Anthony Head, RIP

Giles, to most of us. 

Dabney Coleman, RIP

I had kinda forgotten all about him until seeing the obit, but I do remember Buffalo Bill very fondly.

In a 2010 interview with New York magazine, Mr. Coleman reflected with pleasure on the gallery of rapscallions he had played over the years.

“It’s fun playing those roles,” he said. “You get to do outlandish things; things that you want to do, probably, in real life, but you just don’t because you’re a civilized human being.”

Now we have a candidate for president who lacks that basic filter. I wish it were a sit-com rather than real life. 

Felicity

Roughly concurrently with the run of the greatest TV show of all time, another show featured an "innocent" but determined young woman making her way in the world. We watched the pilot of Felicity last night, and I doubt I'll watch many more episodes. Dated, earnest, and not really my demographic. But judging from the pilot, the show was really pretty good. And Keri Russell was already amazing. You see the steeliness and intelligence that made her so good in The Americans. There is a lot going on behind that angular, elegant, pretty face– vulnerability, sure, but also arrogance, and suppressed anger. 

Pee-wee, RIP

His show was an antic blend of kid stuff and double entendre. Something for everyone in the family.

Slow Horses

London Rules
Mick Herron

Laura and I have been watching "Slow Horses" on Apple TV, based on Mick Herron's Slough House spy novels. The show is not a classic, but it's pretty good, mostly because of Gary Oldman's portrayal of Jackson Lamb, the profane, acerbic, abusive, flatulent, chain-smoking, burnt-out, brilliant, and fallen MI5 spymaster. Laura gave me a recent novel from the series for Christmas, and I devoured it in about a day. Funny and thrilling, Herron's storytelling is something of a cross between le Carré and Elmore Leonard– you may have your doubts about that, but Herron proves it can be done. Oldman is so perfect in the role that I heard his voice throughout my reading– normally I find that an annoyance, but not in this case. Recommended.

Snow
John Banville

It's County Wexford, Ireland, 1957, and the "popular" parish priest has been murdered and disfigured in a rather rococo fashion. It won't be very long before you figure out that Father Tom had some moral lapses, to put it mildly, and made a few enemies. Banville's Protestant detective St. John Strafford is an appealing outsider protagonist, and the story unfolds nicely, even if some of it is a bit too predictable. Banville's prose is a pleasure to read.

Rockford

Yes. One of the best TV shows ever.

Bir Başkadır

Bir Başkadır, a title that someone at Netflix somehow decided to translate as Ethos (?!), is the best TV show I have seen in a long time. The Netflix site's capsulized description is: "A group of individuals in Istanbul transcend sociocultural boundaries and find connection as their fears and wishes intertwine." Fair enough. And Citizen Kane was about a boy and his sled.

For me Bir Başkadır brought to mind the works of great directors of family-based dramas like Ozu and Farhadi; the Farhadi connection is particularly apt given Bir Başkadır's explorations of gender and family dynamics in the context of a nominally Muslim society roiled by tensions between traditional/religious and modern/secular. Like Farhadi, the show's creator Berkun Oya uses the sociological backdrop to explore individual psychology and universal human themes. 

Oya has his own cinematic language. The show is built on dialogues, in the quite literal sense of two people talking. Each episode is constructed as a network of dyads: We sit in the room as A talks with B, then maybe B with C, and A with C, and B with D, etc. The camera focuses on the faces, almost always one at a time, in close-up. As they speak we ponder, are they talking with the other, or at the other, or to themselves, or against themselves? Some of the dialogues involve psychiatrists/ analysts... but who is analyzing whom, and which direction is the transference going?

As the old cliché would have it, the eyes are the windows of the soul, and Bir Başkadır certainly draws your attention to the eyes of its talking heads. But the camera also ranges around outside, whether downtown, or in the suburbs or countryside, and Oya finds beauty and mystery in the actual windows of the homes and vehicles in which his characters live and interact. 

In all of this Oya is assisted by an outstanding cast– most of all by Öykü Karayel, who plays the central character Meryem, a housekeeper living with her angry, frustrated, and not very bright brother and his damaged, possibly suicidal wife. All the dyads connect to Meryem, within one or two degrees of separation. Meryem is observant in more ways than one, and she is clever and funny. Karayel's eyes blaze, and her lips are plastic enough to express wonder, sadness, disdain, and ironic amusement within a span of moments. 

If I have a criticism, it is that the music can be obtrusive at times. But you know where the volume control is, and you will probably be reading the subtitles rather than following the talking anyway. 

Landscapers

We finished this HBO miniseries, based on a true story, last night. The film-making, with its occasional theatrical contrivances and flights of fancy, didn't always work for me. But on the plus side, you do get to watch possibly the greatest actor of our time, Olivia Colman, doing what she does, and very well. Who else could pull off creating an integrated character from this bundle of delusion, pathos, humor, affection, repression, and fury? David Thewlis, as her husband, is near-perfect as well. 

The Expanse

I've enjoyed this Amazon Prime space opera, which recently finished its fifth season. Humans have colonized Mars, and much of the drama revolves around the political tensions between Mars, Earth, and the "belters," the proles who mine the asteroid belt. Being subject to imperialist/extractive global powers, the belters are prone to revolutionary-nationalist impulses, and the more radical among them are capable of inflicting horrific violence on the innocent to gain their independence and respect... or fear. On top of all that, humans have to contend with mysterious and highly powerful artifacts left behind by ancient alien civilizations– in particular, the "protomolecule," which makes the novel coronavirus look pretty harmless!

The best thing about the show is its look and feel. From expansive outer-space scenes and alien landscapes to claustrophobic interiors, the producers have done a lot with their budget. Zero-G is convincingly rendered. Suspenseful set pieces make you feel like you are there. Whether they use CGI or models, the buildings, mines, and mountains are lovely to look at. Some of my favorite scenes show cargo containers docked at the space station Tycho, floating in rectangular blocks and looking for all the world like the cargo of ships docked at the Port of Oakland. Also enjoyable are the incredibly diverse casting, and the sometimes barely comprehensible patois of the belters.

Having said all that, what makes The Expanse feel a little flat compared with its predecessor, Battlestar Galactica? Well, I'm sorry to report, the dialogue and the acting: Clunky, and clunky. Too bad: It's damn near a classic.

An excellent mini-series I highly do NOT recommend to any northern Californians right now...

 Chernobyl

Robert Conrad, RIP

When I was a kid, "Wild Wild West" was absolutely my favorite TV show. It mixed the spy and western genres with an element of sci-fi, tongue all the while held firmly in cheek. I loved Conrad's character Jim West, but especially his sidekick Artemus Gordon, played by Ross Martin. Having seen it since, I realize now that the show was really quite campy, and quite bad. But at the time, it was fun to imagine myself a blend of the dashing West and the clever Gordon. The freeze-frame cliffhangers that preceded each commercial break undoubtedly helped prime me for whatever they were marketing. It's surely a part of me, somewhere, somehow.

Movies from books

Curious to see it, I convinced Laura last night to watch Bertrand Tavernier's Death Watch, a 1980 movie based on D.G. Compton's The Continuous Katherine Mortenhoe, recently praised here. The film, made by a respected director and starring respected actors (Harvey Keitel, Romy Schneider, Harry Dean Stanton), clocked in at a snoozy 130 minutes and basically sucked. Not only does the movie not stand on its own, but it messes with the novel's plot in a way that deprives the story of its power and profundity.

We're also watching the latest screen incarnation of His Dark Materials, based on the classic Pullman trilogy. At least the TV series seems to be true to the story line, and the production is nothing if not high-end. It's watchable. But the downfall here is the same as the downfall of the Harry Potter movies: Human kid actors are incapable of capturing the complexity and world-historical gravitas of fictional characters like Harry and Lyra. Or so it seems to me.

It's a cliché that the movie never lives up to the book, but of course that can't be true. Case in point: The Godfather, not to mention Blade Runner. (Full disclosure: I haven't read either book, but seriously...). But by and large the advice is sound: Read the book.

Game of Fleabags

I watched a bit of the Emmys tonight. I had watched some of the shows that were big winners. Regarding which: I'd give up about two or three seasons of Game of Thrones for an episode or two of Fleabag.

Buffy, again

Watching Season 1 from scratch. Within four episodes you know the main characters as if they were your best friends in high school too. You know they live on the hell mouth. You know that upon first laying eyes on each other, Buffy and Angel have fallen for each other hard, eternally, like the Juliet and Romeo they are. You know that Buffy loves and respects her mom, and vice versa, no matter how bad it's been... and it's been bad. You know that Willow and Xander would willingly go to hell and back and even transcend their stereotypical teenage selves for their new best friend Buffy... and not just because– in spite of being so much cooler and beautiful than they are– she treats them like human beings, but because, yeah, she is the Chosen One, and that's, like, really really important. You know that Giles is smart, lonely, and (mostly) platonically smitten with this strange creature he is nominally in charge of. Most of all, you get Buffy, TV's single greatest creation.

Meanwhile, as a bonus, you also get ridiculously clever plots, and even more ridiculously clever dialogue. This is the TV show that loves our crazy English language more than any other.

Our old DVDs are a bit fuzzy on our ridiculously large screen. And apparently the HD versions are insultingly badly rendered. Mr. Whedon, this is your claim to immortality, so why don't you spend a few of your well-earned dollars and give us the definitive version that we, and you, deserve?

Sex and pop culture

I'll get to that momentarily...

Laura and I spent four nights in beautiful Ashland, OR, last week. Lovely place, even as the oppressive smoke from various wildfires drifted in and out. We took in a couple plays, rafted the Rogue, and shopped for local crafts, wine, and peaches.

Smoke is a serious issue. Ashland's Oregon Shakespeare Festival has had to cancel many of their outdoor performances this season, taking a $2 million hit. We had tickets to Romeo and Juliet, which was moved to the local high school auditorium due to hazardous smoke levels. We opted instead to trade in our tickets for their indoor production of Oklahoma!

This Oklahoma! came with a trendy twist: both of the lead couples were same-sex. I'm not fond of musicals; I prefer my Rodgers with Hart; and politically correct theatre generally leaves me cold. Three strikes... but I loved it. The performers were first-rate and the staging was brilliant. I couldn't help thinking that the bawdy, leering, but good-natured double entendre and physical theatre (think butter churn operated vigorously between trans legs) would be considered distasteful if not oppressive in a "straight" production... but the LGBTQ version was liberated, and liberating. Bravo!

Meanwhile, we've been watching The Innocents on Netflix. It's mostly a snooze. Perfunctory plot involving some shady researchers and reluctant shape-shifting human guinea pigs. Beautiful locations squandered. But the leads, a couple of innocent teenagers in love, keep your attention. Spoiler alert: In Episode 4 they finally do it. Tender– a little bit of heat, a little bit of flesh. True love. Then by Episode 5 we are back to the standard fare of smart characters acting dumb. So disappointing.

While in Ashland, we also escaped the smoke one night to watch BlacKkKlansman. I liked it a lot... but that's a topic for another post. Suffice to say that there is less exothermal chemistry between the two leads in Spike's joint than there is between the kids in The Innocents, or between the same-sex farmers and ranchers in Oklahoma! Thank goodness for the youngsters and gay folk who are keeping sex safe for entertainment.

The most perfect 15-second TV commercial ever?

Apparently there is a longer version that provides context, but frankly I like the mystery and gentle melancholy here. Lovely.

The Americans finale – no spoiler

I had been losing interest during the last season, as Elizabeth increasingly became a caricature – worse, a monster. And as the end approached, I worried that the show would cop out and try to redeem her.

In a way, it did, but in a manner absolutely true to the narrative arc. It was possibly the best series finale I have seen. The tone was pitch-perfect, the acting flawless, the mini-revelations providing a jolt or two. It reminded us how great the show has been in the little things, including the secondary characters: extra special kudos to Brandon J. Dirden (Dennis), and Boris Krutonog (Oleg's dad).

Like most great series, it is a love story. Sure, Philip and Elizabeth, but also Philip and Stan. Without providing a spoiler, McDonalds plays a major role: What could be more iconically American, and more ambiguous? People are talking about the train scene, but how about the parking garage scene: simple, elegant, devastating, final, even bleakly funny. It is unlikely to be surpassed.

River

The BBC-by-way-of-Netflix series, that is. It's far from perfect. But you'll forgive all the flaws because, as the schizophrenic detective River, Stellan Skarsgård gives one of the greatest character portrayals in TV history. His voice is so lazily mellifluous, I'd be happy just to hear him read the phone book (or Wikipedia). But he also pours every inch of his lanky, stiffly shambling body into the role– it is a complete performance. He gets some excellent support, especially from Nicola Walker, as his main hallucination, and Adeel Akhtar, as his stoical, angelic partner... and the city of London. Overplotted, melodramatic at times, River pushes some heavy themes: lunacy, and loss. But mostly it is about love. And Skarsgård will convince you that love is all that really matters.

Westworld

We could all use a little thoughtful escapism right now. And HBO's Westworld has turned out to be an unexpectedly good high-concept entertainment. The premise, based loosely on the bad 70s movie of the same title, is so ridiculously contrived, it seems impossible that it could work. And things do not get off to a promising start: The cheesy title sequence and theme music lead you to expect that this will be an exploitative, sci-fi Game of Thrones knock-off – a suspicion only confirmed by the graphic if cartoonish violence and gratuitous brothel scenes.

But after a couple episodes it becomes clear that the creators have outsized ambitions, and maybe the chops to back them up. Their theme is identity as narrative, and you can't get much higher concept than that. Interestingly, for all its glorious canyon-country scenery and wild-west gun battles, the show's most effective scenes take place in the quiet, sterile workshop where the robotic "hosts" are patched up and re-programmed to fulfill the expensive fantasies of the theme park's next cohort of human guests. Naked, completely at the command of their technicians (who are in turn proletarians serving at the pleasure of a shadowy corporate board), the hosts are treated as the pieces of capital they are, until, occasionally, traumatic memories of narratives past start to leak into their circuitry. From there: consciousness, morality, identity, and agency. Maybe.

3

I'm not big on vampire stories*, and X-Files without Scully is hardly X-Files at all, but I found this episode from Season 2 pretty compelling. David Duchovny is more sad-eyed and sleazy than ever, pining for the disappeared Dana, anxiously fingering her cross pendant as he is tempted by an alluring maybe-vampire lady. The investigation finds him slumming it in a vamp bar in LA, with a classic vampy LA punk song on the jukebox. By X, of course.

* With the obvious exception of Buffy.