwing herself off a roof onto a barrel on the back of a moving truck, and begged Angel to kill during a fight in the rain in the finest moment of Angel season one. Eliza Dushku was so good in that role that it’s probable she’ll never get out from Faith’s shadow. Though Buffy and Angel were shows that handled both drama and comedy brilliantly, she was almost exclusively asked to do drama. During the series-worst episode of Ugly Betty we found out why.


She cannot do comedy. At least, she can’t do broad comedy. It was as if I’d finally achieved my dream of making my own film, and had kindly cast a good friend of mine for a lark, only to find that they thought the key to being funny is flapping their arms, rolling their eyes, and screaming their dialogue as if their vocal cords were on fire and only expelling a lot of air would put it out. I’ve slated Samaire Armstrong’s obnoxious comedic performance in Dirty Sexy Money before, but Dushku made her look like Groucho Marx. Hopefully Whedon will be able to fix this, play to her strengths, and harness some snarky humour talent out of her in his new show Dollhouse, coming to a TV screen near you in a million years when the strike is over (blame the producers, who are assholes just like Will Graham said).

Nearly The Worst, But Ultimately Very Funny Guest Star of the Week:

When James Carville turned up to give Alec Baldwin advice on how to stay together with Edi Falco on 30 Rock, it felt like obnoxious and unfunny stunt casting, especially with his laboured and overused catchphrase “Cajun style!” Canyon has recently expressed some frustration with the show, thinking it a bit laboured, and this appearance threatened to make me agree with her.


Cut to the next scene, with Toofer and Frank imitating each other in a war of identity, and I had forgotten it already. And then, to my immense displeasure, Carville and his cadaver face walked past, and that catchphrase came up again and again, going from mildly funny to unfunny to desperate and then (thank Neo!), back to funny, and with his final shot, hand deep inside a vending machine, all the way up to hilarious (at least in my humble opinion).


Canyon did like Pete’s special lunch treat to himself, though. Bento box, the lesbian scene from Mulholland Drive, and the office to himself. Until Kenneth invites his kids around.


Screen capture. Cajun style.

Best Guest Star of the Week:

As if to make up for making us temporarily hate Eliza Dushku (which, along with every other flaw in that terrible episode, ensured that episode of Ugly Betty gets onto the Worst of the Year Caruso Award shortlist), the next episode featured an inspired appearance by Betty White, playing off her positive public profile and gay fanbase by screwing over Wilhemina, bitching about Golden Girls lesbian fanfic, and fighting a rat for her severed finger (offscreen, sadly, but the imagination works wonders).


She was so natural and funny and charming it made Dushku’s appearance seem even more wrong. Damn, I really hated that episode.

Okay, tomorrow, the best directed scene of the week, the most over-directed scene by a notoriously arrogant director of the week, and a glimpse at a sight no human can ever forget. And I’m not talking about Viggo Mortenson’s balls (that’s old news. Keep up, granddad).

Sci Fi Through Space/Time: La Planète Sauvage

As I’ve said in a previous post, screen sci fi has recently left me unsatisfied, rehashing the same ideas and stylistic tics, as well of repeatedly offering up lukewarm martial arts sequences as an extra crime against cinema. In an effort to renew my love of the genre, I’ve resolved to cast about in an effort to find something new and challenging, and I’m betting on looking away from contemporary American cinema. Of course, upon deciding that, Richard Kelly’s notorious Southland Tales was released today, and if nothing else, it’s certainly original (while being massively derivative. More on that in a little while).

In the meantime, to France in the 1970′s! René Laloux’ La Planète Sauvage, based on a novel by Stefan Wul, is a movie that’s haunted me since I was a kid, even though I never saw it. I was an avid reader of the sci-fi magazine Starburst, and they ran a feature on Laloux’ pre-production sketches for his final movie, Gandahar. The imagery for that movie was odd enough, but the few pictures from La Planète Sauvage were even more outside my sphere of reference. What the hell were these bleak hellscapes, sporadically dotted with organic shapes that resembled nothing on earth? Why did the Draags (the technologically superior race living on Ygam) look so peculiar, with the breasts and the dead eyes? Even the humans didn’t look right. I was looking at things I couldn’t possibly understand, and it creeped me out. Luckily I was not in a position to see that movie, so my easily baffled young mind was safe from the freaky Frenchness of those films.


It was only recently that I found out that the oddball DVD distributor Eureka had released it, and my reticence caused by my childhood fear was finally conquered, now that I had become so disillusioned by modern sci-fi movies, what with their simplistic Manichean conflicts and Campbellian hero dynamics. My dim memory of those disturbing images, and the incomprehensibility of this trailer, led me to believe I was in for an experience unlike any other.

And I was, to a certain extent. The setting (the planet Ygam, orbited by the moon of the title) is unique, filled with nightmarish flora and fauna, and populated by alien creatures of a civilization so advanced that their customs and technology are inexplicable. Laloux has great fun depicting these bizarre rituals of meditation and communication, as well as offering samples of the workings of the (un)natural world. Those are the most appealing sections of the film, even though I spent a lot of it squicked out. The sleazy 70s chicka-bow guitar soundtrack didn’t help. God knows why I have such a visceral reaction to French prog rock mixed with images of squirming organic shapes. Did I have an early exposure to some bad 70s porn? Other than Barbarella, that is?


So far, so unlike contemporary sci-fi. However, through no fault of its own, La Planète Sauvage had a plot that has been reused again and again by other writers and filmmakers, stymieing me in my search for a wholly original movie. Humanity has lost its way to such an extent that it is in a primitive state, ready for mass abduction by the towering Draags, who take the humans to their home planet. I think I missed the reason for that, but the upshot it domesticated Oms (the name for humans in this movie; we’re considered so separate from our current existence that we’re given a new name) are kept as pets, and wild Oms live and forage in parks filled with surreal and hostile plants and animals. The pet Oms are kept on a futuristic leash, and Draag children use them as playthings. It sounds silly, but is quite chilling.


In a touch that was obviously very topical at the time the film was made, the Draags get high a lot and meditate, sending their minds out of their bodies to float around in the air. Just say non, Draag losers! This involves them putting their consciousnesses inside bubbles which float around, which seemed like yet another peculiar detail added merely to enhance the alien nature of the Draag culture, but turns out to be super-important later on.


Sadly, it’s not all free love and tripping; they also like to exterminate Oms using machines that dispense what look like urinal cakes that emit a deadly gas, so the choice is servitude and no dignity, or trying not to get killed in a park but feeling free. They also have remote craft that project white circles on things (I have no idea how that works, but the Oms sure dread it), and best of all, spheres that roll around picking Oms up, like some kind of hellish space version of Katamari Damacy.


Eventually the Oms learn enough about the Draags to band together and escape Ygam, flying to the moon known as the Savage Planet, where they find the Draags’ meditating consciousnesses have floated there to meet with other races from other planets, who have meditated as well. So I guess if this movie were to be made now, the allegory would be that meditation is the internet, and La Planète Sauvage is the personals section of Craigslist. In a mean touch, the Oms go nuts and destroy Alien Facebook, which shocks the Draags enough to change their ways, creating a new moon for the Oms to live on in peace. Awwwww!


While alien invasion is a common plot template for sci fi tales, as is human rebellion against oppression, the mixture of the two, alien conquest and subjugation of humanity, crops up less often. Our overlords are often ourselves at our worst, or the products of our ignorance and hubris. 1984, We, The Matrix, Brave New World, Alphaville, Zardoz, etc. etc. You know the drill. I’m sure that if I put my mind to it for a few hours I could come up with as many sci fi tales about human enslavement by alien overlords and our subsequent rebellion, and any hardcore sci fi fan would probably think me a fool for not coming up with a dozen right away, but seriously, they just don’t come to mind as readily. I guess those tales don’t resonate as much as the stories I’ve listed above (not counting Zardoz, which is despicable anti-penis, anti-Vortex, pro-death propaganda). The only thing that pops into my head right away is the superb Porno for Pyros single, Pets.

Children are innocent
A teenager’s fucked up in the head
Adults are even more fucked up
And elderlies are like children

Will there be another race
To come along and take over for us?
Maybe martians could do
Better than we’ve done
We’ll make great pets!

::hugs Perry Farrell:: This song kept running through my head all the way through La Planète Sauvage. I’m sure Laloux was attracted to the project to some extent by the perversity of the subject matter. I have no idea what his politics were (though he was interested in psychology), but I wondered if the movie was an allegory for the French presence in Algeria, but then I might be reading too much into things.

Most horrifying of all, during La Planète Sauvage, the film that kept coming to mind was the most unintentionally entertaining movie ever made, Battlefield Earth, especially as the Oms come to steal a teaching device and learn enough to get to an intellectual level where they can hurt their captors. In Battlefield Earth, the heroic Johnny Goodboy Tyler uses a brain training device (obviously the inspiration for Dr. Kawashima’s popular DS game) to overthrow the evil kerbango-drinking Psychlo scumbag Terl, played by John Travolta and a large leather codpiece containing a spare copy of L. Ron Hubbard’s Dianetics. Again, no fault of Laloux and co., but my experience was sadly compromised by the memory of the other movie.


Even the most notable aspect of it, the resolution, was very similar to that of The Matrix Revolutions. This is no bad thing. Too many sci fi tales involving the subjugation of one race by another (or themselves) are resolved with the destruction of the enslavers. I’ll admit to finding that satisfying from time to time; who isn’t glad that the Rebels bring down the evil Empire at the end of Return of the Jedi? Still it’s heartening to see a diplomatic resolution, even if it’s backed by force; the Oms are only able to convince the Draags that they are more than dumb animals by interfering with their meditation rituals, and the humans in Matrix Revolutions only reach a détente with the Machines after much carnage and the sacrifice of Neo.


I feel terribly churlish criticising La Planète Sauvage for not being 100% original. It is, after all, at least visually unique (it’s the only feature length movie filmed using cut-out animation. Even the cut-out South Park movie uses digital animation, heavily disguised as analogue), and is set on a world with a varied and imaginative ecosystem, atmospherically depicted.


It’s more likely that my frustration with the film is a symptom of the growing sense that my quest for a truly original science fiction experience is a Quixotic one. I started off with La Planète Sauvage because I thought it would represent a highwater mark of quirky, visionary uniqueness, all the better to compare everything else to, but it still echoes other movies. Plus, it’s based on a book; as a standalone work of art, it already falls short of my criteria.

I’m loath to call this self-imposed project a bust already, though. A truly original idea is an impossibility. There are always going to be influences and references. Even in a movie as pointedly different as this, even if Laloux has no intention of making connections to historical and cultural events or motifs, the audience might make them. Some lazy bloggers (not naming any names, of course) might even try to make a comment about France and Algeria that was inspired by a recent viewing of Gillo Pontecorvo’s masterpiece, The Battle of Algiers, hoping it would make him look like he knows something about French history that doesn’t involve Waterloo or Trafalgar. Ahem.

Also, La Planète Sauvage has all the hallmarks of a subset of science fiction; tales of the subjugation of humanity, with all its attendant biblical resonance. This is a mark against it, but then even before we get into the whole “There are only seven stories to be told” thing, biblical tales tend to crop up a lot in sci fi, so it’s bound to happen.

Actually, even then it might not count. Laloux’s determination to eradicate all possible recognisable human cultural influence in order to create a plausibly unfamiliar alien world means that there are no direct visual cues to religion or politics within the movie, which saves it from that easy kind of reference. That insistence on peculiarity is one of its strengths. The Draags eat food by sucking on blobs of matter from a pulsating white globular thing in their domiciles, Even the fight scene in the middle of the movie is as bizarre as the rest, with weird mouthy aliens strapped to the Oms’ chests and then forced to bite at the opponent. The first rule of Om Fight Club is you do not feed the bitey alien before you fight, apparently.


So, perhaps from now on, I should be focusing on being grateful for any experience which has any originality, whether it be narratively or stylistically. Maybe I should set myself some parameters, now that I’ve embarked on my journey. Praise the movies that do something new, that isn’t just a rehashed space opera or a Matrix rip-off or a misunderstanding of what makes Philip K Dick’s writing so appealing. While La Planète Sauvage tells a tale that has occurred in science fiction many times before and since, the execution is utterly unique, and creates a fascinating world that somehow remains plausible.


Maybe that’s the best I can hope for, and though I wasn’t sold on the movie entirely (the anti-septic storytelling and the disposable nature of the Oms means it’s hard to relate, other than to be creeped out by the weirdness), there was enough unique content to still make this something of a success for my project, and certainly if you’re interested in a different filmic experience, this is pretty much where it’s at.

Next up, hopefully in the next few days, a movie that steals from dozens of pop culture artifacts and yet still erroneously considers itself unique; Richard Kelly’s extraordinary movie-spoodge, Southland Tales, featuring a lipsynching Justin Timberlake, Nora Dunn tasering John Larroquette’s balls, and yet another magnificent turn by Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson.

Lazy Post Courtesy of Coverbrowser.com

While futzing about on the internet in an effort to keep my weary head from crashing into my desk like a paperweight dropped from a great height, I stumbled across a site that’s pretty famous but passed me by completely: Cover Browser, which archives old comic covers so that good people can marvel at these pop culture relics, and lazy bloggers (i.e. me) can nick them and make jokes about them that have probably already been told.

I note that years before DC’s Minx imprint, they had already experimented with capturing the female market with Girls’ Love Stories, which dealt with such issues as birth control, emancipation, wage inequalities, and body issues. I mean, I guess that’s what they were about. I could only find covers where the female protagonists agonised over boys, for some reason.


Silly. Didn’t your mother tell you monochrome men will just use you for sex?


Chronic flatulence?


And with that humiliation, Ayn Rand decided to leave her unfaithful husband and move to Russia, aka Nosmilingrad.


Who whoa whoa! Watch the man parts there, lady! Seriously, if she connected with that much force he’d be wearing them as bruised and battered earrings.


“When I first met Mindy on the beach I thought the overwhelming stench was coming from the sea, but boy was I ever wrong!”

Of course, most comics were aimed squarely at men, with even less subtlety. Check it out: Fight Comics! This week: fights!


He totally punched that guy’s head off! As a man, I find that enormously appealing. Actually, if you go to the page where I got that from, you’ll find a more apt name for that title would have been Bondage Comics. I can imagine William Moulton Marston was a big fan.

You hear a lot about dumbing down these days, and it’s always nice to see that pop culture has gone through this before. It’s not a straight line down, it’s a churn, with dumbing down, up, sideways. we’ll be fine. Still, the wonderfully named Crime SuspenStories went from something as intricate and wacky and imaginative as this…


…to this less complex concept several months later.


Despite that sledgehammer nonsense, the covers for the anthology titles of old have a lot more charm than the current crop of character-led comics, most of which just show poses of Wolverine growling and brandishing his claws, and that’s not necessarily on X-Men comics. Back in the day, they had to tell a story.


Though I can’t imagine what the hell this story could be like. I reckon the writer once overheard someone talking about “a jury of my peers” and misheard it as being “a jury of my bees”, and went with it. I know I’ve had stupider ideas thanks to my lousy hearing.


Sorry dude, Lost just started. I’ll be with you in a bit.


“If I am crowned Miss Doom 1954, I promise that I will use my title to promote hatred, misery and intolerance around the world, and will aid in the subjugation of the masses by dictators, mad scientists, and evil geniuses of every creed and colour. You puny scum.” ::applause::

Some of those House of Mystery covers are incredibly odd and original, but every so often they just phoned it in.


I’ve lost count of the number of covers I’ve seen featuring a bat-shaped kite being laden with jewels by mysterious ghostly hands while a guy in a helicopter hovers nearby. Disappointing.


But Egypt looked away, impassive and uncaring. After all, Lost was about to start.

It’s not just old timey suspense and horror comics on that site; more traditional comics turn up as well. I found one that adequately depicts the struggle I had with the kitchen floor yesterday.


Double cream + Mr. Muscle Kitchen Cleaner = The Glob.

I love almost all of the covers I’ve seen tonight, but some are done by artists whose brilliance surpasses even that, and have passed into legend. This is my favourite of the night.


Frank Frazetta, ladies and gentlemen.

Things I Learnt Today (Dec 4th)

1. Michel Gondry has a brother almost as talented as him.

If I were to name the artist I derive the most inspiration from, it would have to be Michel Gondry, director of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Human Nature, and some of the greatest music videos ever created. The DVD, The Work of Michel Gondry is the one I would save from a burning building, as it features so many little works and touches and thoughts and clever little moments that I’m inspired to just devote my life to creating art every time I watch it (and then I forget to, but that’s my fault, not Gondry’s). I love that his philosophy of lo-fi DIY filmmaking not only informs how he makes his movies (The Science of Sleep‘s on-set physical effects), but also the projects he chooses (the wondrous Dave Chappelle’s Block Party, in which Chappelle throws a huge party seemingly on the spur of the moment and basically wings it), and the plots of new projects. Case in point; his next movie Be Kind Rewind, which looks to be about taking art back from the corporations and making stories for yourself and your friends and relatives. It’s a charming idea, and even better it stars Jack Black and Mos Def, two actor/musicians who seem to annoy a lot of people but fill me with joy.


Anyway, it turns out his brother, Oliver “Twist” Gondry, is also a filmmaker/animator, and has worked on many ads, some of which are quite beautiful. This is my favourite; a Hewlett Packard ad that features Michel talking about his philosophy, as well as his family.

On the Works DVD, he idolises his son and has an endearing rapport with him. Hearing him talk about him here in the advert made me realise how unpretentious he is, how happy he is to mesh his life and his art, and how his need to keep creating things keeps him so centred. He truly is an inspiration.

2. Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band are playing another stadium gig in London next May.

I am, of course, thrilled to hear this, but of course if I can’t get a ticket, I will be very very sad and might have a horrible strop not unlike earlier tonight when I spilled a carton of double cream on the floor.

3. Do not spray Mr. Muscle Multi-Cleaner on spilled double cream.

They say don’t cry over spilled milk, but having a screaming fit over spilled cream is just fine. It’s hard enough to get off the floor as it is, but upon trying to wash up the last bits, I applied a Mr. Muscle variant which instantly curdled the cream, turning it into a viscous substance not unlike the glue we used to use in primary school. It had to be almost pulled off the floor, it was so tenacious. Without my wake-up coffee, and in desperate need of a shower, the last thing I needed was to wrestle with some dairy-based epoxy. That the kitchen didn’t get demolished by my subsequent Hulk-like tantrum is a testament to some vestige of restraint within myself.

4. Cutthroat Bitch Amber might make a return to House.

This was posted on Michael Ausiello’s blog last week, but I only just noticed it tonight. Seems Anne Dudek made a big impression on the House showrunners, as producer Katie Jacobs explains.

Michael Ausiello: Why’d you cut the Cutthroat Bitch! I loved her!
Katie Jacobs: I can tell you that it was a phenomenally difficult decision. When we decided to go in this [Survivor-like] direction this season, [fellow exec producer] David Shore and I never anticipated that we’d fall in love with as many of the characters as we did — and [Cutthroat Bitch] was certainly one of those. But I would say that, if you want to see more of her, so do we. And I think that that might happen. She’s terrific, and she adds a really great color to the group. I’m looking forward to finding a way that she could come back into the fold.

While I maintain she would not be a good fit as a member of the Cottages, Dudek was enormous fun this season, and it would be great to get her back in some capacity.

5. Many years ago, it was illegal to smile in Russia, except for propaganda purposes.

While searching for information on Ayn Rand (I’m currently reading The Fountainhead in order to back up or dispel certain comments I made in a Ratatouille post some weeks ago), I found a transcript of her perfectly charming testimony in front of the House Un-American Activities Committee, during the McCarthy period. She talks of a movie made during WWII called Song of Russia, made to bolster the relationship between American and Russian troops united against the Nazis, in much the same way that Poweel and Pressburger made A Matter of Life and Death to engender fond feelings between Yanks and Limeys. With the war over, Rand explained why she thought the film showed a false image of Russia, based on her time there.

Also realize that when all this sweetness and light was going on in the first part of the picture, with all these happy, free people, there was not a GPU agent among them, with no food lines, no persecution — complete freedom and happiness, with everybody smiling. Incidentally, I have never seen so much smiling in my life, except on the murals of the world’s fair pavilion of the Soviets. If any one of you have seen it, you can appreciate it. It is one of the stock propaganda tricks of the Communists, to show these people smiling. That is all they can show.

Mr. [John] McDowell: You paint a very dismal picture of Russia. You made a great point about the number of children who were unhappy. Doesn’t anybody smile in Russia any more?
Miss Rand: Well, if you ask me literally, pretty much no.
Mr. McDowell: They don’t smile?
Miss Rand: Not quite that way; no. If they do, it is privately and accidentally. Certainly, it is not social. They don’t smile in approval of their system.
Mr. McDowell: Well, all they do is talk about food.
Miss Rand: That is right.

Also no one could look at each other, and if you had food, watch out because everyone will rip you to shreds to get at it, even though it was probably horrible beetroot soup!

In my time we were a bunch of ragged, starved, dirty, miserable people who had only two thoughts in our mind. That was our complete terror — afraid to look at one another, afraid to say anything for fear of who is listening and would report us — and where to get the next meal. You have no idea what it means to live in a country where nobody has any concern except food, where all the conversation is about food because everybody is so hungry that that is all they can think about and that is all they can afford to do. They have no idea of politics. They have no idea of any pleasant romances or love — nothing but food and fear…

Now, here is the life in the Soviet village as presented in Song Of Russia. You see the happy peasants. You see they are meeting the hero at the station with bands, with beautiful blouses and shoes, such as they never wore anywhere. You see children with operetta costumes on them and with a brass band which they could never afford. You see the manicured starlets driving tractors and the happy women who come from work singing. You see a peasant at home with a close-up of food for which anyone there would have been murdered. If anybody had such food in Russia in that time he couldn’t remain alive, because he would have been torn apart by neighbors trying to get food.

::sigh:: Oh Ayn, you kooky old bird! You need to buy yourself a rootbeer float to cheer yourself up. Have a dollar on me. Or should I say, as my copy of The Fountainhead tells me, have a colophon of the philosophy of Objectivism on me, whatever the hell that means.

As for Brad Bird, I also found out he denies being an Objectivist in a NY Post interview with Lou Lumenick.

Bird: The idea that “The Incredibles,” a mainstream animated feature, was thought of as provocative was wonderful to me. I was very gratified, though I thought some of the analysis was really kind of goofy.
Lumenick: Such as?
Bird: Some pieces compared the viewpoint to the objectivist philosopher Ayn Rand. I thought that was silly and the writers were humorless. I was into Rand for about six months when I was 20, but you outgrow that narrow point of view. Some compromise is necessary in life.

Knowing that, I might just give up on this damn book now, except that it’s so overwrought and funny. Hell, even though I find her philosophy unpleasant, and her alliance with HUAC detestable, I owe it to her and myself to at least give it a try. I guess. [Thanks to decca for inspiring me to find that crazy transcript.]

6. I’m so envious of Americans because John C. Reilly is touring as Dewey Cox.

Canyon has already written a post about Walk The Line and how excited we are at the imminent release of the spoof Walk Hard, but now I see John C. Reilly is touring the US. He’ll be in character as Dewey Cox, and will be backed by his band the Hard Walkers. It’s sold out already, which bodes well for the movie box office (unless the gigs suck and annoy the audience, of course). There’s no plan to tour the UK, obviously, as we’re just Airstrip One, after all. The movie isn’t coming out on time here either, thus increasing my ire. Still, at least this perfect poster eases the pain somewhat.


Plus, we’re getting Springsteen in London! Beat that, America! ::pokes out tongue::

ETA: 7: It seems my Ticketmaster account was out of date:

While buying Springsteen tickets, I found, to my great amusement, that I haven’t used my Ticketmaster account since living elsewhere. As a result, my bank card was out of date and my old address was listed. I’m not good in stressful situations, and the purchasing of popular tickets within a very small window is one of the most pulse-stretching things I can do, so it was not much fun to have to change everything while a little message tells me I only have one minute to confirm the purchase. But I did it! And I have tickets! Directly opposite the stage, and therefore several miles away from Bruce, Clarence, Little Steven, Max Weinberg and the rest, but it’s better than nothing. Much better. Because it is a Bruce Springsteen gig, and as Jon Stewart said recently, they are pure joy.

These Weeks in TV: Week 9-10

A week in the US threw our viewing habits out of whack, but then we were having too much fun to care. Who’d have thought that going out and doing stuff was somehow different than staying in and watching TV? Upon our return, we went crazy catching up, focusing solely on the good stuff (ignoring ChuckleFree, Bionical Lady of the Lowlands, and the now possibly dropped due to overwhelming dreadfulness Dirty Slimy Moneypit). As a result, only one show made me wince in embarrassment, and everything else shone like a gleaming diamond of televisual niceness. Sadly, I will probably go back to the crap, because I have a masochism problem, but for now, I bathe in good TV, and dry myself off with this blog. (These metaphors sound so cool in my head, but…)

Least Subtle Reference to the War on Terror of the Week(s):

Love 30 Rock though we do (so much so we both watched our favourite episode Fireworks on the plane to and from the US even though we’ve both seen it a dozen times), warning bells flashed during the most recent episode’s sub-plot about Jack and Kenneth getting involved with Tracy’s community service. Tracy is doing a serviceable job of teaching underprivileged kids living in a hellish neighborhood to play baseball, though his goals are not very ambitious (he just wants to get them outside for a change, as they’ve never even seen the sun). Jack thinks they can go further, and with military precision he hijacks the project, getting them to bring down a statue, Saddam-style, and teaching them about Churchill. It also featured this on-the-nose image.


Funny enough, but it’s not the most topical joke. And why is Jack wearing those clothes? They’re there for one shot, gone the next. Yes I want 30 Rock to be fearless with their commitment to comedy and satire, but the illogicality of this moment rang false, and for the first time ever I thought the show writers had made a horrible miscalculation.

Thankfully, the conceit plays out as you would expect, and then goes further, with jokes about surges and changes of administration, bringing the joke right up to date. The wealth of detail and jokes in the scenario saves it, and by the end I was mostly satisfied no sharks had been jumped. Jack’s get-up still bugs, though. Oh 30 Rock, you beautiful creature, you have to be better than that! You’re not Family Guy, okay? Run free with your imagination, but know your limits! There’s a good boy.

Musical Moment of the Week(s):

The first episode of the Pushing Daisies twosome we watched recently ended with a song; not a first for the show, and a harbinger of what’s to come with the mooted musical episode in the pipeline. Swoozie Kurtz (as the dour Aunt Lily) finally caved in to her emotions under an onslaught of uppers dripped into her pies by her niece Chuck, and began to “cry” with the help of a downpour outside.


At this point Aunt Vivian, played by croak-voiced chanteuse Ellen Greene, bursts into an emotional rendition of Morning Has Broken, prior to them both returning to the water to swim, synchronisingly, at which point the screen becomes a gorgeous and abstract wash of colour and movement.


It’s rare that a visual effect or graphic touch on TV looks like nothing that has been attempted before, with the hectic production schedule meaning innovation takes a back seat to getting the show finished on time, but some remarkable thinker on staff came up with a series of images that I’ve never seen attempted before. Matching up perfectly with the song, it was a powerful moment. Getting past the early Sonnenfeld episodes, this show goes from strength to strength, so much so that I don’t want to mention its ever-present flaws (the good parts of the show easily make up for them now).

Most Frustratingly Overdirected Episode of the Week(s):

The first of two Heroes provided the best hour of the season so far, with no dwelling on the less interesting characters (Peter, Niki, Sylar and the Goopy Twosome), a major twist in Matt’s plot (looks like the evil Matt of the future might be inevitable), and even a little action. Not to mention lots of hott hostage bondage action.


In structure it borrowed from last season’s superb Company Man, focusing almost exclusively on one now condensed plot, which allowed for what felt like more forward momentum than the rest of the season put together. So why am I bitching about it?


The episode was directed by TV director Greg Yaitanes, who has worked on many of our favourite shows (House, Lost) and some of our least favourites (Prison Break, Drive).


As is often the case, his style is often dictated by the visual template of the show, not to mention the budget, though I do remember Drive having some flashy moments, undermined by the shoddy writing, casting, and again, budget.


That’s all par for the course, but sadly for the viewer, this week Yaitanes and Kring went crazy with the duality theme, and therefore the screen became filled with mirror images and clumsy compositions expressing the similarities and differences between Noah and Bob aka Evil Ned Ryerson, and Noah and the increasingly hapless Mohinder, though kudos for accidentally casting two actors (Jack Coleman and Sendhil Ramamurthy) who would not look amiss in a Jack Kirby comic.


It became more like a horribly misjudged running joke than a dramatic or artistic choice, not helped by the godawful melodramatic Act!Ing! filling the screen. There were so many “Noooooooo!” moments in it that I lost track of who was grieving for who.


Any emotional power the episode might have had was buried under waves of over-direction and incompetently handled performances, and as such represented a turning point in my attitude towards it, as exemplified by the smirk I wore throughout the next less flashy but equally silly episode.


Whereas before I might have forgiven the odd lapse of quality in the show, until it gets its supergroove back I will be forced to treat it with mockery and disdain. Pretty easy to laugh at it when the show features such badly written and delivered lines as “Lock him up. And throw away the key!” and “You’ve gone native!!!” (a line reading from Jack Coleman that is too entertaining to really hate on). I mean, who “dies” in slow motion like this anymore? And why the orange palette? Is it in danger of becoming ::choke:: CSI:Miami with superpowers?


NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Most Beautifully Directed Episode of the Week(s):

In contrast, the first of the two CSIs was gorgeous, haunting, subdued and perfectly judged. As revealed way early by the network, Sara Sidle finally took her leave of CSI: Vegas after slowly coming to the realisation that she could no longer cope with the misery and horror she witnesses every day (a nice touch, as not only has Sara been affected like this before, but Jorja Fox has said one of her main reasons for leaving the show is her growing dislike of the ghoulish nature of police procedurals). We first see her surrounded by darkness, headphones stuck in her ears, oblivious to everything around her.


Slowly the lights come up around her, revealing her to be at work, and for the rest of the episode she is either coldly indifferent to everything around her, or furiously involved, a state catalysed by the return of Marlon West, the “one that got away” as Gil puts it. Played by Big Love‘s Douglas Smith, he first turned up in the excellent episode The Unusual Suspect, where his crime was covered up by his hyper-intelligent and deluded younger sister Hannah, played with chilling brilliance by the amazing Juliette Goglia. This time Hannah taunts Sara enough to drive her to distraction trying to prove her guilt.

The episode ends with a mirror of an early scene of Brass resolving to tell the parents of the murder victim of her death. This time Sara goes to Hannah to tell her her brother has killed himself, and though the evil brat is responsible for the episode opening murder, Sara finds no satisfaction in telling her about the suicide, as the cocky young girl breaks down in front of her. In an amazing episode, this was possibly the most unnerving and superbly acted scene.


Although she had probably already made the choice to leave before this, it certainly seems to set her choice in motion, and the final scenes show her removing her name from her jacket and leaving it for new CSI Ronnie Lake, and then leaving the building. Gil finds a note from her, and as he reads it we see Sara leaving the city in a cab, her face drawn, as the colours of the strip wash over the window, obscuring her. Only at the end do we see her properly, and her sadness is heartbreaking. Meanwhile, Gil remains at the lab, reading Sara’s unsentimental but emotional goodbye, and the lights around him dim, leaving him in darkness.


The whole episode was directed with a sure and stylish hand by Homicide veteran Kenneth Fink, but the final scene was what did me in. As I sobbed bitter tears over her departure, I crossed my fingers that Fink gets a movie career even better than that of Gregory “NYPD Blue, Fallen” Hoblit. It was a season highlight, my favourite hour of TV this week(s), and a prime example of the possibilities of TV. Kudos also the the stellar writing team of Sarah Goldfinger, Allen MacDonald, and Naren Shankar.

Canyon’s Highlight(s) of the Week(s):

With the axe hanging over our new favourite show Journeyman, the last two weeks saw our hero Dan Vassar travelling through time to save only one victim of a serial killer, Aeden Bennett, played with really really oily menace by Raphael Sbarge, who was memorably sleazy in one of our favourite CSI:Miami episodes, Backstabbers. So oily and sleazy! Once more, the limits of his mission frustrate him, and he shoots off to do his own thing and bring the killer to justice, despite the protestations of Livia, once more played with mysterious charm by Moon Bloodgood.


Dan prevails, and by the end of the first episode he gets the guy arrested and saves another victim. Hooray, right? Livia is not so sure, and warns him of a forthcoming test, which turns out to be the present-day release of Bennett, and his appearance on Dan’s doorstep. The second episode begins with Dan getting shot by Bennett, prior to travelling back to Bennett’s childhood, leaving the killer behind in the present, bemused but dedicated to making our hero suffer for putting him in jail by terrorising his wife, Katie.


Despite suffering from terrible blood loss and infection, Dan tries to complete his mission (helping young Bennett) before realising who he is. When he does find out, it seems like the show is going to explore the classic thought-experiment: if you went back in time and met young Hitler, would you kill him? As Dan is a good guy, it seemed obvious he wouldn’t, choosing instead to save the boy or educate him somehow, but instead he doesn’t just consider killing the boy, he seems about to go through for the longest time. Delirious and desperate to get back to the present he may be, but in the end his decency barely wins out (and in fact he might only prevail due to imminent unconsciousness). Kevin McKidd brilliantly communicated his frustration and anger, as always. Apologies for the crappy screencap here; that’s a knife and not a really long booger coming out of Dan’s face.


When this show started I thought it would be all about maintaining the episodic show template, with Dan hiding his power from everyone and getting into tedious and stereotypical scrapes instead of just coming clean. Perhaps this is one of the reasons many people avoided it, and if it had turned out to be that kind of show, it’s understandable. Happily, it’s much smarter than that. Dan doesn’t fix the kid, and doesn’t kill him either. It’s not a show about retconning plot difficulties; it’s a show about facing your troubles head on. Dan leaves the past alongside Livia (played by the moody Moon Bloodgood, in case you’d forgotten), and while he is getting treatment for his wound in a modern hospital, she finds his brother Jack, played by Reed Diamond, who has spent the past few weeks furiously accusing Dan of returning to his gambling ways, unable to accept the outlandish time-travelling excuse. Upon facing the supposedly dead Livia, he finally caves in and accepts what is happening, before resolving to help his brother save Katie (who, don’t forget, was once Jack’s lover).


Now the show is about all four members of the romantic quadrangle aware of the timeshifting situation, and I’m confident, after weeks of having my preconceptions shattered, that this amazing, unfairly neglected show will spend time exploring this new state of affairs in the same adult manner it has dealt with everything else. Knowing that the show is in serious danger of cancellation, I’m absolutely gutted. NBC have given full-season orders to both Life and Chuck. I’ve not seen the former, even though I like Damian Lewis (especially when he’s possessed by upper-class British alien spores in the memorable Dreamcatcher), but commissioning more episodes of the pitiful Chuck instead of giving this exemplary show a chance makes me want to join some futile campaign and send food to heartless executives. ::sulks::

Best Character Development Moment of the Week(s):

Friday Night Lights‘ resident screw-up Tim Riggins has been spiralling downwards for weeks now. Following his noble effort decision to save his friend Street from getting pumped full of shark stem cells (his plan? Spend all of Street’s stem cell money on booze), he has been kicked off the team, voluntarily exiled from his house after his brother hooks up with his overage paramour from last season, and forced to live with a redneck slob whose meth-lab is conspicuously hidden in a suspicious looking trailer in the back yard.


During this time he’s used his normal empty smarm and little-bad-boy-lost charm to try to improve his lot, but no one buys it. Finally, this week the full horror of his fate (slobbery, meth labs and all) came home to him, and in desperation he throws himself at the mercy of Coach Taylor, who wants nothing to do with him. At his wit’s end, Tim finally drops the obnoxious pride that has held him back since the beginning of the show, and apologises to the entire team for letting them down. Even better, what could have been a cloying moment is played for laughs, walking a fine line between being moving and being silly.


Such care not to unbalance the show is nothing new. One of the best things about FNL is the effort it makes to keep the previously established tone at a constant level, which is something that Heroes would do well to consider. Okay, that show has always had to be more fantastical than the gritty FNL; that’s a given. However, when Heroes started it had more in common with Unbreakable than Batman and Robin, but slowly the performances have become broader, the dialogue more corny (seriously, “You’ve gone native!!!”? Who says that?), the plotting more needlessly over-complicated and nutsoid. On the other hand, FNL has often introduced plots that teeter on the edge of absurdity, but the actors, writers and directors (not to mention the photographers) have ensured the material is handled in as realistic and unmelodramatic a manner as possible. It’s not worked all the time, but the success rate is still significant. The character arc of Riggins has been one of the best examples of that, and this moment was one of the highlights of the show. Even better was Coach’s reaction; grudging acceptance and pissiness. Of all the shows we watch, this is the one that feels like it lives and breathes even when we’re not watching.

Oddest Character Trait Reveal of the Week(s):

Before Journeyman Dan Vassar met 1940s time-traveller Livia, it seems she partied hard in the 90s. OMG she’s gone native!!!


Ain’t no party like a five-decades-in-the-future party, it seems. The moment is discombobulating. Why is Livia being such an oblivious idiot? Why is she not helping Dan? Of course, this Livia (played by Maxim favourite Moon Bloodgood) doesn’t know him yet, which bent our heads around. The Livia we’ve been introduced to is super-serious, so knowing she was once happy-go-lucky and able to enjoy her time-travelling is a lovely touch, deepened by her realisation in the next episode that her main time-travelling mission might not have been to save miscellaneous lives, but might have been to meet Dan, fall in love with him, and then break his heart by “dying”, which ensures he gets together with his current wife Katie and leads to the birth of Zack. Yet another awesome character moment in the most underrated show on TV that isn’t CSI.

Shocked Expression of the Week(s):

Pushing Daisies‘ death-defying hero Ned finds out he’s about to die at the hands of a nefarious olfactory murderer, and this is the reaction.


Shocked Reaction of the Week(s):

Prior to finding out he’s about to die at the hands of a nefarious olfactory murderer, Ned is shocked by the springing of the trap, and wheels around in confusion and does this bizarre move, all flailing hands and legs.


For weeks now Ned has been endearingly reserved, shy because he is scared of getting too close to anyone, and tensely holding back his arms so that he doesn’t accidentally brush Chuck and kill her. He’s already a gangly presence, but his ramrod stance and clenched body language has made him seem like a stick onscreen. This is not a criticism. It’s in keeping with his character, and his calm has made up for a lot of the craziness going on elsewhere in the frame. However, this burst of physicality made us laugh so much that we now want to see more of this. I’m seriously beginning to think Lee Pace is a big damn deal, and even if I wasn’t already falling hard for Pushing Daisies, I’d make an appointment for it just to see his performance (and Chi McBride’s, as he has been never less than amazing all season).

Chase Scene of the Week(s):

I’ve been waiting for FNL‘s Smash Williams to have a more prominent role, and while the current plot (which university is he going to attend so that he can get sexxed up and neglect his education) is pretty much the same as his main plot last year, at least this week he got to sleep with very much the wrong girl, which leads to him being chased off campus by her enormous and genuinely terrifying boyfriend.


I’m sure there are other things that can be done with the character, but it made me laugh anyway. Again, the show manages to make something stupid work brilliantly, especially when he is rescued by the ever-more cocky Matt Saracen, taking a break from ineptly stalking his magical Latina maid, who doesn’t miss the opportunity to bust Smash’s chops about his escapade.

Grin of the Week(s):

For the first time this season, the flashes of menace exhibited by Reaper antagonist Ray Wise every so often expanded and deepened, with the Devil threatening Sam and toying with his earthly girlfriend Mimi, played by Melinda Clarke (sadly not reaching her potential, though that’s going to be hard to do after playing a character as richly entertaining as Julie Cooper on The O.C.). As a result, it looked like this would be the first week where Ray Wise didn’t win Grin of the Week, but then, right at the end…


…Booyah! How do you like them tempting apples from the Tree of Knowledge? Bear in mind this is his reaction after telling Sam he had killed Mimi just to prove a point, which turned out to have just been a sick joke. That kidder! The episode wasn’t as funny as previous weeks, but the new, pissy Devil upped the stakes enough that it became one of the season highlights just by showing that there was some toughness in reserve for later episodes. Reaper wears its darkened colours very well.

Best Hitchcock Reference of the Week(s):

Except for when she kiiiiicks, and stretches, and kicks, I’ve not been a fan of Molly Shannon in the past, but her appearance in Pushing Daisies gave us some memorably bitchy asides, and a lovely pastiche of The Birds.


Of course, now I’ll never be able to watch Tippi Hedren’s performance again without thinking of Shannon’s horrified vogueing, but hey, I’ve seen the damn film about twenty times. It’s not like I’m going to go back to it that often. Yeah Hitchcock, what have you done for me lately? Huh?

Regrettably Spoiled Resolution of the Week(s):

After weeks of show-transforming shenanigans, House finally got off the pot and selected his final three students / colleagues / victims, removing Amber the Cutthroat Bitch from contention. Sadly, a spoiler on Michael Ausiello’s TV Guide blog alerted us to the final Cottages 2.0 line-up weeks ago, so we’ve just been waiting it out. Even knowing it would come down to snidely Taub, pointless Kutner and the ever-intriguing 13 (Olivia Wilde, proving to be a much more interesting actress now she’s not asked to play a Marissa-kissing ratings-baiting lesbian as in The O.C.), there was no point to having Amber on the team.


Her bitchery only existed because of her desperate need to win, and if she had, her defining characteristic becomes at best useless and at worst a liability. The winning trio might be more bland than her, but that never seemed to stop Cameron and Chase, now relegated to cameo status. Right now the only hope for those characters is to fill the gap left by the loss of House’s game, otherwise they should just get quietly dropped. Though sad to see the end of this glorious golden period, I’m eager to see how it all shakes out next year, especially if they stick to the humorous format they have now.


Note that I couldn’t be bothered to find a picture with all of the group. Kal Penn is being almost as underused as he was in Superman Returns, where he seemed to have been hired merely to balance out some of Bryan Singer’s careful compositions. Time for him to shape up, now he’s going to be getting more screentime.

Most Justified Hissyfit of the Week(s):

Considering the amount of time I go on about her, it should be obvious by now that FNL‘s Tami Taylor is one of my favourite TV characters ever, though in the past she’s been awfully perfect while hubbie Eric bumbles around and makes various social faux pas that only she can resolve. This week, she got to screw up, big time, and end up in everyone’s bad books. Getting Eric jealous by hanging around with another man, upsetting her sister by treating her as inferior due to her childlessness, and best of all, humiliating stroppy teen daughter Julie by accusing her favourite teacher (played by Surfing Jesus) of trying to groom her, while several students stand around in shock and then spread rumours about them around the school. Julie of course hears about this, and descends upon her mother like a swarm of flesh-eating flying piranhas like in that James Cameron film that one time.


The fury that pours off Julie is memorable, and for once, pretty justified. Though I love Tami (and the ever-awesome award-worthy Connie Britton), it was thrilling to see the showrunners put her in a position where her moral superiority is shot to pieces by a bratty teenager. Will Tami’s tirade against Surfing Jesus land her in hot water with the principal? Will Julie forgive her if SJ turns out to be a pervert? Will either of them GO NATIVE!??!?!!?!? I can barely wait to find out.