The Moral of Kings: No Queens Allowed

The series finale of Kings aired last night. If you have episodes taking up valuable DVR space--or are dutifully waiting for a DVD release--beware spoilers below.

For the handful of us who persevered to the bitter end, it was most bitter for the viewer whose sympathies were engaged by Sebastian Stan's Jack. It would seem that all of the other major characters were granted some measure of redemption, some chance at future happiness. Not so, poor Jack.

Some background: Jack is the king's son, heir to the throne of Shiloh. He is a soldier, respected by his company of men. He is petty, blithe, venal, rageful, jealous, and gay.

Guess which one of those attributes is a problem for father and country? The king makes it clear that Jack can not be what he is and be his son or future king. Interestingly, there is no codifying his nature as something transient or correctable. His father never suggests Jack will need to get over his gayness, just that he will have to deny it forever.

This slim distinction actually represents a kind of quantum leap. Usually in these morality plays the heteronormative character is rather adamant about denying or pathologizing any queer proclivities. The fact that both his parents know and accept his true desires and glibly expect their son to repress himself always is, to my mind, more chilling than simple denial. They are consciously unkind.

But wait, there's more. After Jack has the temerity to stand up to his father, to believe he can lead as himself and not as a fraudulent clone of his dad, that dancing ledge is also made to crumble. When his rebellion is quashed, Jack is isolated from all, save one.

The series concludes with him in captivity with his fake fiancée. It is his evil father's order that he will produce an heir that is less disappointing than himself.

Boy, kinda makes you long for the days when the two guys on Thirtysomething just couldn't touch each other in bed.

Kings was a sometimes nifty, mostly turgid and pretentious show where nobody got off easy. Sort of a modern feudal Sopranos. But no character suffered as much as Jack, and no one deserved some meager serving of grace as much either. The fact that none will ever be offered may not be due to homophobia on the part of its creators, but it might be indicative of something more unfortunate, still.

Because while the show's fictional characters may have been the ones to treat Jack's homosexuality as a crime, it was their real-life writers who meted out his (now everlasting) punishment. In a show full of portentous messages and allegories, the one we divine from Jack's depiction is this: If you're gay, your country might let you fight, but you'll always lose the war.

Citizenship Overboard

I'm worried about us. Something in our collective psyche is coming off the hinges. It's happening in a gradual and indistinct fashion, so we may not be fully aware, but there is an erosion occurring, nonetheless. As Melville once posited, "Who in the rainbow can draw the line where the violet tint ends and orange tint begins? So with sanity and insanity."

And everything about this latest brouhaha involving the question of Barack Obama's true origins is located on the insane side of the rainbow. It is an issue that went away months ago, only to resurface everywhere at once. All of the 24-hour news stations have been harping about it, and it was discussed at length on at least two of the evening network newscasts last night.

The fact that there are loads of facts that confirm he was born in Hawaii (and played basketball there, see above) seems not to matter. Also, Lou Dobbs won't admit exactly what precarious harm is imminent if America is being run by a foreigner. Rather, this supposition is some sort of MacGuffin--wholly unimportant to the current plot--that's meant to make viewers wonder if the person who tugs at their economy, military, and health care strings is really some great dissembler.

Except the true charlatans are the broadcasters who refuse to believe their own research departments and let this story die. Plus, I don't think rational people have any investment in this fallacy. These various news outlets keep running the same footage of a few bughouse nutsy ladies shouting in town halls and public forums. Who are these women? Where did they get the notion that the incorrectly recorded longitude and latitude of someone's birthplace somehow equals the apocalypse?

The nature of fire is to consume fuel from any source. So too fear. People are worried. Even the fortunate, with relatively secure jobs and/or fallback resources, live with the notion that unstable means unstable. The next earthquake is not going to spare you because your company reported a quarterly profit; the next round of disease is not going to skip the orphans in Darfur because they've suffered enough.

However, even knowing there is no absolute safety, we citizens need to calm down. To that end: don't plan your staycation around the next few town meetings. Don't treat the news channels like an I.V. drip. (In fact, can't congress do something productive and mandate an hour or two where Fox and CNN show Mister Ed reruns, so their staffs can go get some oxygen. Even a Denny's has to close sometimes.)

Finally, don't worry so much about the actual parchment that denotes our president's state of birth. Just assume it was melted in the same pot that burned away the full names, folk customs, and regional accents of all our immigrant grandparents.

I guess you really shouldn't go back

Just a quick note on something I found rather funny. The current Variety online review for the new Mischa Barton fright-fest The Homecoming features the following publicity photo:
Beneath the photo is this caption: "Mischa Barton is Matt Long's psychotic ex-girlfriend in thriller 'Homecoming.'"

For those of you wondering which of the above persons is Mischa Barton in heavy prosthetics, the answer is, unfortunately, none. That is a picture from Harold Pinter's Tony-award-winning play from 1967, The Homecoming.

I guess the folks at Variety are hoping to alert us to the new movie's parallels to Pinter's wrenching ode to Oedipal dysfunction. It's a real public service actually. For who among us was likely to make the connection between a film that critics are calling a "kiddie Fatal Attraction" that is neither "thrilling enough or cheesy enough," and a work by a Nobel Laureate that stirred The New Yorker's critic to write, "The Homecoming' changed my life. Before the play, I thought words were just vessels of meaning; after it, I saw them as weapons of defense. Before, I thought theatre was about the spoken; after, I understood the eloquence of the unspoken."

The happenstance of a shared name, be damned. Someone please alert the Nobel committee that art is afoot. They might want to warm up the engraving machine now. I bet they've never had to give a single Drama award to three separate writers and follow that with the words, 'Based on an idea by...'

Poor Emmy's enemy: The Emmys

The Emmy nominations were announced today, setting off the annual flurry of dismay from fans and critics. Every year the prognostication is it's going to be different. Every year it's not different enough.

Because surely this was not the year of Battlestar Galactica, or Friday Night Lights, or Pushing Daisies, or (insert show here). Thus the slights of years past cannot be avenged. And, trust me, lists are being kept. They usually include Buffy and co., Mrs. Gilmore and her girls, and Bob Newhart and his patience. They are long lists, going all the way back to Bat Masterson and My Mother the Car, for all I know. People are inflamed, mad as hell and carrying their heavy grudges to the comments pages of websites everywhere.

And yet, none of it matters. Because the Emmy, even with her sharp-edged and weirdly lightning bolt-shaped wings, is pointless. But, dear Blogger, aren't all entertainment awards pointless, I hear you ask. Yes, phantom voice, you are correct. But even in this most capriciously undistinguished realm, the Emmys are a special case. Let's examine some reasons why:

• Just Too Many-- If the Academy Awards get one thing right, it's the numbers game. They offer only four major acting categories per year. The Emmys have 12 (and that's not including the Guest Actor awards). So, while it's true that nobody remembers who won for what or which year, people know who's won an Oscar. A person on the street could not name any of the last 10 movies that Mira Sorvino has been in, but they know she won the big award for something. Might she have also received the Emmy for Best Supporting Actress in a Mini-Series or Made for Television Movie? I have no idea. Do you?

• No Credibility-- Television Academy voters are loyal to a fault. Once they like something, they like it forever. Even as it slides inexorably to mediocrity and worse. It's 2009, the show is dead and gone, but Boston Legal is still garnering nominations. Candice Bergen had to remove her name from eligibility, because even she recognized that continuing to win for Murphy Brown was embarrassing. Why she didn't win a slew of awards for Boston Legal is a fascinating mystery. The point is: these shows and actors are chosen reflexively. Quality just doesn't play as big a factor as other awards. Thus it becomes more of an industry backslap than true competition.

• They Don't Work-- The one thing an Emmy ought to do is highlight the valuable nature of a certain program. It should be a kind of beacon to a network and viewers. Allowing one to protect it and the other to seek it out. And that's true, I think. Let's ask the cast of two-time Best Comedy winner Arrested Development. I'll call; does someone have the list of farflung projects they're working on now? I mean, if people don't remember who won the awards, they don't bring you respect from your network, and they don't even goose your ratings share, what the hell are they good for?

So to sum up: Congratulations 30 Rock on your big 22 Emmy nominations. Please don't die.

Memorium Infinitum

Interestingly, I had been thinking about celebrity deaths even before the 453rd straight hour of the media eulogizing Michael Jackson as the greatest ______ who ever did die. Specifically, I was thinking that we as a population were headed toward a beauty of a logjam, with all sorts of Whatsernames and Whatsisfaces jockeying for more and more space in the world's greatest mourning derby.

It hit me when Paul Newman died. Here was a great guy. And, appropriately I think, he was lamented with admirable fervor on the front page of the New York Times website. But what I also noticed at the time were two separate obit articles taking up space on the same hallowed front swale. One was a heretofore minor sports star, the other a woman who had appeared on Big Brother UK edition. That's when I knew for sure: too damn many celebrities.

Now I'm refraining from placing the word celebrity in ironic quote marks, but don't let my good manners fool you. These are Little Dippers in the Ursa Major constellation of stars. This is not a criticism. When I pass I do not expect that a monument to my charms will be erected on the lawn of our nation's capitol. Simply because I didn't star in The Hustler, direct Sometimes a Great Notion, or produce a salad dressing that continues to stockpile money for the less fortunate. Or, at least, I haven't done those things yet. I'm keeping a few monument makers on speed-dial just in case.

Thing is, we keep minting new Housewives of a Certain City and Amazing Racers or Runwayers, not to mention inaugurating whole new categories for the semi-famed. This last issue of Entertainment Weekly was devoted almost entirely to lost talents. Alongside Michael, Farrah, and Ed was Billy Mays. In fact, Ed shared a cramped page with Mr. Mays--and the description afforded the latter: Pitchman. Sure, he wasn't featured on The Tonight Show for thirty years, but he sold a bunch of stuff. A true hero for our recessionary malaise.

So I think we need some boundaries, some criteria for who takes up our time both while here and hereafter. Or else pretty soon we're going to need whole new outlets (magazines, churches, TV networks) devoted solely to memorializing the famously departed.

Here's one notion: You should have done something worthy of our attention. Don't find (not design, just procure) someone an outfit for an awards show or scrawl offensive words over a picture of Britney Spears and assume your legend status is in the bag. Don't be someone's Plus One. There is an entire article in the latest Details mag documenting the new "star" (I did it, sue me) Justin Gaston. What has Mr. Gaston done, you ask. Apparently, he's done squired Miley Cyrus around town. That's it. The article mentions that he's working on an album (no release date) and might try his hand at acting. But, otherwise, what proof of identity can Details offer to its readers? He has tattoos.

I just pray no harm befalls the inimitably talented Mr. Gaston. Because, if he were to pass on to the great skyworld without even an album's worth of lyrics to dissect, a lot of reporters are going to have to waste a lot of ink describing his Ink.

The Trouble with ABC Family's Values

It all began with See Jane Date. This was the first flick I can recall being branded an ABC Family Original Movie. Expectations were low, for me and probably everyone else. But a funny thing happened on the way to a cursory dismissal. It turned out to be pretty damn good. In fact, grading on the TV movie curve, Jane comes up aces.

If you don't look too closely, it's just an above-average rom com about a gal who learns that she doesn't need a man to be satisfied with her life. One with charming performances all around, especially from the ever-so-aptly-named Charisma Carpenter. But scratch the surface and the film is actually quite a bit more nuanced. That is, a clever depiction of how damaging it can be to allow others to define you. In the film Jane is not just assumed to be a young spinster by her friends and family, she's thought to be pushy and unforgiving by suitors and inept at her job by her bosses. And their toxic views infect her own, shoving her typically smart, jovial disposition into a wee corner.

Eventually Jane triumphs by letting her true character out of that corner (no Patrick Swayze necessary). Plus, when she decides the person she most wants to please is herself, everything else falls into place in the feel-good way that lets you know you're seconds away from finding out who did the film's catering. It all feels earned, though. This film could be considered the template for many of the films and shows that followed on the fledgling network. Frisky and fun, but laced with messages that young girls could absorb for present and future empowerment.

Those later movies were less successfully realized; mostly lacking the character detail and strong plot mechanics of Jane. But pics like Celeste in the City and Initiation of Sarah were tremendously smart packages. Each featuring the perfect recipe of a relatable heroine, slick production values, and cute boys (often shirtless). Their positive messages were baked right in, leaving none of that sour public-service-announcement aftertaste.

Things got even better when ABC Family started producing its own series. Kyle XY, especially the first season, was a blast. It begins with a boy with no belly-button who appears out of nowhere. A supremely empathetic social worker takes him home to stay with her family. Then things start to happen. The show works because the central mystery is a grabber, the family dynamic feels honest, and the science elements come lightly sprinkled. It's fitting that the first thing we learn about Kyle is he lacks a belly-button because this a show that, unlike certain zip-coded ones, doesn't have time for naval-gazing. These people have things to do. Moreover, when was the last time you saw a show about young people that made being super-educated seem fun and sexy.

Maybe it was the last time you saw Greek. A show about fraternities and sororities and the (yes, it's true) diverse populaces found within. Our protagonist, Rusty, is a polymer science major who winds up rushing the most raucous house on Greek row. Everybody thinks it's a strange fit, until realizing that, like the chocolate and peanut butter of yore, getting a little hard science on your liberal arts makes even debauchery taste better.

And these shows may feature male protags, but they were clearly designed with young ladies in mind. Many of the best moments in each are about the very real struggles the female characters have with sexuality and identity. Not to mention the love-hate relationships that too often develop between young girls. The kind that tarnish what should be an unwavering support system.

ABC Family achieved the apotheosis of its ethos with The Middleman. The Middleman's Middleman is not the star of the series. Rather it's Wendy Watson, a supremely cool, confident, and capable Gal Friday with a raygun. This is a show that improbably combined deadpan anomie with pop-art action heroics, a sort of Hal Hartley meets the X-Men (squared by the X-Files) aesthetic. It's excellent, feel free to stop reading now and go rent or buy the DVDs.

Now that you're back, here's why Wendy's significant: she's got it all. The love of all things geek, the ambitions of an artist frustrated by lack of support, the most bestest girl-shaped friend (except when they hate each other), and a deep yearning to figure out her place in the dimension where she's not evil. She's all ABC Family characteristics in one tiny frame, placed in one appreciably dense, smart, funny, and meta-tastic showcase.

ABC Family couldn't wait to cancel The Middleman. Not because of what it was, but because of what it wasn't: The Secret Life of the American Teenager. The show that became a big hit, dwarfing the modest ratings for Wendy Watson and co. Thus it was doomed. Suddenly, if you weren't pulling your weight, you were shown the door. Kyle XY was the next to go. The network's inaugural original series wrapped up its third and final season with a cliffhanger. A slap in the face to its fans, for sure. By the by, if you see Kyle still dangling from that cliff, you might want to mention that no help is coming.

They say nothing spoils like success, however, Secret Life... reeked even before the first ratings share was reported. Spend some time watching this show and here's what you won't learn: anything about the secret lives of teenagers. Here's what you will learn: girls and women make dumb decisions. This in itself would be fine if there were some understandable motivations behind such decisions. But this show's characters are rarely even recognizably human, let alone capable of logic or rationality.

The show's hook, for all the Secret Life... virgins, is that high school sophomore Amy is impregnated by the class lothario while away at band camp. Was she coerced? Did she think protection was involved? Did she consider herself ready for sex? None of that matters apparently, and is left unseen and unexamined. Better to get on with the hilarity of hiding her pregnancy from classmates and family. Remember how I mentioned that See Jane Date only aped a braindead Lifetime movie until you scratched the surface? Well, you could claw at this series for weeks, know what?, you'd still be on the surface. There's no there anywhere.

On top of that, the messages and mores left for tweens and teens (the primary demographic I presume) are horrible. Even the female characters who recognize that they're being abused by the jerks that represent the male sex, simply allow it to continue. And they never explain why. Nothing makes sense.

Since the advent of this nonsense, ABC Family execs have been on a tear for ratings luster. The two sitcoms they introduced were so bad, so critically reviled, they canceled them and quickly burned off all episodes. Make It or Break It--the teens who aspire to gymnastics glory show--is already broken. Its girl power is faux. It's not about sports or ambition, but rather the same lazy soap operatics that you can find on many other stations at all hours of the day. Oh, and the original movies suck now, too. Au Pair 3, anyone?

That leaves 10 Things I Hate About You. Only one episode so far, but definitely a more promising entry. The character of Kat is no Wendy Watson but she'll do in a time of famine. Who knows? Maybe 10 Things... will help this bedraggled network get its mojo back. I hope so, because right now it's all Greek to me.

100 Dance Parties and Counting

The one hundredth episode of So You Think You Can Dance will be airing on July 23rd. The centennial hoedown is already being trumpeted by folks in the know, as there will be the requisite special guests (including Katie Holmes, see above) and charitable facades (a dance foundation for orphans and puppies). Here's my issue: so what? Don't get me wrong, it's not that I wouldn't celebrate the show. Among the putrid morass of reality programming SYTYCD stands several notches above.

Rather, I have grown weary of the endless counting that is meant to somehow signify an achievement. That includes the hundreds of TV shows produced, thousands of games sold, and trillions of rubles earned at the worldwide box office. And this distinction seems especially dubious for reality shows that replenish ad infinitum without needing to alter or enhance what's come before. As I said I like SYTYCD, but at bottom it's a competition show. That means you select a bunch of dancers and turn on the cameras. Don't worry, I'll alert my DVR, but don't also expect me to sit around fashioning laurels that you're just going to sit on.

The numerical brass ring is relatively new to the television medium. Back when Lucy was up to no good and Ralph was begging for a trip to the moon, it wasn't unusual to film thirty or more episodes per year. So, if a show was worth its while, you could assume there would be a lot of episodes of it. Only more recently have networks begun setting off promotional fireworks when some creation has the temerity to last more than a few minutes. But I'm just dandy with giving some deserved notice to a Friends or a Buffy. Because those shows were gutted with some kind of grace to to come up with a whole new set of goods (and they were good goods) week after week.

Truthfully I would be much more excited on July 23rd, if we lived in a world where some fictionally inspired, individual, and sharply smart TV shows could last more than just one season. (Those of you who point out that Pushing Daisies technically lasted two already know that doesn't count.) I'd also like to get to a point where a sitcom could last several seasons without continually being threatened by extinction. According to Jim, I'm not looking at you.

A better, broader television landscape would enthuse me much more than knowing the latest yearly totals for the CSI's and Law and Orders. But I'm not counting my breaths.