Do you have a friend or loved one that you always worry about? They're always getting themselves in trouble, and if they had maybe a little more common sense, or a little more insight, or were a little less stubborn or naive, they wouldn't always find themselves in the messes they're inevitably in.
If you enter the world of Big Love, you're going to find yourself worrying a lot. You'll worry about Bill, the affable polygamist played with matchless regular-guyness by matchless regular guy Bill Paxton. And you'll worry about his three wives, and their brood of kids. After this season, Bill now finds himself in the state senate, and there's more to worry about than ever, because the more open he tries to be with his "secret" life, the more this stubbornly holy man--that's the most frustrating/appealing aspect of Bill, the fact that he really believes he's doing the work and living the life that "Heavenly Father" wants him to lead--has to make deals with all kinds of devils, imps, and lesser and greater demons.
And what a cast of demons--there's Harry Dean Stanton as Roman, the Prophet and leader of the Juniper Creek compound, the aggregation of hard-core polygymists from which Bill was expelled as a teenager. Stanton is the righteous, slimy, holier-than-thou demon of many of our nightmares, and yet there's that tender side, too, the side the late John Hughes tapped into for Pretty in Pink. There's Sissy Spacek, too, having the time of her life playing a sneaky lobbyist in full snarl, a color I don't believe Spacek has ever tried on (yeah, she killed a bunch of people in Carrie, but she was a victim first).
But it might be the wives who make the show. You might think you know everything about them after the first episode--Jeanne Tripplehorn as Barb, First Wife, the Sensible One, Chloe Sevigny as Nicki, Second Wife, the scheming one, and Ginnifer Goodwin as Margene, Third Wife, the giddy, goofy one. And so they are, but there's more to all three of them, much to each other's and their own surprise, especially as Bill becomes more and more self-centeredly goal-driven.
Still, I'm not doing this show justice. I could talk about the show's unique juxtaposition of the ordinariness of the characters with the outrageous things they say and do, but that's a very general description. It's little details, like the casual way Bill has to pluralize everything, as in, "I don't want them in my homes" (each wife and set of kids has a separate neighboring house). Or the way no one in the family will curse, but how much anger they put into their substitute curse words: "What the h-- is going on?!" or "Now wait a g-d minute," or perhaps the ultimate putdown, "F-- you, Barb!" That's when you start to like these people. And then, of course, comes the worrying. Followed, naturally, by the impatience of waiting for the next season.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
shoop and julie & julia
So I'm interrupting my TV musings to catch up to the movie that returns Meryl Streep to the Oscar race, Julie & Julia. Nora Ephron does something really interesting, and perhaps even a little shocking, when the movie enters its final third.
She torpedoes half of her movie. Just blows it into oblivion. And what's even more interesting, I think Ephron might have done it on purpose.
You probably already know this movie as The Really Interesting Story about the Fascinating Lady and The Really Crappy Story about the Incredibly Self-Involved, Boring Lady. And it's all true--Meryl Streep Does it Again as Julia Child, getting the familiar mannerisms down and making us see a real, living person up there on screen. Meanwhile, Stanley Tucci gets the Good Sport Award as Child's husband, whose job is pretty much to adore Meryl just like it used to be Henry Fonda's job to adore Bette Davis. And he's damned good at it. It's great fun to watch. And then there's the Other Story--whiny, why-hasn't-my-brilliance-been-recognized blogger Julie Powell (a super-glum Amy Adams) cries about living in Queens, cries about messing up her kitchen, cries about, well, pretty much everything, while Chris Messina has Tucci's job as patient husband, but he's clearly, and understandably, not having as much fun. After a lot of back-and-forth between the titular figures, Child faces a monumental setback to her epic cookbook, years in the planning, writing, rewriting, and revising. "Well, boo hoo. What next?" she says brightly, and BAM! All the Julie Powell stuff is obliterated in a single stroke. Why, we immediately exclaim, have we been watching a good half-hour of Whiny McWhiner when we can be watching a plucky, eccentric, can-do heroine who has just rendered an indelible parody of the whole other half of the movie--boo hoo, what next, indeed!
And Ephron must have seen that. She set up her parallels between the heroines with great care and craft, with more than a dash of smacking us over the head. Did she really make one-half of her movie a ponderous slog on purpose so that the Julia Child stuff would come off more wonderfully? It would seem to be a suicidal idea, but check out the results--a nice chunk of box-office change and the umpteenth Oscar nomination for Streep.
The other possibility is probably more likely, but more depressing--there's really an audience that would root for a self-absorbed, whiny rhymes-with-witch and see her as something of a role model. Maybe that's a generational thing. I'd feel better about it if I could be convinced that eventually Generation Whine will be able to laugh at themselves.
But no, I'm not convinced.
She torpedoes half of her movie. Just blows it into oblivion. And what's even more interesting, I think Ephron might have done it on purpose.
You probably already know this movie as The Really Interesting Story about the Fascinating Lady and The Really Crappy Story about the Incredibly Self-Involved, Boring Lady. And it's all true--Meryl Streep Does it Again as Julia Child, getting the familiar mannerisms down and making us see a real, living person up there on screen. Meanwhile, Stanley Tucci gets the Good Sport Award as Child's husband, whose job is pretty much to adore Meryl just like it used to be Henry Fonda's job to adore Bette Davis. And he's damned good at it. It's great fun to watch. And then there's the Other Story--whiny, why-hasn't-my-brilliance-been-recognized blogger Julie Powell (a super-glum Amy Adams) cries about living in Queens, cries about messing up her kitchen, cries about, well, pretty much everything, while Chris Messina has Tucci's job as patient husband, but he's clearly, and understandably, not having as much fun. After a lot of back-and-forth between the titular figures, Child faces a monumental setback to her epic cookbook, years in the planning, writing, rewriting, and revising. "Well, boo hoo. What next?" she says brightly, and BAM! All the Julie Powell stuff is obliterated in a single stroke. Why, we immediately exclaim, have we been watching a good half-hour of Whiny McWhiner when we can be watching a plucky, eccentric, can-do heroine who has just rendered an indelible parody of the whole other half of the movie--boo hoo, what next, indeed!
And Ephron must have seen that. She set up her parallels between the heroines with great care and craft, with more than a dash of smacking us over the head. Did she really make one-half of her movie a ponderous slog on purpose so that the Julia Child stuff would come off more wonderfully? It would seem to be a suicidal idea, but check out the results--a nice chunk of box-office change and the umpteenth Oscar nomination for Streep.
The other possibility is probably more likely, but more depressing--there's really an audience that would root for a self-absorbed, whiny rhymes-with-witch and see her as something of a role model. Maybe that's a generational thing. I'd feel better about it if I could be convinced that eventually Generation Whine will be able to laugh at themselves.
But no, I'm not convinced.
shoop and how i met your mother
It started with the most unbelievable fake-out I've ever seen on TV. How I Met Your Mother introduced us to a likeable group of people, played by some appealing people, some I'd seen before (Neil Patrick Harris, Alyson Hannigan), and others I hadn't--but immediately they became the most relaxed and funny ensemble I'd witnessed in a long time. Hannigan I knew could be funny--after all, she made "this one time in band camp" one of the all-time greatest punchlines (and if you've been in band camp and you've heard that joke too often, tough beans--it's still funny). The others' comic abilities came as pleasant, and then increasingly wonderful surprises, renewed week after week. But most of all, the creators of the show set up a budding romance between a young architect named Ted and a TV reporter named Robin. They meet cute, they meet funny--at this point, I'm thinking we're above average, but nothing earth-shaking.
Then came the fake-out.
You see, the framing device of the show is the character of Ted, in the future, telling his two kids the titular story. And once Ted seems to have won Robin over in the "past" (our present), "old" Ted of the future cheerfully tells his kids, "And that's how I met your Aunt Robin."
Aunt Robin?!!
And I was floored. I laughed with sheer pleasure and surprise, but then immediately I thought--"They can't keep that going, no way." How could they encourage an audience to root for a developing relationship that is doomed from the start? How could they move the story of meeting mother along at a reasonable pace and sustain multiple seasons of fun and interest?
How, indeed, since that's exactly what's happened. The writers' supply of inventiveness and cleverness is certainly way up there on the list of reasons. And you can point to Neil Patrick Harris as the breakout figure, who suddenly became quite possibly the funniest person on TV. But in the end, it's that ensemble--Josh Radnor, Jason Segel, Cobie Smulders, plus Hannigan and Harris. You like these guys, and you root for them, even when they're doing really misguided and even shockingly amoral things. They make the less inspired episodes pleasant enough fun, and when the episodes are inspired, well, then we're talking, as Harris' character Barney would say, legen... wait for it... dary. And the rewards for being a regular viewer are...well, just that--rewarding. You get surprising character revelations as well as familiar call-backs from previous episodes. And while this might not be the sheer laugh-out-loud funniest show I'll be examining--that would probably be Arrested Development--there's a warmth to this show that you get when you're visiting some cool friends. I can't do it justice, really--I'd just say, catch up from the beginning if you can, and then dive in to see how it all turns out.
Then came the fake-out.
You see, the framing device of the show is the character of Ted, in the future, telling his two kids the titular story. And once Ted seems to have won Robin over in the "past" (our present), "old" Ted of the future cheerfully tells his kids, "And that's how I met your Aunt Robin."
Aunt Robin?!!
And I was floored. I laughed with sheer pleasure and surprise, but then immediately I thought--"They can't keep that going, no way." How could they encourage an audience to root for a developing relationship that is doomed from the start? How could they move the story of meeting mother along at a reasonable pace and sustain multiple seasons of fun and interest?
How, indeed, since that's exactly what's happened. The writers' supply of inventiveness and cleverness is certainly way up there on the list of reasons. And you can point to Neil Patrick Harris as the breakout figure, who suddenly became quite possibly the funniest person on TV. But in the end, it's that ensemble--Josh Radnor, Jason Segel, Cobie Smulders, plus Hannigan and Harris. You like these guys, and you root for them, even when they're doing really misguided and even shockingly amoral things. They make the less inspired episodes pleasant enough fun, and when the episodes are inspired, well, then we're talking, as Harris' character Barney would say, legen... wait for it... dary. And the rewards for being a regular viewer are...well, just that--rewarding. You get surprising character revelations as well as familiar call-backs from previous episodes. And while this might not be the sheer laugh-out-loud funniest show I'll be examining--that would probably be Arrested Development--there's a warmth to this show that you get when you're visiting some cool friends. I can't do it justice, really--I'd just say, catch up from the beginning if you can, and then dive in to see how it all turns out.
Friday, February 5, 2010
shoop and tv
It's not quite accurate to say I don't watch a lot of TV--usually I get in a little viewing each day, at least. It's more accurate to say that I don't focus on it very often--usually I'm doing something else, and the TV is background noise. I have my old standbys--"Full House" and "MASH" reruns, for example (two remarkably similar shows that some smart cookie should compare one day. That last statement was probably ironic). But Mrs. Shoop and I also have a few shows that we'll either catch on demand, or in one particular case, we'll even go to Blockbuster and hunt down the DVD. (Because as convenient as ordering or renting online might be, there's still nothing that beats the satisfaction of going to a place and getting the item in your hot little hands right then.) So in these next few posts, I'll examine TV shows that have come to mean a great deal to me.
Sometimes coming to love a show is a matter of timing. Because if a show's been on for a while, no matter how great your friends say it is and how you're clearly not in your right mind if you're not watching, you don't want to start in the middle (which is one reason I've never gotten around to "Lost" or "The Sopranos." I might, one day, on a boxed-set impulse buy). That's a comparatively new phenomenon in TV. If you take "classic TV," it doesn't particularly matter if you're starting with the 53rd episode of "Gilligan's Island"--you're going to get the idea, and you're not missing out on any major character revelations (credit Sherwood Schwartz for coming up with the "let's have a theme song that explains the story" idea--why don't we still have those?). Choosing TV now is rather like dating--if you're interested and available, and you can catch the first episode of a promising show, then something might click. On the other hand, if a show actually gets better after the not-so-great pilot episode that made you dismiss the show entirely, then you might miss out, just as you might have spurned your potential soulmate on an off night. That happened to me, possibly twice--I tuned out Twin Peaks after the following exchange: "Who's that lady with the log?" "We call her the log lady." Rumor has it that it was a terrific show. The other time was the first episode of Third Rock from the Sun--if I had any thoughts about it at all, it was probably along the lines of, "This is kinda dumb. Oooh, what's that shiny thing on the couch?" But whenever repeats of other episodes catch my attention, I usually find myself laughing quite a bit. Another missed opportunity.
So the shows I've come to follow have been as much a matter of timing, mood, and luck as of inherent quality. Sometimes I've been able to watch from the beginning and build a great deal (too much?) emotional investment, and other times I've had to go back and catch up. Over the next few posts, I'll be sharing thoughts on How I Met Your Mother, Big Love, Arrested Development, and maybe Sex in the City. I'm hoping to comment on the socio-historical perspective of... oooh, what's that shiny thing on the end table?
Sometimes coming to love a show is a matter of timing. Because if a show's been on for a while, no matter how great your friends say it is and how you're clearly not in your right mind if you're not watching, you don't want to start in the middle (which is one reason I've never gotten around to "Lost" or "The Sopranos." I might, one day, on a boxed-set impulse buy). That's a comparatively new phenomenon in TV. If you take "classic TV," it doesn't particularly matter if you're starting with the 53rd episode of "Gilligan's Island"--you're going to get the idea, and you're not missing out on any major character revelations (credit Sherwood Schwartz for coming up with the "let's have a theme song that explains the story" idea--why don't we still have those?). Choosing TV now is rather like dating--if you're interested and available, and you can catch the first episode of a promising show, then something might click. On the other hand, if a show actually gets better after the not-so-great pilot episode that made you dismiss the show entirely, then you might miss out, just as you might have spurned your potential soulmate on an off night. That happened to me, possibly twice--I tuned out Twin Peaks after the following exchange: "Who's that lady with the log?" "We call her the log lady." Rumor has it that it was a terrific show. The other time was the first episode of Third Rock from the Sun--if I had any thoughts about it at all, it was probably along the lines of, "This is kinda dumb. Oooh, what's that shiny thing on the couch?" But whenever repeats of other episodes catch my attention, I usually find myself laughing quite a bit. Another missed opportunity.
So the shows I've come to follow have been as much a matter of timing, mood, and luck as of inherent quality. Sometimes I've been able to watch from the beginning and build a great deal (too much?) emotional investment, and other times I've had to go back and catch up. Over the next few posts, I'll be sharing thoughts on How I Met Your Mother, Big Love, Arrested Development, and maybe Sex in the City. I'm hoping to comment on the socio-historical perspective of... oooh, what's that shiny thing on the end table?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)