Polanski: Guilt Reproved, Innocence Undone

Here are the facts: Roman Polanski, at the age of 43, drugged and raped a 13 year-old girl at a Hollywood party.  He admitted to the crime.  A deal was worked out with the judge, prosecution, and defense.  The judge claimed to have second thoughts about this agreement before sentencing.  Mr. Polanski, fearful that he might spend more time in jail, fled the country.  For over thirty years since he has lived in comfort in France and traveled unhindered through Europe.

That free ride may be reaching its vanishing point.  Because he was recently apprehended in Switzerland and is awaiting extradition back to the United States.

And now all manner of hell has broken loose.

Celebrities, directors, and film-world-luminaries have banded together to sign a petition requesting Mr. Polanski's freedom.  These individuals--many of whom are prodigiously talented--represent the very zenith of privileged arrogance.

The commentary has been mind-boggling: Whoopi Goldberg, from her gilded perch on The View, attempted to school her audience on the difference between Mr. Polanski's actions and what she termed, "rape rape."  Ironically, by attempting to somehow vitiate his crime, Ms. Goldberg came up with an apt description of Mr. Polanski's transgression.  It was Rape Rape.  He committed rape by forcing a non-consensual sex act upon another person.  And he committed statutory rape by having sexual contact with a minor.  There is no sidestepping the truth of law in either case.

The famed French intellectual Bernard-Henri Levy has suggested that enough time has passed for we puritanical Americans to just let this one slide already.   He allowed that Mr. Polanski, "perhaps had committed a youthful error."  A youthful error at the ripe and dewy age of 43?  Comments like these bring to mind the Marquise de Merteuil's riposte in Dangerous Liasions: "Like most intellectuals, he is intensely stupid."

Do yourself a favor, take a look at the list of individuals carping for a convicted criminal's unearned freedom: here.  Or maybe you shouldn't.  Because no doubt it can be difficult to reconcile an admiration for a person's art with a disdain for their impecunious morality.

Filmmakers need conflict, trauma, misdeeds, even rape and murder.  No one wants to see a film where the world is pleasant and everyone is nice to each other for an hour and a half.  Audiences want to see this underbelly as well--in fiction and reality.  When tragedy occurs, we open our eyes and ears for every arduous detail.  But it never stops there.  We don't just want crime; we crave punishment.  There is something particular, even peculiar, in the American character that causes us to empathize with the victimized.  So we yearn for justice, desire it so deeply it goes beyond walls, living in the bloodsong beneath our flesh.

Maybe the judge was going to circumvent the deal to which he had agreed.  Maybe he was going to make an example of Mr. Polanski.  We'll never know.  What we do know is that a repulsive crime was committed.  A crime that demands--even unto the passage of decades--some true measure of justice.

Sore of Beauty: SOB

Okay, so I finally got around to watching the premiere of The Beautiful Life: TBL on The CW.  And, aside from some passably decent acting, there is little to recommend.  But that's hardly worth mentioning (especially since the same can be said of Melrose Place, 90210, One Tree Hill, Gossip Girl, etc...).  Rather it is worth mentioning that, in a show about the fashion world, there is exactly one gay character in the large cast--and he's the villain.

The talent scout (played by someone whose name I refuse to even bother looking up on IMDB) is a conniving, lecherous, petty tyrant who attempts to use his influence to extort sexual favors from male clients.  It wouldn't be so galling if there were an even slightly more positive representative of the fairier sex.  Because I'm not one of those folks who insist that gay people can never be evil.  However, for a show set inside this particular milieu to only offer up this bottom-feeding creep as its token sop, seems an egregious statement.

One of the problems with accusing any bit of culture of being homophobic is that the term is bandied about too frequently and without much accuracy.  In this case, though, it fits.  Because the narrative does its darndest to make its poor models--and, by extension, you the viewer--afraid of this gay fiend.

In a previous post I surmised that this show's exec producer, Ashton Kutcher, is likely a smart guy and also potentially homophobic.  While this program hardly attests to his intelligence, it does seem to crystallize the last part of that description.

This show may be someone's idea of a beautiful life, but so far it isn't pretty.

Update: As of today (Sept. 25th) the show has been cancelled.  So, good work sensible viewers for not-totally-wretched TV.  Feel free to continue ignoring The CW every night except Thursday.

A Design Star Dream Deferred (Mine)

Something went seriously off the rails during TV time last night.  I'm not referring to Kanye's ego finally obliterating what little was left of his mind.  Rather I mean the outcome of a less-watched but equally dubious manipulation of the medium: the reveal of HGTV's Design Star of the year.

From the start the competition seemed to be Dan Vickery's (pictured above) to lose.  But I doubt many would have guessed he'd actually lose.  Dear reader, he did.

I have watched all four seasons of Design Star, having found it to be one of the least annoying talent competition shows.  But one thing that disappointed me during the previous three seasons: I didn't care much about who won.  By the time the show had whittled its way to a final twosome, I had always found them both deserving and ably talented.  However, I also knew I would not be watching the winner's show.  None of the previous six finalists were able to break through the blandness that inevitably settled in as we spent more time with each.  Thus I liked the show, but didn't care about the outcome.

That changed this year.  Neither Dan nor his co-finalist, Antonio, were blah.  But, to my mind, only one was deserving of the crown.  Dan's design skill and know-how trumped his competitors' efforts week to week.  Antonio served up a big, disaffected personality alongside relatively minor innovation and ingenuity.  The choice was clear.  Until logic went on a ski vacation with reason and Antonio was named the victor.

The whole megillah would have been easier to take, frankly, if there existed some transparency per the judges' decision.  In fact, this has been a major flaw since the show's inception.  The deliberations of the judges are rendered coy and inscrutable through the use of fast-cutting and never allowing any comment to be directly addressed to any contestant.  It comes across as a bunch of random ideas that shed little to no light on the final decision.  With this year being the first that the judges, rather than the home audience, pick the winner--that flaw has been rendered fatal.

For comparison picture a Project Runway where the contestant who showcases an ill-fitting skirt with a raw, unfinished hem is named the winner without any accompanying explanation.  It would be irritating, and could you still have faith in Michael Kors' design instincts?

The HGTV site has been inundated with angry responders.  So many, in fact, that the first batch of comments has been mysteriously removed and replaced by a more even-keeled selection.  As usual it's still descending into chaos, with Dan supporters railing against Antonio by calling him dirty (because of his tattoos) and talentless.  And people on the other side suggesting that Antonio is a better choice because he's not "so feminine."  Way to take the high road, people.

It's disappointing when something so right goes all wrong.  I don't watch any other programs on the HGTV network, but I was going to make time to give Mr. Vickery's show my attention.  Now I regret that I won't be able to do that and likely won't be watching Design Star again either.  I imagine the higher-ups won't feel too bad about the loss of another viewer--they're certainly not bemoaning their whole channel's loss of integrity.

The HD Hegemony of DirecTV

I have been feeling dismayed by the new season of Project Runway. My dissatisfaction is not rooted in its recent network change or cross-country move to Los Angeles (not a fashion capital, but still adequately equipped with fabric and thread). Rather it's the picture. It's the picture that got, well, not small but fuzzy.

That's because Lifetime, its new network, is not offered in high-def (HD) on my satellite provider, DirecTV. It's a big problem because this is a show that features a lot of bright lighting with white backgrounds. Also, one that encourages a viewer to look closely at small details, such as a bit of trim on the cuff of a sleeve. After all, you need to know exactly why Nina Garcia is employing that certain frown, and not one of the many others in her arsenal.

But distinguishing much of anything is a challenge. Because the image is so soft and the color saturation is so poor. After an hour I've got a headache. And I can't understand why this problem persists. Why does a service that endlessly trumpets its myriad HD capability refuse to add many of the most longstanding basic cable stations?

I decided to investigate. By going to the DirecTV website, I took a gander at the HD channels it has added recently and what is and is not available in high definition. In the past year the overwhelming majority of new HD offerings have been sports channels and packages. In fact, of the 100-plus channels available in HD, more than 50 are sports-centered.

What's not available? Lifetime, Hallmark, WE (Women's Entertainment), Style, E!, Oxygen, Soap channel, etc... Is it me, or do most of these channels have something in common? Namely, they are programmed for and mostly watched by women. These customers don't seem to have the same value as baseball fans.

Another show I had to stop watching because it looked awful was Beautiful People on Logo--the only gay and lesbian-directed channel on the dial. It's certainly very lonely since the PTB at DirecTV banished all of HereTV's content without any sort of explanation. (Don't try to talk me into Bravo. It's gay cred defenestrated itself a while ago, and I refuse to accept that all those bitchy housewives annoy just one demographic.)

Still, is this an effort to disenfranchise non-straight, non-sports-loving, non-males, or is this just aimless whining on my part? Maybe no providers offer these particular channels, you may posit. Well, many do. DishTV, for example, the other major satellite provider, offers most of them in HD. It even has adjacent channels like the Lifetime Movie Network and Hallmark Movie Channel in high-def. Many cable services are also more friendly to women and gay folk, and so are A.T.&T's U-Verse and Verizon's Fios services.

I thought DirecTV really ought to be more accountable to the full range of its subscribers. So I wrote them a letter outlining many of the concerns mentioned above. The response I received from Joan M. was a dismissive, "We don't have any news about upcoming HD channels." But it was the P.S. tacked on to the email that was the real kicker:

P. S. -Football season is almost here! Catch up to 14 games every week this fall with NFL SUNDAY TICKET, now available at directv.com/nfl.

P. P. S. -Joan, you and your satellite company just don't get it. The ball I'm most interested in watching is the one you guys have dropped. Maybe you could pick it up soon.

Like reading, GOOP is fundamental

It seems we've reached a saturation point with celebrity controversy. Because now you really have to go looking for the ones that don't involve sex tapes or a combo of the phrases "Disney starlet" and "stripper pole." For example, I was researching some info about a literary agent and suddenly found myself knee-deep in a contretemps between Gwyneth Paltrow and the publishing world's bloggers.

It seems Ms. Paltrow's web-destination, GOOP, has been flagged for recommending books it oughta not be recommending. Ones that serve the self-interests of her friends.

Disclaimer: I am greatly fond of Ms. Paltrow's work as an actor. I wish she'd cut through some of the extraneous goop that surrounds her and find the gumption to make more movies.

But I disagree with the literati in their castigation of her website's summer reading list.

Some of it's just plain ridiculous. Halogen Life has a problem with the list's referral to a large number of works by Alan Furst. In response to this Christopher Roy Correa writes, "So, any book by this guy. That helps." Well, if you've never heard of the author, it is helpful. And it's not like Alan Furst is equivocal to Jackie Collins.

But it seems that's also the problem. Many bloggers are attacking the highbrow nature of the selections. Ms. Paltrow herself lists both The Count of Monte Cristo and As I Lay Dying. Apparently, more people wish the site would follow the dictates of mass media outlets and simply enumerate the same trashy, fun beach-reads.

But the one criticism every site alludes to, first originated on Jezebel in reference to agent Luke Janklow's picks:
"For starters, Janklow himself appears to represent Tilly Bagshawe, author of Sidney Sheldon’s Mistress Of The Game, and Jilliane Hoffman, author of Plea Of Insanity. Of Hoffman, Janklow said in a press release, “Jilliane made my job as her agent incredibly easy – she wrote a perfect book.” Three other authors on Janklow’s recommendations list — Alex Wellen, Gideon Defoe, and Rafael Yglesias, are represented by other agents at Janklow’s agency. Andrew Gottlieb is repped by somebody at Janklow & Nesbit, and thanks Luke Janklow in his acknowledgements. That means of the six authors on Janklow’s recommendations list, his agency represents… six."

Many of these sites now impeach Ms. Paltrow as a corporate shill, but at best she is friend to a corporate shill. Further, to my mind, even that is dubious. Why is it surprising that Mr. Janklow has had opportunity to read mostly his own agency's authors? As a lit agent his time is likely taken up reading unpublished work and the fiction that he and his friends are hoping to support. And it's not like the GOOP is trying to conceal his identity or job function.

At the end of the day it all seems fairly disingenuous for these writers and sites devoted to the book business and its readers to attack someone trying to help their bottom lines. After all, just because a woman falls in love with Shakespeare, it doesn't mean he's the only author she's allowed to cuddle up with in bed.

It's Okay to Be a Qwitter

My friends, I have come here to praise and also bury Ashton Kutcher. Praise because the full-time celebrity crier is actually surprisingly smart and witty. Bury because, though the picture above belies the fact, what he needs most is less coverage.

Everywhere I turn, he's there. Ashton talking about his new movie Spread. Ashton promoting the new series he's producing on The CW. Ashton leading the charge of Twitter Nation. So much twitterpation around Mr. Kutcher, and yet my interest level keeps dropping.

The problem is this: he needs to limit himself. Because it would be a shame if, just as we the people were deciding he's not a poor man's Topher Grace with a weird family set-up, his ubiquity made us not care a whit.

One appearance he should not eschew, though, is his panel presence on Real Time w/ Bill Maher. Here is where he shines most brightly, giving opinions that convey political acumen far beyond your typical Chad Michael Murray interview. He knows his stuff; he's well read and his memory for detail is near-eidetic. Moreover, he's capable of arguing a point with enough tact and good humor that he doesn't come off as self-serious.

Though I would caution him against letting his emotions sally too far ahead of his logic. His animosity toward Dan Savage last year (And I'm still not clear as to why.) came across as unwarranted and homophobic.

To sum up, Mr. Kutcher is proving himself to be an above-average actor, producer, and thinker. Yet he's still routinely placed in the company of mindless self-promoters like Paris or Lindsay. My advice is to stop telling so much and only show up when it's really worthwhile. Maybe then an Ashton appearance will be a welcome treat, not just one more silly tweet.

P.S. - In pointing out to my friend how I had grown tired of looking at Ashton Kutcher's crotch, I realized "Ashton Kutcher's crotch" is a fantastic tongue-twister. Go ahead, try to say it five times fast.

Say My Name- Or Better Yet, Spell It

I was recently considering the fortunes of poor Better Off Ted. Such a good show, yet it can't even seem to muster traction during the summer months while little of worth is being shown on network TV. And I pondered why. My conclusion was that Ted would be better off with a different name.

Here's my hypothesis: Cutesy or clever titles for shows do not make viewers propagate in Peoria. The same guy (Victor Fresco) who is responsible for Ted also created Andy Richter Controls the Universe. Another preciously labeled series that never found significant viewership. Like Ted, it was also a funny and surreal workplace comedy. So, what if it had simply been called The Office? Too late now, that name's taken (for several seasons so far).

Taking a gander at the various popular TV shows over the past twenty years or so, a pattern emerges--simple one word titles or official-sounding initials are best. The highest rated program of the 1990's: E.R. The most popular scripted show of the past decade: C.S.I. By far the most watched comedies of the same period: Friends and Seinfeld.

If you're a network looking for mass market love, short really is sweet. To this day I'm still shocked that a show as refined, urbane, and witty as Frasier was a big hit for so long. But then it wasn't called Frasier Crane: Nutty Radio Doctor.

Heroes' single moniker has somehow reprieved the show through two abysmal seasons. And the executives programming for the summer interim have certainly figured out the formula. What are the shows that are currently recurring again? Monk, and Psych, and Eureka, and Weeds, and Leverage, and (The) Closer are just a few.

Still, success is not exclusively limited by one word or initials. But if the name's longer, it should be bland or indistinct. Think Private Practice, not Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles. Something like Dirty Sexy Money was doomed from the start. The title made it clear that it was trying too hard--well, the title and every episode of the show.

The New Adventures of Old Christine is an interesting case. It's a show that's been on the bubble at the end of every season since it began. Now CBS seems anxious to rebrand it. In promos the show is only ever referred to as Old Christine or simply, Christine. On the same network, How I Met Your Mother (so cutesy) has endured a slow climb to moderate ratings.

Your title can't be too smart for the room. Pushing Daisies was cunning. The name was code for the occupation of the deceased, but also alluded to the Sisyphean task of loving something you can never touch. It was toast. The wordsmithery behind Arrested Development was better and more elaborate than any title for anything ever. In every episode the Bluth clan exhibited all kinds of infantile and regressive behavior while residing in the unfinished model home that symbolized their S.E.C.-seized real estate business. How this show managed to hang on for three seasons, I'll never know.

The exceptions: a name can be moderately clever if it immediately and succintly explains your show's raison d'etre (minus any double entendre). For example, Desperate Housewives or Ghost Whisperer. Or a name can sound clever but actually be nonsensical: Two and a Half Men.

The name game functions for reality TV, too. In my opinion So You Think You Can Dance is a product superior to American Idol. But the latter's audience dwarfs the former. Why? Well, American Idol sounds iconic, even nationalistic. So You Think You Can Dance sounds like some kids' variety program you would have found on Nickelodeon in 1989.

Let me be clear and say that I'm not endorsing all of this uncomplicated banality. CSI: NY, NCIS: LA, Bones, House, etc... These names are so pointlessly enigmatic that some dullard will very soon suggest a film where Nic Cage searches for treasure using clues from the weekly TV schedule.

Looking ahead to the fall, based on my scientific research, some of the shows that will do well include Trauma, Glee, Modern Family, The Good Wife, and Eastwick. Programs with less happy prospects are Accidentally on Purpose and FlashForward. Also, unfortunately, Cougar Town falls onto its own double-sided petard, by being a show featuring Cougars (a high school football team) and cougars (ladies a little too interested in the high school football team). I hope I'm wrong, as I love me some Courtney Cox (forever the most unfairly under-celebrated Friend). Community is either too twee or just perfect, only time will tell.

The biggest question mark is NBC's five nights a week show merely called Jay Leno. The name means nothing to me, but let's see if he's any better off than Ted.

The Ugly Truth: The Fairer is Not the Fainter.

There is nothing egalitarian about the interweb. The people who most often and most ardently speak their minds on its various sites are not prone to fairness or restraint. As a race they seem impetuous and cavalier, not interested in reflection or proofreading. And that would explain the rampant disuse of grammar rules; the sheer number of comment posts that misspell every word including "and" and "the."

One celebrity currently facing vicious and unintelligible attacks by net denizens is Katherine Heigl. The Grey's Anatomy actor has recently had the temerity to complain about something on a chat show. A seventeen-hour workday, to be precise. This caused Lucy on EW.com to angrily respond, "seriously there are ppl out of work that would love a 17 hour day of hard labor, let alone a cushy acting job."

This remark is representative of many others floating in the ether, and wow, is it ever stupid. Because it ignores the context of Ms. Heigl's comment--she was being flippant, not aggreived. Moreover, Ms. Heigl, while surely all-powerful, did not create our situation of vast unemployment. And, though I agree that many people would like to find a job, I don't know of anyone who would "love" an extremely long day of hard labor.

Piling on top of the public's newfound distaste for Ms. Heigl, two of her former co-workers, Judd Apatow and Seth Rogen, publicly unveiled their own contemptuous opinions this week. About a year or two ago, Ms. Heigl responded to a direct question asked by a Vanity Fair reporter. In her answer she admitted that Knocked Up (directed by Apatow, co-starring Rogen) was "a little sexist." Now, Mr. Apatow claims he is still miffed because her comment wasn't followed by an apologetic call to him.

If I were Mr. Apatow, I would call Ms. Heigl and apologize for expecting an apology. Not just because he's too smart not to realize that the actor was hedging her bets by not calling the film exorbitantly sexist (to women and men). But also because, in his three films so far, only she has come close to embodying a woman with a fulsome personality. In fact, he might want to use the phone call to inquire about her availability for his next picture.

Mr. Rogen was much less diplomatic. "I've got to say it's not like we're the only people she said some batsh-- crazy things about," he told Howard Stern. "That's kind of her bag now."

Putting aside the fact that I generally enjoy Apatow and Rogen's output, it amazes me that these two men are apparently so thin-skinned. Anyone who has worked in or around the Hollywood culture knows that this is a place where even so-called friendly colleagues will tender vile and unrepeatable opinions at point-blank range. I can only guess that Mr. Rogen's success has insulated him too well, because how else to explain his still nursing hurt feelings (over a mild, offhand remark) that he needs to share with a nation.

In any event, plenty of hostiles on various sites agree with him, choosing to affirm his venom and diagnosing his co-star as "insane" and "bipolar." I have no doubt that these commentors received their psychiatric degrees from fine institutions, but let's examine Ms. Heigl's craziness a bit.

Who has she attacked? Really, just Isaiah Washington. And that was in response to his making cruel and bigoted statements about her friend. Who has she offended? The writers at Grey's Anatomy (maybe). She said her storylines for a particular season were not deserving of an Emmy. As someone who watched that entire season, I would have to say she was very right.

So really, what crimes has Katherine Heigl committed? Well, she's answered questions honestly. She's stood up against gay-bashing. And she's been considerate enough to step aside so as to insure that another actor will deservedly reap a reward.

These things may not make her popular with the haters, but they sure do make her egalitarian.

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.