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?

shoop and salinger

There's a moment in "Zooey" where the title character is in the bathtub re-reading a four-year-old letter from his older brother. The letter and the letter writer give Zooey no end of annoyance, but something keeps pulling him back, even to the point of taking the darn thing in the full tub with him--not the best place to read something composed of aging, fragile paper to begin with. I've yet to bring Franny and Zooey--or Nine Stories, or Raise High the Roofbeam, Carpenters and Seymour: An Introduction, or Catcher in the Rye into a tub with me, but I do go back to them for...well, something, even though I often think to myself as I read and re-read, wow, these are incredibly annoying people.

As Salinger played more and more with self-reflexiveness, meta-fiction, Zen, and just plain not giving a damn whether his stories had any shape or purpose, the how-hard-this-stuff-is-to-get-to-the-end-of quotient ratcheted up exponentially. With "Zooey," at least, the patient reader is rewarded with a knockout wrap-up that actors (or at least a lot of actors I know) just love--that if you're an actor, you're pretty much acting for God (I think most actors believe that already, but it's nice to have it confirmed). And "Raise High the Roofbeam" is probably the most accessible Buddy-driven story, if you can get past Seymour's diary entries. But the end of "Seymour--An Introduction"? There's an ending that just makes you want to toss your book across the room or out an open window. And yet...yeah, I keep going back to it. (Although I've never quite made it through "Hapworth 16, 1924"--that one's a real ball-buster.)

And it's not just because I'm starting to "get" what Salinger left behind--the kinds of entertainment for which you can give him credit. Characters who probably don't realize how obnoxious they are? I tend to think of the "meta" Larry David on "Curb Your Enthusiasm" as an aging Zooey (Zooey, in fact, would be 80 this year, while Franny would be 75)--and again, we can think of the "meta" persona Salinger left behind in the ever-loquacious Buddy. And the way Salinger playfully capitalizes some words? Now read some David Mamet and watch what he does with his dialogue. A quick google search, especially over the next couple of days, will give you many more examples, both "high" and "low," I'm sure.

What keeps me coming back, I think, points back to how I referred to Salinger's characters at the beginning--they're people. What Salinger mastered in his dialogue is a remarkable combination of "who the hell says things like that" (i.e., "This is Kaliyuga, buddy, the Iron Age" from "Zooey") plus a composer's ear for sound and rhythm that really did capture people actually talking. At its best, that combination convinced you that, okay, these people said things like that. You could easily run hot and cold with all of Salinger's characters--for me, Holden Caulfield was, depending on when you asked me between, say, high school and now, a super-cool guy who "got" what being a teenager meant, a spoiled prep-school tool, and a sad, mixed-up kid. Of course, he's all of those things and more--because he's a person, and people are that complicated and contradictory, engaging and maddening.

At any rate, I like to imagine Salinger now, chatting with the Fat Lady on her porch. It's a "Zooey" reference--if you haven't already, pay him a visit.

shoop and up in the air

I think Jason Reitman is making the best Michael Ritchie movies of the 21st century. You probably know who Reitman is by now--he directed Thank You For Smoking, Juno, and now one of the probable Oscar-contenders, Up In the Air. As for Ritchie? He spent a lot of his career as a gun for hire, piloting some successful vehicles for star personalities (Fletch, for example, which is pretty funny, but it's mostly Chevy Chase doing his best Chevy Chase, shot from competent angles) and some not so successful (The Golden Child with Eddie Murphy, back when everybody went to see Eddie Murphy movies, and the regrettable A Simple Wish with Martin Short, when Ritchie had even given up on story continuity). But once, in the 1970s, Ritchie was actually considered a major director--Time Magazine, for example, devoted several pages to a review of Semi-Tough, a movie the reviewer didn't even like very much. Where Ritchie excelled was small-scale satire with often petty, unadmirable characters who either change very slightly, or consider changing briefly and then think better of it. So his best movies were usually devoid of big moments, or potentially big moments that are quickly deflated. Check out Robert Redford in Ritchie's The Candidate, for example, asking after what should have been his character's huge moment, "What do we do now?" Or my personal favorite Ritchie film, Smile, where following a beauty contest gone spectacularly and often hilariously wrong, things pretty much continue in the community as normal, or perhaps a little bit worse. Ritchie tuned his worldview toward the sunny side in the climax of The Bad News Bears, but what lingers is how miserable Walter Matthau's character is, and what a bleak future is in store for those unfortunate kids he coaches. Ritchie couldn't sustain that kind of creativity into the 80s and 90s, partly, I think, because his style was so deceptively passive--observing real, random behavior and letting audiences pick up, or not, on the telling details he included. That kind of style needed equally creative artists joining Ritchie, which was too seldom the case.

Reitman seems to be on a roll currently, making those kinds of movies I didn't think we'd see anymore. After seeing Up In the Air, I realize now how much credit he deserves for Juno--Reitman trusted the story and the characters would hold up despite the occasionally too-clever flourishes of Diablo Cody's much-honored screenplay that nearly kill the movie before it gets started. (Note: if you haven't seen Juno, I'd say rent it and skip the first 10 minutes.) Here Reitman makes expert use of George Clooney's double-edged effortless charm--effortless as in, he makes it look easy, as well as effortless as in, he's not really trying--Ritchie would have had a field day with Clooney, I'm sure. Clooney's Ryan Bingham is a fascinating and frustrating catalog of starts and stops, flourishes without follow-through. When he launches into a catalogue of how to go through airport security and who to ideally get behind (Asians, preferably), Clooney gives the lines a great amoral snap--but that's the only time; it's not really his character. Similarly, we see flashes of humanity and caring when it comes to his family, but again, they're just flashes. So it seems appropriate when his one, big, movie-ready romantic gesture lands with the thud that it does. And what are we left with? Has Clooney's character learned anything or changed? Maybe a little, but we're just not sure. The movie's title is smashingly appropriate.

Reitman also has a gift for detail similar to Ritchie's--he likes the reactions of his actors, who all come through splendidly for him--Reitman seems to be catching them unguarded as if waiting for his direction. Also, pay attention to Natalie's boyfriend saying goodbye to her as she sets off to travel with Bingham. The boyfriend has no lines, but notice how he's dressed compared to Natalie's power travel outfit. And we know everything about this relationship.

I'd like to see what Jason Reitman directs next, and I hope his path is clear of potential Golden Children.

shoop and avatar

There's an episode arc from the Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle where the intrepid moose and squirrel are chasing after an elusive element called "upsidaisium"--something that can instantly turn things upside down. I think that's a good way into "Avatar" for a few reasons. For one, it speaks to the characters' straight-faced references to "unobtainium"--in the real world, a science/engineering joke referring to the impossible element that could make something work, but in Avatar's case, it's the element that the development company wants badly enough to chase the indigenous blue folks away from their magic tree. The term is just as silly as the one in Bullwinkle, and it also matters as little as far as the movie itself goes. There's also an area on that planet that is, indeed, upside down--it makes about as much sense as the big, goofy animals and the blue people. What we've got here, in other words, is a doofus movie with a plot cribbed from any number of old westerns (not just Dances With Wolves), no characters to speak of, and some really clunky dialogue...and it's all terrific.

You probably know this already, even if you haven't seen it yet, as some billion dollars worth of worldwide filmgoers have. And you probably know the terrific part--it's the "you're in this world" feeling that James Cameron and a lot of other smart, talented people have engineered for us. That's pretty much my point--it takes some genuinely smart people, and maybe even a genius or two, to make such a successful doofus movie. Or, to put it another way, it's worth noting what Avatar didn't need--for example, performances. Oh, Sigourney Weaver's there, all right, looking hale and hearty, but she's just lending her presence, much the way Sean Connery used to do in the 80s and 90s. (Here's my idea for a remake--Medicine Man, except with Weaver in the Connery role, calling some younger guy "Dr. Bronx" and having a fairly chaste cougar-romance in the jungle.) It's not Weaver's fault that she's not acting; there's really nothing else for her to do. The rest of the cast, whatever their skill and talent levels happen to be, are all in the same boat.

Then there's Cameron's dialogue, and it's absolutely uncanny. I mean, it's bad, but not just inept--there's a certain on-the-nose heavy-handedness to it that actually works in the world of his films--Billy Zane's villain in Titanic comes to mind, speaking in a way that you can practically read the speech balloons over his head. In a way, my ramblings here tie in nicely with my last post--James Cameron might well be the best comic book movie director ever who never really made a comic book movie. And his dialogue is an important element--I don't think you can learn to write dialogue like that, and I'm not sure it's possible to do it on purpose. For example, in the hero's voice-over (which Cameron freely--I would almost say gleefully--uses in place of character development, literally telling us, at one point, that somebody's character has developed), he explains that his brother was killed because someone "wanted the paper in his wallet." Wow! I mean, is that any way for any sentient being to say that his brother got killed in a robbery? But in a comic book--yeah, of course that's what he'd say. Same with the evil colonel, played in appropriate one-note fashion by Stephen Lang, who's actually another good actor--as he addresses the troops, he helpfully tells them that they're "not in Kansas anymore." Note to screenwriters and playwrights everywhere--that was a good line in The Wizard of Oz, and it will never be a good line again. Except in the comic book world that Cameron has created, yes, it works just fine, thanks.

I'll take this one step further before signing off--Cameron and the movie have been getting some flack for some of the reasons I've talked about--dumb story, no characters, silly dialogue. I suspect, however, that the damn thing wouldn't have worked as well, or maybe at all, unless that all-around level of doofusness (doofosity?) was part of the package. Thinking, logic, encouragement to look inside and question ourselves--none of that goes with the joyride Cameron has dreamed up. It's the coolest ride ever, cool enough that many people will want to go on again--and with all the substance that that description implies, i.e., none. It is a hoot, though.

shoop and what's wrong with The Dark Knight

Actually, the title's a bit of a tease, because what's wrong with The Dark Knight can be summed up pretty quickly--it was too long and too loud. Although I'll have a little more to say about The Dark Knight later, this is really about what's wrong with comic book movies in general. And, as was the case most of the time, my Dad had it right.

In this case, what Dad was right about was the 1989 Batman with Michael Keaton and some weird music by Prince. "There was no 'pow' or 'bang' or 'sock,'" Dad noted, and his complaint was perfect. You see, for our family, and for a lot of people my age or a little older I suspect, Batman meant the TV show with Adam West and Burt Ward as Batman and Robin, and a slew of celebrities as guest villains--most notably, Burgess Meredith as the Penguin, Cesar Romaro as the Joker, and Frank Gorshin as the Riddler. The heroes intoned heroic platitudes with the straightest of faces, while the villains were free to indulge in the sort of hamminess usually reserved for Christmas pantomimes. As for the "pow," "bang," and "sock," you could count on those when the caped crusaders fought the villains' henchmen--each punch accompanied by a gloriously colorful comic book graphic. The show taught the world what "camp" meant, and it lasted a couple of seasons--as long as such giddy foolishness could last, I think--and even more importantly, it was meant to last some 26 minutes of TV time each week.

Now in 1989, Tim Burton had a novel idea, and it was enough to make a trailer that was really impressive. If you're of a certain age, you probably remember Michael Keaton in the bat suit grabbing a villain and saying, "I'm Batman" with about 50 layers of bad-ass cool. (Years later, I realized that was more a triumph of sound recording and editing, but it still rocked.) Burton's novel idea: what if you took Batman absolutely seriously? Unfortunately, the answer is, you can't. You can see it in Burton's first Batman, the one with Jack Nicholson's Joker, and in his sequel with Danny DeVito's Penguin and, most memorably, Michelle Pfeiffer's Catwoman. And that's who you remember, the villains with their weird deformities, wacky colors, and what-the-hell attitude toward their own evil. Burton's first Batman was something of a mess, with Keaton trying to be on the cool end of "real," and Nicholson multiplying the TV show by 10--but it's "real" and "serious," so the Joker dies at the end. In the sequel, Batman pretty much made an appearance--the villains had completely taken over.

Joel Shumacher gets a lot of flack for what he did to the Batman franchise, but what he really did was recognize that the camp had to be embraced. But Shumacher's films weren't perfect, either. Yes, there were George Clooney's bat-nipples, a masterstroke of ushering Batman out of the camp closet, and there was Arnold Schwarzenegger's Mr. Freeze making his henchmen sing along with the Snow Miser's song from "The Year Without a Santa Claus," but Shumacher didn't recognize the danger of overkill, and, frankly, too much money. If you go back to the TV show, part of the essential charm was its no-budget effects (Batman and Robin scaling the side of a building, with its "of course it's fake" sensibility, became a signature scene). The camp becomes too heavy with honest-to-goodness special effects, which I think illustrates a general rule of camp entertainment--it can't travel first class.

To return to The Dark Knight for a moment, this problem of taking the story and characters seriously is directly related to its overlength. (I won't even talk about the movie's twisted politics wherein George W. Bush is Batman.) The movie should have ended when Harvey what's-his-name turns into Two-Face, when exactly half his face gets burned by acid and he makes all his decisions by flipping a coin. I'm going to repeat that, because it illustrates the point I'm trying to make--he turns into Two-Face, when exactly half his face gets burned by acid and he makes all his decisions by flipping a coin. In other words, he's a comic book villain in a comic book world--you can't take him seriously. And you certainly don't want to close out his story arc by adding another half-hour to a movie that's already been banging on too long. What should have happened was, Harvey becomes Two-Face, giggles maniacally while flipping a coin, and we tune in text time. Or we buy the next issue.

And that's the fundamental problem with comic book movies in general--they're movies and not comic books. They're also not pitch-perfect TV camp classics. If the medium is indeed the message, then the message comic books send simply don't jibe with the message of movies. There are, however, a few exceptions. The first two Spiderman movies were pretty good (didn't see the third)--largely because you have a hero who already provides a running commentary on the world of superheroes. Peter Parker is essentially a dorky kid navigating a fundamentally ridiculous set of circumstances, the ridiculousness of which he completely recognizes. (That's why he can say things like, "I will be Spiderman no more"--he knows that sometimes, he has to talk like a comic book.)

You know which comic book movie really got it right? Superman, from 1978. What critics complained about initially--its unevenness of tone from "mythic" to "big city comedy" to "camp" to sincere heroism and back again--was its key strength. That's what you get in a comic book from page to page, sometimes panel to panel. It took not a "visionary" director like Burton or Christopher Nolan, but a fairly literal director like Richard Donner to realize that all those elements are part of comic book heroism, so he put them all in there, one after the other. It helps if you have an impossibly comic book style actor to play your hero, too, plus an impossibly legendary star to play the hero's dad. Christopher Reeve never really topped being Superman (could anybody?), and if Marlon Brando's legendarily overpriced turn as Superman's pop gave us the silliest part of the movie, that fits the picture even better. If only Marlon had taken a sock at one of his detractors, and we could see a big "sock!" on the screen. I'd like to think that scene exists somewhere, in a more perfect world.

shoop and superior donuts

Superior Donuts is recent Pulitzer Prize winner Tracy Letts' new Broadway play, doomed to be something of a bust as it closes early next month. Critics have been fairly kind, but they all reference TV in their reviews--sitcoms (sometimes a specific sitcom--either Laverne and Shirley, in which Donuts star Michael McKean appeared for many years, or Chico and the Man, with which the play shares something of its setup) or after-school specials (those popular shows that usually came on at 4:00 in the afternoon on a weekday where the characters learned valuable life lessons about hunting, old people, or drugs, for example). And they're exactly right--I've never been witness to a play that so thoroughly evokes the staging, rhythm, goofy supporting characters, and resolutions of a TV situation comedy. Critics who like the play immediately take on a Seinfeldian "Not that there's anything wrong with that" approach to calling the play a sitcom, and I think the play, audience response, its lack of success on Broadway, and (I would imagine) its future healthy life in university and community theatre bear some discussion.

How sitcom-like is the play? The examples would make a long, long list. First, as I've mentioned, there's the set-up--a young African-American man named Franco hustles his way into an assistant position with the grumpy old Vietnam draft evader who runs the titular Chicago donut shop (Cue Jose Feliciano music: "Franco... don't be discouraged... the aging hippie dude, he ain't that hard to understand..."). Then there are the plot complications--the older man is scared to ask the goofy but lovable female cop who has a crush on him out, so Franco gives him some pointers regarding his beard and ponytail: "You know who looks good in pony tails? Girls. And ponies"--a good sitcom joke that Freddie Prinze, Jimmie Walker, or Bea Arthur could knock out of the park to the delight of a laugh track, and that's just what happens in the theatre. Plus there's the two shady hoodlums who are dogging Franco, who has not quite left behind his outside-the-law past, guys you wouldn't take seriously on an episode of Law and Order, but who would fit nicely in a very special episode of, say, Roseanne. The play even looks like a sitcom--I've been in the studio audience for filming a couple of sitcoms here and there, and the functional set, the snow outside the door with the parked car and the parking meter--it's all there, a complete sitcom set. There are at least two examples of the classic "entrance in a goofy costume" gag. Moreover, the sitcom atmosphere pervades the theatre audience as well. Not only do we hear the equivalent of a TV laugh track, but at the points where the heroes suffer (sometimes violent) setbacks, we also get the "Ohhhh" and the gasp-track. There's a moment toward the end where the annoying but lovable Russian neighbor buys the donut shop, which I think is there so Letts can let us know he's read The Cherry Orchard, but the play as a whole is a fascinating example of one form of media totally informing another--the play as sitcom.

In the end, is this necessarily bad or good? The first time I tried grad school, I had a playwriting instructor who actually scored with a fairly major play in the 1950s--Take a Giant Step. He stated, quite flatly, that audiences won't go to the theatre to see sitcoms--meaning that before TV, what we would now consider sitcom rhythms and situations were common elements of many popular Broadway comedies, but now ("now" in this case was the mid-1980s) audiences wouldn't make a special trip to the theatre to see what was pretty common on TV. And in a way, I think he's right--in this case, at least, Superior Donuts might make it to just about 100 performances. Nevertheless, the audience reaction that I witnessed speaks to a very real power that sitcom characters and situations have. We, as an audience, laugh, ohhh and awww, and gasp on cue. And it's not just because the sitcom is well-executed with Great Direction and Actors--in fact, there's a fight scene in Donuts that's downright poorly staged and executed. The power in the form of storytelling that we call "sitcom" is real and has its place, and we might want to re-think the idea that "sitcom" is an automatic putdown when describing a piece. But if sitcoms don't belong on Broadway, what does, exactly? That's a question too big for a blog.

shoop and a serious man

It's been a while since I've checked in with the Coen brothers. I'm glad A Serious Man turned out to be the occasion of my brief reconnection. At any rate, go see it if you haven't already--it's a challenge in the best sense of the word, a film that demands and rewards your complete engagement. For this shoop-i-sode, I'll just tackle a couple of questions that I've seen come up in various discussions...

1) How Jewish do you have to be to get it?
Having a Jewish upbringing helps somewhat--although it didn't help me get the Yiddish prelude; I needed the subtitles as much as non-Jews would. (As a side note, two of the expressions I actually knew in Yiddish weren't translated literally--"in mitten dritten," all of a sudden, and "bubbemeise," literally, "grandmother's tale" or "old wives' tale." It just shows how flat English translations of Yiddish tend to be--or, how expressive Yiddish is.) But Jews can probably catch on to the connection to Jewish law implied in the scene between the professor and the recalcitrant Asian student--the professor explains that the stories are illustrations that show how the math works, but the math is HOW physics works. Similarly, the Law, or Torah, for Jews is "illustrated" through the stories of the Talmud and the Midrash. The fact that the professor doesn't get the stories (he doesn't get Schrodinger's cat, but the failing student does) is an important detail. Also, I think you need to have been bar or bat mitzvahed to fully appreciated the stoned bar mitzvah scene. Nevertheless, I think non-Jews can follow the film as well (or as poorly) as anyone else.

2) Is the film anti-Semitic?
The Coens have been hit with the "self-hating Jews" charge before--Miller's Crossing and Barton Fink come to mind--and I can understand the feeling behind such accusations. Personally, I've been sensitive, and admittedly sometimes absurdly so, to perceived anti-Semitic characterizations in movies and TV. I don't think those who say the Coens are anti-Semitic (in this case in particular) are wrong, exactly, but I do think they're only focusing on part of the picture. Yes, they like to focus on grotesque Jewish faces, ears, and bodies, for example. But I think they're working from an insider's--a LOVING insider's--perspective. That's why the ones who call the Coens anti-Semitic aren't far off, just as there's always a fine line between love and hate. The Coens kid, ridicule, and, I think, ultimately respect their Jewish characters a great deal.

But, again, go see for yourself. Then discuss it with some friends.