For many years — decades, even — French writers and directors thought of television as the ugly stepchild of cinema. There were few connections between the two fields: No filmmaker would consider working for the small screen. Which isn't to say that there weren't good shows, but even the best were considered inferior to movies. This is pretty crazy, as we had some good home-grown TV. I remember avidly watching miniseries like La Poupée sanglante , Les Rois maudits (the original, not the remake), and series like Les Nouvelles aventures de Vidocq (ah, the saucy Danièle Lebrun, my childhood crush), Arsène Lupin and Chéri-Bibi.
Things began to change in the early 1990s, when the French-German ARTE channel started drawing film directors to work on miniseries and films that often also played in cinemas at the same time as they were broadcast. André Téchiné's Wild Reeds, for instance, started off as a 60-minute made-for-ARTE movie.
But this was all pretty arty. The latest development has been the marked improvement of commercial French series — especially the ones produced by Canal Plus — and most of them influenced by HBO. Thanks to my family's busy DVR recorder, I've been able to watch quite a few. My favorites so far have been Engrenages, a great procedural that wrapped its third season in June, and Pigalle, entirely shot docu-style on location. Appeal to IFC: Show them in the US!
I had mixed feelings about Braquo, about a cop with ethical issues played by Jean-Hughes Anglade, but watched the whole first season anyway. And I haven't been very far with Mafiosa, even though it takes place in Corsica.
Right now I'm in the middle of Maison close, which takes place in a high-end Parisian brothel in 1871, right after the Commune. It's pretty good so far, even though some of the aesthetic choices are slightly cheesy. Playing George Jackson's "If I Could Open Up My Heart" while two prostitutes put on a sapphic show for a client's benefit was the equivalent of a runny brie. Still, there's good stuff in there. I even like the sour lesbian madame hopelessly in love with her star employee. It's a cliché character straight out of the 1950s, and nobody in the US would dare show someone like this now. That's something I regret, in a twisted way, as it only adds to the pulpy ambiance. Here's the start of the first episode.
Showing posts with label TV. Show all posts
Showing posts with label TV. Show all posts
Thursday, December 02, 2010
Tuesday, September 07, 2010
From the land Down Under, part 3
I didn't spend all my time in Oz drinking coffee and going to footy games: I also went to the theater (more on that on my NY Post blog) and caught some TV. Some random thoughts on the latter experience.
After watching most of the audition week of the local X Factor (already a hit in the UK, US version coming soon), I can only say that I'm now so hooked that I'm going to follow the proceedings online to see if my favorites (see below) make it through. The four judges are singer Natalie Imbruglia, former Australian Idol judge Kyle Sandilands (trying waaaay too hard to emulate Simon Cowell), baby-faced Australian Idol winner Guy Sebastian and former Boyzone member Ronan Keating. Most striking was the candidates' sweetness and naivete — several looked almost paralyzed by shyness. This was in stark contrast to the way many American contestants show up with outsize egos and an often-lengthy history of performing.
In addition, there's four categories of candidates: groups, under 25 males, under 25 females and anybody over 25 — OMG, fogies with, like, wrinkles! This opens up the competition to seasoned people with real histories behind them. I was particularly taken, for instance, with 40-year-old Tony from Perth. His audition performance of "Proud Mary" was the epitome of rugged manliness. Also impressive was 20-year-old apprentice hairdresser Sally, with a dignified cover of Xtina's Hurt."
Another big difference: openly gay candidates (yay, Hayley). Cute.
Another TV favorite was a reality show called The Farmer Wants a Wife, which follows six country folk in various Australian states as they look for a suitable mate. Highlight of the one episode I caught was when the date between cattle farmer Charlie and equine dentist Christy was cut short after she was bitten by a redback spider and had to be taken to the emergency room. (Perhaps this is what inspired me to purchase a pair of Redback boots later on.) Note that the title is deceiving since the farmers include Becky, a woman from South Australia looking for a husband. She seemed to hit it off with an explosives technician from the Northern Territory.
Finally, homegrown pride is very important in the Australian film and TV industry. Every time an American flick starred a local, the trailer or promo blared "featuring Australia's so-and-so." A commercial for new Oz series Cops L.A.C. boasted "with a great Aussie cast!"
After watching most of the audition week of the local X Factor (already a hit in the UK, US version coming soon), I can only say that I'm now so hooked that I'm going to follow the proceedings online to see if my favorites (see below) make it through. The four judges are singer Natalie Imbruglia, former Australian Idol judge Kyle Sandilands (trying waaaay too hard to emulate Simon Cowell), baby-faced Australian Idol winner Guy Sebastian and former Boyzone member Ronan Keating. Most striking was the candidates' sweetness and naivete — several looked almost paralyzed by shyness. This was in stark contrast to the way many American contestants show up with outsize egos and an often-lengthy history of performing.
In addition, there's four categories of candidates: groups, under 25 males, under 25 females and anybody over 25 — OMG, fogies with, like, wrinkles! This opens up the competition to seasoned people with real histories behind them. I was particularly taken, for instance, with 40-year-old Tony from Perth. His audition performance of "Proud Mary" was the epitome of rugged manliness. Also impressive was 20-year-old apprentice hairdresser Sally, with a dignified cover of Xtina's Hurt."
Another big difference: openly gay candidates (yay, Hayley). Cute.
Another TV favorite was a reality show called The Farmer Wants a Wife, which follows six country folk in various Australian states as they look for a suitable mate. Highlight of the one episode I caught was when the date between cattle farmer Charlie and equine dentist Christy was cut short after she was bitten by a redback spider and had to be taken to the emergency room. (Perhaps this is what inspired me to purchase a pair of Redback boots later on.) Note that the title is deceiving since the farmers include Becky, a woman from South Australia looking for a husband. She seemed to hit it off with an explosives technician from the Northern Territory.
Finally, homegrown pride is very important in the Australian film and TV industry. Every time an American flick starred a local, the trailer or promo blared "featuring Australia's so-and-so." A commercial for new Oz series Cops L.A.C. boasted "with a great Aussie cast!"
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Swedish Glee
The Dilettante's Special Stockholm Correspondent (soon! soon!) has alerted me to the existence of a Swedish TV show called Körslaget, which is about competing choirs. Sounds familiar? You bet!
The concept was developed by a Swedish singer named Caroline af Ugglas (whose own 2009 Melodifestivalen entry was a bizarrely intense ballad titled "Snälla Snälla") and it was adapted by NBC under the title Clash of the Choirs for a short-lived run. The Swedish version was a lot more successful, with popular singers leading choirs culled from their home towns.
Aside from the age of the contestants — and having Abba songs instead of show tunes — it's hard not to see a certain resemblance in musical approach between Körslaget and a little series called Glee. Check out Abba's "Does Your Mother Know" by Team Magnus (that would be Magnus Carlsson from Alcazar), Iron Maiden's "Run to the Hills" by Team Lotte (dansband singer Lotte Engberg) and a car-crash cover of Katy Perry's "I Kissed a Girl" by Team Pontare (Roger Pontare, who represented Sweden at Eurovision twice).
And then people wonder why Sweden is my spiritual home…
The concept was developed by a Swedish singer named Caroline af Ugglas (whose own 2009 Melodifestivalen entry was a bizarrely intense ballad titled "Snälla Snälla") and it was adapted by NBC under the title Clash of the Choirs for a short-lived run. The Swedish version was a lot more successful, with popular singers leading choirs culled from their home towns.
Aside from the age of the contestants — and having Abba songs instead of show tunes — it's hard not to see a certain resemblance in musical approach between Körslaget and a little series called Glee. Check out Abba's "Does Your Mother Know" by Team Magnus (that would be Magnus Carlsson from Alcazar), Iron Maiden's "Run to the Hills" by Team Lotte (dansband singer Lotte Engberg) and a car-crash cover of Katy Perry's "I Kissed a Girl" by Team Pontare (Roger Pontare, who represented Sweden at Eurovision twice).
And then people wonder why Sweden is my spiritual home…
Monday, January 26, 2009
Is The L Word a Republican show?
There are two kinds of televised black holes, and I was sucked into both of them lately.
The first is when you become addicted to a TV series that's been going on for a while and catch up with it on DVD: You then sink into a black hole in which you compulsively watch episode after episode, wasting entire nights and weekends. Let's just say that the Sheila and I finally discovered the current iteration of Battlestar Galactica this weekend and were sucked into it. Don't even try to ask us for dinner over the next few weeks: when we're not at the theater, we'll be home watching this space opera.
The second kind of black hole is conjured by someone whose talent doesn't match his/her ego, leading to a rather different kind of sucking. Here, let me introduce you to Ilene Chaiken, the brain (I use the term loosely) behind The L Word. I've now watched the first four episodes of the new and last season, and I can only say that Chaiken has got to be one of the most inept writers to ever be put in charge of a TV series. It's not that crazy things can't happen on soaps, but they have to have an internal logic: they couldn't happen in our world, but they can make perfect sense within one specific fictional universe—which is why I can buy Cylons bent on destroying humanity in Battlestar Galactica, but I can't even buy the girls having breakfast together on The L Word, let alone some of the most delusional plot developments (imagine highly ironic quotation marks around the previous two words) cooked up by Chaiken.
But beyond these technical problems, my core issue with the show—and one that hasn't been raised, I believe—is that its value system is screwed up to the nth degree. I would argue that underneath its libertine surface and despite paying lip service to feminist issues, The L Word is a Republican show, and that is why it feels so jarring these days.
First, the entire show feels like a gated community: Let's live among people who are identical to ourselves and shut out all the others. Throwing in a black lesbian or a deaf one doesn't change anything to the suffocating sameness that binds the characters.
Second, the precepts followed by these women—except for Kit, Tasha and Max—include crushing the "little people," lying, cheating, abusing power, consuming conspicuously, worshipping money and appearances.
Take Bette, for instance. She's adored by the fans because Jennifer Beals is hottt and she also manages to make the character more sympathetic than she actually is. But look at Bette's words and actions: In addition to being a serial cheater, she's a rather unappealing snob who treats the people she perceives as inferiors like dirt (witness her recent and repulsive outburst when she called a hospital clerk a maggot) and often abuses her position (the episode with the grad student, and worse, when she tried to fire Jodi out of spite and with no professional grounds).
Or take Tina, Bette's girlfriend. She's had a different personality every season—only Helena had more—but one thing has remained constant: she's a spoiled, judgemental bourgeoise. Just recently, she was acting all superior because Bette has a bad record when it comes to faithfulness. But Tina herself had affairs! And her mild blond exterior only camouflages rather ugly behavior, like the way she treated her lesbian friends when she lived with a man.
And of course there's Jenny. It's fine that she's a total psychopath, every show needs one. But what I find jarring is that the other characters seem to think she's merely a wacky artiste. Jenny should be the series' über-villainess, recognized as such and used as such in terms of storytelling. Instead, the last season's bad girl was club promoter Dawn Denbo—compared to Jenny, a lightweight in the evil department. So yes, I find it completely insane that supposedly sympathetic characters tolerate Jenny in their midst. Kick her out of the holy circle and fight her! That way you'd get actual stories, instead of what passes for plot on The L Word: endless processing about relationships.
The first is when you become addicted to a TV series that's been going on for a while and catch up with it on DVD: You then sink into a black hole in which you compulsively watch episode after episode, wasting entire nights and weekends. Let's just say that the Sheila and I finally discovered the current iteration of Battlestar Galactica this weekend and were sucked into it. Don't even try to ask us for dinner over the next few weeks: when we're not at the theater, we'll be home watching this space opera.
The second kind of black hole is conjured by someone whose talent doesn't match his/her ego, leading to a rather different kind of sucking. Here, let me introduce you to Ilene Chaiken, the brain (I use the term loosely) behind The L Word. I've now watched the first four episodes of the new and last season, and I can only say that Chaiken has got to be one of the most inept writers to ever be put in charge of a TV series. It's not that crazy things can't happen on soaps, but they have to have an internal logic: they couldn't happen in our world, but they can make perfect sense within one specific fictional universe—which is why I can buy Cylons bent on destroying humanity in Battlestar Galactica, but I can't even buy the girls having breakfast together on The L Word, let alone some of the most delusional plot developments (imagine highly ironic quotation marks around the previous two words) cooked up by Chaiken.
But beyond these technical problems, my core issue with the show—and one that hasn't been raised, I believe—is that its value system is screwed up to the nth degree. I would argue that underneath its libertine surface and despite paying lip service to feminist issues, The L Word is a Republican show, and that is why it feels so jarring these days.
First, the entire show feels like a gated community: Let's live among people who are identical to ourselves and shut out all the others. Throwing in a black lesbian or a deaf one doesn't change anything to the suffocating sameness that binds the characters.
Second, the precepts followed by these women—except for Kit, Tasha and Max—include crushing the "little people," lying, cheating, abusing power, consuming conspicuously, worshipping money and appearances.
Take Bette, for instance. She's adored by the fans because Jennifer Beals is hottt and she also manages to make the character more sympathetic than she actually is. But look at Bette's words and actions: In addition to being a serial cheater, she's a rather unappealing snob who treats the people she perceives as inferiors like dirt (witness her recent and repulsive outburst when she called a hospital clerk a maggot) and often abuses her position (the episode with the grad student, and worse, when she tried to fire Jodi out of spite and with no professional grounds).
Or take Tina, Bette's girlfriend. She's had a different personality every season—only Helena had more—but one thing has remained constant: she's a spoiled, judgemental bourgeoise. Just recently, she was acting all superior because Bette has a bad record when it comes to faithfulness. But Tina herself had affairs! And her mild blond exterior only camouflages rather ugly behavior, like the way she treated her lesbian friends when she lived with a man.
And of course there's Jenny. It's fine that she's a total psychopath, every show needs one. But what I find jarring is that the other characters seem to think she's merely a wacky artiste. Jenny should be the series' über-villainess, recognized as such and used as such in terms of storytelling. Instead, the last season's bad girl was club promoter Dawn Denbo—compared to Jenny, a lightweight in the evil department. So yes, I find it completely insane that supposedly sympathetic characters tolerate Jenny in their midst. Kick her out of the holy circle and fight her! That way you'd get actual stories, instead of what passes for plot on The L Word: endless processing about relationships.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Becky Shaw rulz
Let me join the chorus praising Gina Gionfriddo's new play, Becky Shaw, at Second Stage. I can't even remember the last time I laughed so much at the theater, and not once did I feel my intelligence had been insulted. The show is also rather well constructed, though the plot's twists and turns, as satisfying as they are, are almost secondary compared to the fact that all the characters have more than one side, revealing a wealth of new complexities as the play progresses.
Plus let it be said again: Gionfriddo brings on the funny.
I don't know if she got her day job as a writer/producer on Law & Order because her lines are tight and snappy or if it's the L&O gig that's trained her to be tight and snappy, and theatergoers are benefiting. It's a chicken-and-egg situation, though a decision either way may be of interest to those who enroll in playwriting programs. If you're an aspiring author, is it worth getting into debt to get an MFA at Brown or should you send your résumé to Dick Wolfe?
Now the thing with Gionfriddo is that she did go to Brown before landing at L&O. I'd be curious to know how she rates what she learned at both places, and how they affected her playwriting.
Completely unrelated: I realize this blog hasn't gone metal in a while, but I'm listening to the entire Bathory oeuvre for an assignment so get ready for some blackened thoughts very soon.
Plus let it be said again: Gionfriddo brings on the funny.
I don't know if she got her day job as a writer/producer on Law & Order because her lines are tight and snappy or if it's the L&O gig that's trained her to be tight and snappy, and theatergoers are benefiting. It's a chicken-and-egg situation, though a decision either way may be of interest to those who enroll in playwriting programs. If you're an aspiring author, is it worth getting into debt to get an MFA at Brown or should you send your résumé to Dick Wolfe?
Now the thing with Gionfriddo is that she did go to Brown before landing at L&O. I'd be curious to know how she rates what she learned at both places, and how they affected her playwriting.
Completely unrelated: I realize this blog hasn't gone metal in a while, but I'm listening to the entire Bathory oeuvre for an assignment so get ready for some blackened thoughts very soon.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
The gaying of Thanksgiving
A few days ago, I was hyperventilatingly anticipating the debut of Rosie O'Donnell's variety show. I ended up not being able to watch it live, but caught up with the finest moments the following day—it was part of our post-feast Thanksgiving TV entertainment, along with last year's Radio City Christmas Spectacular (the year the most excellent Linda Haberman started reshaping the Rockettes in particular and the show in general) and Pee-wee's Playhouse Christmas Special from 1988. (Needless to say, this was a rather gay Thanksgiving. Thanks Brett and David!)
Anyway, Rosie's special was quite the cheesefest. How can she mean so well and do so wrong? It's all fixable though: She basically needs to refrain from putting herself in almost every number. I realize this is hard to fathom for someone like Rosie, endowed with both a prodigious ego and an unfettered enthusiasm for all things Broadway that, while endearing, gives her the misguided desire to be onstage with her idols. I do have to admit that "City Lights," the number I was gushing about before seeing the show, delivered because Rosie did it with Liza herself, and the sight of them desperately selling razzmatazz was chilling. At one point Liza did a bizarre high kick, which we replayed over and over, split between disbelief, hilarity and a certain joy at Liza's manic need to entertain. Still, if this is what we can expect from her upcoming show at the Palace, I'm a little scared.
Thanksgiving is my absolute favorite American holiday because it's just an opportunity to have good food and good times with friends. There's no god, no presents, no pressure. Not having family here, the Sheila and I usually end up with similar strays, who tend to be from foreign lands or gay or both. For us, it's a great time to enjoy our new life in our adoptive country.
Anyway, Rosie's special was quite the cheesefest. How can she mean so well and do so wrong? It's all fixable though: She basically needs to refrain from putting herself in almost every number. I realize this is hard to fathom for someone like Rosie, endowed with both a prodigious ego and an unfettered enthusiasm for all things Broadway that, while endearing, gives her the misguided desire to be onstage with her idols. I do have to admit that "City Lights," the number I was gushing about before seeing the show, delivered because Rosie did it with Liza herself, and the sight of them desperately selling razzmatazz was chilling. At one point Liza did a bizarre high kick, which we replayed over and over, split between disbelief, hilarity and a certain joy at Liza's manic need to entertain. Still, if this is what we can expect from her upcoming show at the Palace, I'm a little scared.
Thanksgiving is my absolute favorite American holiday because it's just an opportunity to have good food and good times with friends. There's no god, no presents, no pressure. Not having family here, the Sheila and I usually end up with similar strays, who tend to be from foreign lands or gay or both. For us, it's a great time to enjoy our new life in our adoptive country.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Stage frights
The night’s oddity was an ominous electronic remix of “The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy,” throbbing and tinkling as Ms. Brightman, dressed like Little Red Riding Hood, pedaled a (stationary) bicycle through darkness with holographic wolves looming nearby. She was rapping, “Even if you cry you won’t be heard,” and wailing, “It’s just in my mind!”The review of Sarah Brightman's show at Madison Square Garden makes it sound right up my alley. Why wasn't I there? Why oh why oh why?!? This is the kind of nutso showbiz move I just adore.
At least I will be home tomorrow evening for the premiere of Rosie O'Donnell's new live variety show. I was already feeling warm and fuzzy toward it—I'll watch anything that involves "Broadway dancers, celebrity appearances, musical acts and comedy sketches"—but the news that the program will open with "City Lights" from the Kander & Ebb musical The Act (directed by Martin Scorsese!) makes it unmissable. Yes, they are going to do this:
Okay, now picture it with Rosie instead of Liza. It's going to be a moment for the ages, and it'll be witnessed by all the show-tunes freaks of America. How could this not do well in the ratings? Actually, don't answer that, especially if you work for NBC.
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
Stormy weather in Shondaland
I know we're supposed to be all sunny and positive until at least the end of the week but life goes on—even if some TV characters clearly don't. So here I am, venting about the recent dismissal of my favorite Grey's Anatomy actor/character over on the Time Out New York blog. Oh well, at least I will gain an extra hour a week since that show is now officially retired from my viewing schedule.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Burning up the French screens
Burning up the French television screens, that is—and it's philosophy we're talking about. If you live in France, this fall you can watch a new show that explores all kinds of topics in a philosophical light. This isn't new for the country: In my last year of high school there, I had eight hours of philosophy a week (I was in the so-called literary section, but still), and the popular monthly Philosophie Magazine has features like Manu Chao chatting with his old philosophy teacher.
Anyway, the format of the new TV show is really intriguing: In each installment, host Raphaël Enthoven discusses a single topic with a guest. The hook: It's all shot in a 26-minute-long single take! It doesn't hurt that Enthoven is a hottie who not only writes books about Kant and Montaigne, and contributes to the aforementioned mag, among other publications, but used to be married to Bernard-Henry Levy's daughter Justine, whom he left for…Carla Bruni. This collision of celeb-watching and matters of the mind makes me incredibly giddy for some reason.
Anyway, the format of the new TV show is really intriguing: In each installment, host Raphaël Enthoven discusses a single topic with a guest. The hook: It's all shot in a 26-minute-long single take! It doesn't hurt that Enthoven is a hottie who not only writes books about Kant and Montaigne, and contributes to the aforementioned mag, among other publications, but used to be married to Bernard-Henry Levy's daughter Justine, whom he left for…Carla Bruni. This collision of celeb-watching and matters of the mind makes me incredibly giddy for some reason.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Girls girls girls
It has been a faboo week for awesome babes.
First, Karita Mattila as the titular sex-crazed vamp and would-be exotic dancer in Richard Strauss's Salome at the Met. Hottt! I was lucky to be close enough to see the work that goes into a performance like this one (the opera starts at a fever pitch and unrelentingly stays there for all of its 100 minutes, and Salome is in every single scene, even when not actually singing). When she took her curtain call, Mattila was visibly drained, heavily breathing as she was trying to come back down to 2008 New York.
The next day I saw Paula West and the George Mesterhazy Quartet at the Oak Room. West is my favorite interpreter of jazz, pop and Great American Songbook standards right now: Nobody gets even close. It's that simple. The set cannily mixed obscure selections and well-known chestnuts, but she breathed new life even in songs I've heard a gazillion times and thought I could do without at this point (Mersterhazy's slinky arrangement of Rodgers & Hart's "I Wish I Were in Love Again" was particularly inspired). West finished her set with a glorious version of Dylan's "Like a Rolling Stone." It was lump-in-throat time.
Then I belatedly caught up with the latest episode of Grey's Anatomy, which throws some of my fave actresses (all seen on the New York stage too, thank you very much) into a hot mess of medically flavored soap-opera shenanigans: What other show on TV has Sandra Oh, Chandra Wilson, Sara Ramirez and Brooke Smith? I can even deal with Katherine Heigl and Ellen "meh" Pompeo doesn't overly bug me. Plus Ramirez and Smith's characters are becoming entangled in a lesbionic relationship, so it's all gravy. That is, until Shonda Rhimes messes with them, ’cause that's just the way things roll on Grey. All in due time ladies, all in due time.
Even more belatedly I discovered Little Jackie's debut album, The Stoop, which is my default music for pretty much everything right now: at the gym, on the way to the office in the morning, back from the office at night, walking hideous Tenth Avenue to get coffee. Imani Coppola completely gets living in New York—particularly Brooklyn—in 2008 in a way that reminds me of how Lily Allen gets living in London.
Little Jackie "LOL" (from The Stoop, 2008)
First, Karita Mattila as the titular sex-crazed vamp and would-be exotic dancer in Richard Strauss's Salome at the Met. Hottt! I was lucky to be close enough to see the work that goes into a performance like this one (the opera starts at a fever pitch and unrelentingly stays there for all of its 100 minutes, and Salome is in every single scene, even when not actually singing). When she took her curtain call, Mattila was visibly drained, heavily breathing as she was trying to come back down to 2008 New York.
The next day I saw Paula West and the George Mesterhazy Quartet at the Oak Room. West is my favorite interpreter of jazz, pop and Great American Songbook standards right now: Nobody gets even close. It's that simple. The set cannily mixed obscure selections and well-known chestnuts, but she breathed new life even in songs I've heard a gazillion times and thought I could do without at this point (Mersterhazy's slinky arrangement of Rodgers & Hart's "I Wish I Were in Love Again" was particularly inspired). West finished her set with a glorious version of Dylan's "Like a Rolling Stone." It was lump-in-throat time.
Then I belatedly caught up with the latest episode of Grey's Anatomy, which throws some of my fave actresses (all seen on the New York stage too, thank you very much) into a hot mess of medically flavored soap-opera shenanigans: What other show on TV has Sandra Oh, Chandra Wilson, Sara Ramirez and Brooke Smith? I can even deal with Katherine Heigl and Ellen "meh" Pompeo doesn't overly bug me. Plus Ramirez and Smith's characters are becoming entangled in a lesbionic relationship, so it's all gravy. That is, until Shonda Rhimes messes with them, ’cause that's just the way things roll on Grey. All in due time ladies, all in due time.
Even more belatedly I discovered Little Jackie's debut album, The Stoop, which is my default music for pretty much everything right now: at the gym, on the way to the office in the morning, back from the office at night, walking hideous Tenth Avenue to get coffee. Imani Coppola completely gets living in New York—particularly Brooklyn—in 2008 in a way that reminds me of how Lily Allen gets living in London.
Little Jackie "LOL" (from The Stoop, 2008)
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
I go to Fashion Week
Actually, I didn't go to Fashion Week—but my name did. In the last episode of Gossip Girl Blair comes up with a seating chart for a fashion show, and eagle eyes spotted me in the third row. This, my friends, is madness! Anybody who knows me (or has just seen me) knows that Fashion Week is pretty much the last place I'd check out in New York. It does make the sighting even more delicious, I have to admit. In fact it's even better than when some anonymous tipster suggested to a gossip site that I was leading a double life as an escort (and a 28-year-old escort at that). Have I become a meme?As far as the seating chart goes, I was intrigued by the fact that I was right behind Vogue editrix Anna Wintour but in front of New York magazine's Adam Moss. It feels as if the show's writers had pulled names out of a hat—well, my name.
It's actually ironic that I'd make a guest appearance on Gossip Girl as I've only watched a couple of half episodes; the machinations of spoiled Upper East Side children aren't that interesting. Not to mention that like Dirty Sexy Money and 90210, the series' slavish fascination with the lifestyles of the rich feels a little…out of touch these days. I love escapist television as much as anybody (more later about my infatuation with Grey's Anatomy) but there's something too calculating, too cynical about Gossip Girl and its ilk. I'd rather watch the show's clear inspiration, Cruel Intentions, again. Sarah Michelle Gellar, Reese Witherspoon and Selma Blair, plus lesbionic action? Clearly there's no contest.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Bring the Supersizers to America!
The Dilettante's London spies have reported that they're quite keen on a new series called The Supersizers Go…, in which food critic Giles Coren and comedian Sue Perkins follow the diet of a specific British era for a week, then check in with a doctor.
Here's an excerpt from their Regency jaunt:
And something from the 1970s:
Now at a time when some claim to see a resemblance between Sarah Palin and Tina Fey, it's clear that the real Tina Fey lookalike is Sue Perkins. Perkins is pretty unknown on our side of the Atlantic, though she's built quite a rep in the UK, and she even made the tabloids when her ex Rhona Cameron outed her on a reality-TV show. This will only give more ammo to my colleague Adam Feldman, who has a theory that all the funny women now are gay. Except for Tina Fey, alas.
Here's Sue again, participating in the reality show Maestro, in which celebs have to conduct the BBC Concert Orchestra. The choice of music is particularly inspired.
Here's an excerpt from their Regency jaunt:
And something from the 1970s:
Now at a time when some claim to see a resemblance between Sarah Palin and Tina Fey, it's clear that the real Tina Fey lookalike is Sue Perkins. Perkins is pretty unknown on our side of the Atlantic, though she's built quite a rep in the UK, and she even made the tabloids when her ex Rhona Cameron outed her on a reality-TV show. This will only give more ammo to my colleague Adam Feldman, who has a theory that all the funny women now are gay. Except for Tina Fey, alas.
Here's Sue again, participating in the reality show Maestro, in which celebs have to conduct the BBC Concert Orchestra. The choice of music is particularly inspired.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Life and death on the Prairie
Reading James Howard Kunstler's typically apocalyptic latest post, I was reminded of Jericho, the cheeseball, short-lived TV series I've been watching on DVD.
Kunstler, a Peak Oil theorist, argues that the looming economic crisis will be "something at least twice as bad as the Great Depression of the 1930s: people with no money in a land with no resources (with manpower that has no discipline), hardly any family farms left, cities that are basket-cases of bottomless need, comatose small towns stripped of their assets and social capital, an aviation industry on the verge of death, and a railroad system that is the laughingstock of the world. Not to mention the mind-boggling liabilities of suburbia and the motoring infrastructure that services it."
The premise of the show is that nuclear explosions have destroyed several American major cities, leading to utter chaos in the entire country; the action is centered on Jericho, a small Kansas town cut off from the rest of the U.S. as communications break down, and power, gas and food run out. The response to the crisis is pretty much exactly as Kunstler described it above—though as I finish watching the first season, I'm entirely unclear as to whether the writers intended to critique the American way of life by showing the citizens of Jericho to be foolish, spoiled, childish, irresponsible and selfish, or if they had no idea they were painting such a damning portrait. A satirical viewpoint does peek at times, as when a teen boy (already established as a bit of a douche) happily explains that once the Internet is back on, everything will be all right again, food will be delivered, etc. But are the town's power couple, the former mayor and his wife (Gerald McRaney and Pamela Reed), really meant to be insufferably self-righteous characters prompt to cast judgment (the stereotypical judgmental heartland) or are they meant to represent good, old-school American values? I truly cannot tell.
It's the way Jericho's citizens adapt—or not—to their new circumstances that most resembles Kunstler's description of "comatose small towns stripped of their assets and social capital." First of all, this is Kansas and these people are starving in the middle of winter because no food is delivered and subsistence agriculture doesn't exist; the sole exception, it seems, is a single corn-growing farm (which, characteristically, is audited by the IRS for debt at the beginning of the show). Second, for several days, even weeks, after the first explosion, a lot of townspeople just hang out at the local bar, waiting for help to magically appear. Similarly, they seem content living in ignorance of what happened, and nobody has any interest in exploring the surrounding area—even though we are shown a landing strip and some small planes. Nobody attempts to find alternative sources of energy until months have passed. The passivity is simply extraordinary.
Now I realize we're talking about a series starring Skeet Ulrich here, but Jericho is one of those products whose anthropological/political interest is larger than its production values (as in the ol' Star Trek days, the show was visibly shot in a handful of Southern California locations and absolutely nothing about it looks either Kansan or post-nuclear). Even when it feels as if the creators' intents and what's on screen diverge, a lesson is taught: If there was a major catastrophe in America, the country would be woefully unprepared. And the idea of a Blackwater-like paramilitary company running amok in a devastated country is chillingly realistic.
Kunstler, a Peak Oil theorist, argues that the looming economic crisis will be "something at least twice as bad as the Great Depression of the 1930s: people with no money in a land with no resources (with manpower that has no discipline), hardly any family farms left, cities that are basket-cases of bottomless need, comatose small towns stripped of their assets and social capital, an aviation industry on the verge of death, and a railroad system that is the laughingstock of the world. Not to mention the mind-boggling liabilities of suburbia and the motoring infrastructure that services it."
The premise of the show is that nuclear explosions have destroyed several American major cities, leading to utter chaos in the entire country; the action is centered on Jericho, a small Kansas town cut off from the rest of the U.S. as communications break down, and power, gas and food run out. The response to the crisis is pretty much exactly as Kunstler described it above—though as I finish watching the first season, I'm entirely unclear as to whether the writers intended to critique the American way of life by showing the citizens of Jericho to be foolish, spoiled, childish, irresponsible and selfish, or if they had no idea they were painting such a damning portrait. A satirical viewpoint does peek at times, as when a teen boy (already established as a bit of a douche) happily explains that once the Internet is back on, everything will be all right again, food will be delivered, etc. But are the town's power couple, the former mayor and his wife (Gerald McRaney and Pamela Reed), really meant to be insufferably self-righteous characters prompt to cast judgment (the stereotypical judgmental heartland) or are they meant to represent good, old-school American values? I truly cannot tell.
It's the way Jericho's citizens adapt—or not—to their new circumstances that most resembles Kunstler's description of "comatose small towns stripped of their assets and social capital." First of all, this is Kansas and these people are starving in the middle of winter because no food is delivered and subsistence agriculture doesn't exist; the sole exception, it seems, is a single corn-growing farm (which, characteristically, is audited by the IRS for debt at the beginning of the show). Second, for several days, even weeks, after the first explosion, a lot of townspeople just hang out at the local bar, waiting for help to magically appear. Similarly, they seem content living in ignorance of what happened, and nobody has any interest in exploring the surrounding area—even though we are shown a landing strip and some small planes. Nobody attempts to find alternative sources of energy until months have passed. The passivity is simply extraordinary.
Now I realize we're talking about a series starring Skeet Ulrich here, but Jericho is one of those products whose anthropological/political interest is larger than its production values (as in the ol' Star Trek days, the show was visibly shot in a handful of Southern California locations and absolutely nothing about it looks either Kansan or post-nuclear). Even when it feels as if the creators' intents and what's on screen diverge, a lesson is taught: If there was a major catastrophe in America, the country would be woefully unprepared. And the idea of a Blackwater-like paramilitary company running amok in a devastated country is chillingly realistic.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Mushrooms and hotels
Quiet weekend ahead. A mild inner-ear infection thingy is messing with my sense of balance so I'm going to skip the Wire show at the Seaport tonight. Dang, especially since my colleague Mike Wolf is deejaying. Come to think of it, my schedule has been oddly quiet lately. I have to admit spending way too much time catching up with a couple of series on DVD: Jericho and The Grand.
I'm only halfway through the first season of Jericho, set in a small Kansas town isolated after nuclear explosions hit several US cities, but one thing puzzles me: The people in Jericho spend a lot of time shooting the breeze at the local bar and waiting for help to arrive. This passivity is just weird—why don't they drive out or fly out (there's a small airport strip) to see what's actually happening? I'm not sure if this is a huge writing flaw or if it's a depressingly prescient way to describe how Americans would react to such a catastrophe. Are we living in such a coddled country that people would only worry about how to refrigerate their beer if a mushroom cloud went up in the next state? Don't answer that…
The Grand is a ten-year-old two-season British series set in the titular Manchester hotel right after WWI. It looks sadly cheap in that stereotypical UK-video way, which flattens everything, but the plot picks up quickly, the characters all have intricate shadings and the first season ends with a true shocker, making it easy to overlook the pallid aesthetic. The Grand is written by Russell T Davies, who's turning out to be one of my very favorite small-screen scribes—he's also responsible for the original Queer as Folk, the superb miniseries Bob and Rose (in which a woman and a gay man fall in love), The Second Coming (Jesus appears in present-day Manchester—or does he?) and the revived Doctor Who.
I'm only halfway through the first season of Jericho, set in a small Kansas town isolated after nuclear explosions hit several US cities, but one thing puzzles me: The people in Jericho spend a lot of time shooting the breeze at the local bar and waiting for help to arrive. This passivity is just weird—why don't they drive out or fly out (there's a small airport strip) to see what's actually happening? I'm not sure if this is a huge writing flaw or if it's a depressingly prescient way to describe how Americans would react to such a catastrophe. Are we living in such a coddled country that people would only worry about how to refrigerate their beer if a mushroom cloud went up in the next state? Don't answer that…
The Grand is a ten-year-old two-season British series set in the titular Manchester hotel right after WWI. It looks sadly cheap in that stereotypical UK-video way, which flattens everything, but the plot picks up quickly, the characters all have intricate shadings and the first season ends with a true shocker, making it easy to overlook the pallid aesthetic. The Grand is written by Russell T Davies, who's turning out to be one of my very favorite small-screen scribes—he's also responsible for the original Queer as Folk, the superb miniseries Bob and Rose (in which a woman and a gay man fall in love), The Second Coming (Jesus appears in present-day Manchester—or does he?) and the revived Doctor Who.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Turn off the idiot box
Turn off the idiot box! No, dear readers, this isn't aimed at you—you can watch as much as you want. And it isn't aimed at myself either, for that matter, as I'm looking forward to catch up with a pair of Morris Engel movies and season 1 of Jericho this weekend.
The person who really should turn off her TV and start paying attention to the world outside is New York Times television critic Alessandra Stanley. Now I realize Stanley is actually paid to watch TV but today's review of HBO's Recount, about the Florida debacle during the 2000 presidential election, indicates a baffling lack of understanding of that pesky reality-based world we live in, and the relative importance of events.
Stanley has often been mocked for accumulating corrections, mostly due to stupid but relatively minor mistakes. That I can live with, sort of, because as an editor and writer I know how easy it is to get details wrong. But there's a bigger problem at work today.
The review starts by saying the recount "was historic and historically awful, until the Sept. 11 attacks wiped away much of the anguish and slapstick. For a while, at least, the Florida vote count seemed as trivial and irrelevant as the results of the Henley Regatta after August 1914."
Let's see: A rigged voting procedure in Florida led to a rigged count; that in turn led to an abuse of power by the Supreme Court, which put in office a dangerously inept president who in a few years' time would wreck the American economy and turn into a criminal of war (which is what people including the Hague tribunal call those who knowingly flaunt the Geneva Convention). Of course that bit of "slapstick" was "trivial and irrelevant"! Stanley's reaction truly boggles the mind.
Our ace critic then proceeds to imply that the recount would have remained some kind of cute footnote until HBO's "deliciously engrossing" film reminded us of the hoopla. Reading this in the subway this morning, I had to put down the paper for a minute; I wanted to see what Stanley would come up with next but needed to collect myself, not throw the Times out the window.
Good thing I kept reading, because I got the pleasure of choking on carefree asides like "Life is unfair, especially when retold in dramatizations of recent history." How easily does blithe sarcasm seep out through the walls of privilege… Sometimes the unbearable glibness of being a Times critic is just too much for us readers—and citizens—to withstand.
The person who really should turn off her TV and start paying attention to the world outside is New York Times television critic Alessandra Stanley. Now I realize Stanley is actually paid to watch TV but today's review of HBO's Recount, about the Florida debacle during the 2000 presidential election, indicates a baffling lack of understanding of that pesky reality-based world we live in, and the relative importance of events.
Stanley has often been mocked for accumulating corrections, mostly due to stupid but relatively minor mistakes. That I can live with, sort of, because as an editor and writer I know how easy it is to get details wrong. But there's a bigger problem at work today.
The review starts by saying the recount "was historic and historically awful, until the Sept. 11 attacks wiped away much of the anguish and slapstick. For a while, at least, the Florida vote count seemed as trivial and irrelevant as the results of the Henley Regatta after August 1914."
Let's see: A rigged voting procedure in Florida led to a rigged count; that in turn led to an abuse of power by the Supreme Court, which put in office a dangerously inept president who in a few years' time would wreck the American economy and turn into a criminal of war (which is what people including the Hague tribunal call those who knowingly flaunt the Geneva Convention). Of course that bit of "slapstick" was "trivial and irrelevant"! Stanley's reaction truly boggles the mind.
Our ace critic then proceeds to imply that the recount would have remained some kind of cute footnote until HBO's "deliciously engrossing" film reminded us of the hoopla. Reading this in the subway this morning, I had to put down the paper for a minute; I wanted to see what Stanley would come up with next but needed to collect myself, not throw the Times out the window.
Good thing I kept reading, because I got the pleasure of choking on carefree asides like "Life is unfair, especially when retold in dramatizations of recent history." How easily does blithe sarcasm seep out through the walls of privilege… Sometimes the unbearable glibness of being a Times critic is just too much for us readers—and citizens—to withstand.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
La French Idol
What, Paula Abdul is out to lunch? Really? No matter: Anybody with taste knows that pretty much all the Idol series are fun except for the American one, sinking into irrelevance and ridicule with every passing week.
I've written about the French iteration, aka Nouvelle Star, before, and a new season has been under way for a few weeks now. Most notable is the presence of three new judges, with only one leftover from the previous years' group. (If only American Idol had the sense to follow that lead and rejuvenate its jury…) Among the newbies is singer Lio, whose "Banana Split" remains one of my favorite pop hits ever.
Let's check out some high- and lowlights of the current season. Sit down, relax, grab a cold drink—this is going to take a little while.
• The cast covers "Umbrellas." Not so great, but typical of the group sings popular on Nouvelle Star.
• Cedric (white shirt) and Kristov (dark shirt) cover "Une femme libérée," a 1984 hit by Cookie Dingler (ayee!). Could these guys' pants be any tighter? It's a wonder they can sing at all. Note that blondie isn't a member of the jury but the show's version of Ryan Secrest.
• Thomas performs "My Sharona" in passable English; there seems to be progress on that front, though us Frenchies are still far from Scandi-style ease.
• Someone has the balls to tackle Piaf's "Hymne à l'amour" and redefines "lightweight" in the process. Poor Axelle…
• Pretty cool group performance of "Dis Moi" by the trio BB Brunes. Significant detail there: the guys play guitar.
• Official sign that it's time to retire "Toxic." Wretched, like a third-rate Jamiroquai. Forget what I said earlier about the French getting better at English.
• Another great thing about Nouvelle Star: They cover really recent hits, like this Vanessa Paradis song from just a few months ago. Still, Axelle messes it up by meowing some of the worst "lalala's" I've ever heard.
• Wow, Thomas goes after Franz Ferdinand! Again, this material selection would not have a snowball's chance in hell, otherwise known as American Idol.
I've written about the French iteration, aka Nouvelle Star, before, and a new season has been under way for a few weeks now. Most notable is the presence of three new judges, with only one leftover from the previous years' group. (If only American Idol had the sense to follow that lead and rejuvenate its jury…) Among the newbies is singer Lio, whose "Banana Split" remains one of my favorite pop hits ever.
Let's check out some high- and lowlights of the current season. Sit down, relax, grab a cold drink—this is going to take a little while.
• The cast covers "Umbrellas." Not so great, but typical of the group sings popular on Nouvelle Star.
• Cedric (white shirt) and Kristov (dark shirt) cover "Une femme libérée," a 1984 hit by Cookie Dingler (ayee!). Could these guys' pants be any tighter? It's a wonder they can sing at all. Note that blondie isn't a member of the jury but the show's version of Ryan Secrest.
• Thomas performs "My Sharona" in passable English; there seems to be progress on that front, though us Frenchies are still far from Scandi-style ease.
• Someone has the balls to tackle Piaf's "Hymne à l'amour" and redefines "lightweight" in the process. Poor Axelle…
• Pretty cool group performance of "Dis Moi" by the trio BB Brunes. Significant detail there: the guys play guitar.
• Official sign that it's time to retire "Toxic." Wretched, like a third-rate Jamiroquai. Forget what I said earlier about the French getting better at English.
• Another great thing about Nouvelle Star: They cover really recent hits, like this Vanessa Paradis song from just a few months ago. Still, Axelle messes it up by meowing some of the worst "lalala's" I've ever heard.
• Wow, Thomas goes after Franz Ferdinand! Again, this material selection would not have a snowball's chance in hell, otherwise known as American Idol.
Monday, April 07, 2008
Monday night lights
I'm not obsessed with Dancing With the Stars. Nooooo. I just stay home, glued to ABC on Monday nights, that's all. That Tivo thingamajig? Please: I must be one of 274 people in New York without cable TV.
Tonight's installment was pretty exciting despite the fact that it featured two of my least favorite dances, the paso doble and the Viennese waltz. My main qualm is that there seemed to be a case of gradeinflationitis going around, with 10s being doled out like Goobers at a multiplex. The judges should keep a few things in mind, like (1) Mark Ballas keeps coming up with really conservative choreographies for Kristi Yamaguchi; I realize he's playing to her technical strength but it blandifies their routines. (2) Adam Carolla can only coast so long on gimmicks, even if the unicycle was amazingly over the top; he may drive partner Julianne to homicide before they get voted off though. (3) Marissa Jaret Winokur played a dancing queen on Broadway, fully deserving a Tony for make-believe illusion; alas, DTWS is nominally about dancing.
My favorite aspect of the show outside of Shannon Elizabeth's gams is musical director Harold Wheeler. It's just fantastic to hear a decent-size orchestra play dance music, and his contribution to DTWS is way underrated. My dream: to have Wheeler lead the DTWS band at Lincoln Center's Midnight Summer Swing. I don't think it's too much to ask.
Wheeler kick-started his career by working on Burt Bacharach's one and only musical, Promises, Promises, and has been an MD and/or orchestrator on such shows as Dreamgirls, Hairspray and Dirty Rotten Scoundrels. (And Marlena Shaw's "Touch Me in the Morning"—now that's one song he should use on DWTS.) Not too shabby, uh? Tonight's Wheeler peak was his turning New Order's "Blue Monday" into a paso for the Ballaguchi. It worked surprisingly well once you got over the shock of hearing the song in this context.
Tonight's installment was pretty exciting despite the fact that it featured two of my least favorite dances, the paso doble and the Viennese waltz. My main qualm is that there seemed to be a case of gradeinflationitis going around, with 10s being doled out like Goobers at a multiplex. The judges should keep a few things in mind, like (1) Mark Ballas keeps coming up with really conservative choreographies for Kristi Yamaguchi; I realize he's playing to her technical strength but it blandifies their routines. (2) Adam Carolla can only coast so long on gimmicks, even if the unicycle was amazingly over the top; he may drive partner Julianne to homicide before they get voted off though. (3) Marissa Jaret Winokur played a dancing queen on Broadway, fully deserving a Tony for make-believe illusion; alas, DTWS is nominally about dancing.
My favorite aspect of the show outside of Shannon Elizabeth's gams is musical director Harold Wheeler. It's just fantastic to hear a decent-size orchestra play dance music, and his contribution to DTWS is way underrated. My dream: to have Wheeler lead the DTWS band at Lincoln Center's Midnight Summer Swing. I don't think it's too much to ask.
Wheeler kick-started his career by working on Burt Bacharach's one and only musical, Promises, Promises, and has been an MD and/or orchestrator on such shows as Dreamgirls, Hairspray and Dirty Rotten Scoundrels. (And Marlena Shaw's "Touch Me in the Morning"—now that's one song he should use on DWTS.) Not too shabby, uh? Tonight's Wheeler peak was his turning New Order's "Blue Monday" into a paso for the Ballaguchi. It worked surprisingly well once you got over the shock of hearing the song in this context.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Solid gold-plated
After ignoring it for several seasons, I've somehow become hooked to the current installment of Dancing with the Stars. It's not that I've suddenly developed a love for ballroom dancing, but rather I find the casting compelling. As both a tennis player and a member of the rhythmless nation, for instance, I wanted to see how athletic Monica Seles would do; as a fan of Jodi on The L Word and, okay, out of sheer curiosity (how would she pull it off?), I couldn't wait to see Marlee Matlin on the parquet floor.
Another incentive to watch yesterday was the prospect of live performances by the Alvin Ailey company and Kylie Minogue—not together, unfortunately. It was pretty great to see Ailey do an excerpt from Revelations, though in the New York area the number was maimed by the local news, which repeatedly barged in with a tornado warning. "If you have friends at Yankee Stadium, call to warn them." Who cares?!? If you're at Yankee Stadium, you shouldn't be afraid of a little water. In fact, I'd say you deserve it.
But the real tropical depression was Kylie. Now my love for the singing budgie, as she used to be called, is no secret (I once scheduled a vacation in London just so I could see her live at Wembley Arena). But I have to admit the returns have been diminishing in the past few years, and her latest album, X, shows her struggling to compete in the pop arena she once dominated so effortlessly. The DWTS gig was obviously prompted by the release of X in America, and just as obviously it ain't going to make any difference.
First of all, I may not even have recognized her if I didn't expect her: She barely looks like herself anymore—going down the Priscilla Presley/Steve Guttenberg road? Second, her outfits literally made me recoil on the couch, and I am not one to fear tacky pop fashion—not to mention that you need a strong stomach if you watch DWTS to begin with. She first did her latest single, "All I See," a song characterized by an utter lack of character; the perky Goldfrapp ripoff "2 Hearts" would have been a better choice. The performance felt listless and tepid. She fared better with "Can't Get You Out of My Head," in an arrangement that bumped up the synths, but still, where was the spirit? Combined with a eye-gouging fluo-clad dance by pros Mark and Julianne, it all felt like a vintage episode of Solid Gold.
At least the horribly perky Steve Guttenberg was voted off, which made me very happy. Now if the horribly perky Marissa Jaret Winokur could follow in his footsteps next week…
Another incentive to watch yesterday was the prospect of live performances by the Alvin Ailey company and Kylie Minogue—not together, unfortunately. It was pretty great to see Ailey do an excerpt from Revelations, though in the New York area the number was maimed by the local news, which repeatedly barged in with a tornado warning. "If you have friends at Yankee Stadium, call to warn them." Who cares?!? If you're at Yankee Stadium, you shouldn't be afraid of a little water. In fact, I'd say you deserve it.
But the real tropical depression was Kylie. Now my love for the singing budgie, as she used to be called, is no secret (I once scheduled a vacation in London just so I could see her live at Wembley Arena). But I have to admit the returns have been diminishing in the past few years, and her latest album, X, shows her struggling to compete in the pop arena she once dominated so effortlessly. The DWTS gig was obviously prompted by the release of X in America, and just as obviously it ain't going to make any difference.
First of all, I may not even have recognized her if I didn't expect her: She barely looks like herself anymore—going down the Priscilla Presley/Steve Guttenberg road? Second, her outfits literally made me recoil on the couch, and I am not one to fear tacky pop fashion—not to mention that you need a strong stomach if you watch DWTS to begin with. She first did her latest single, "All I See," a song characterized by an utter lack of character; the perky Goldfrapp ripoff "2 Hearts" would have been a better choice. The performance felt listless and tepid. She fared better with "Can't Get You Out of My Head," in an arrangement that bumped up the synths, but still, where was the spirit? Combined with a eye-gouging fluo-clad dance by pros Mark and Julianne, it all felt like a vintage episode of Solid Gold.
At least the horribly perky Steve Guttenberg was voted off, which made me very happy. Now if the horribly perky Marissa Jaret Winokur could follow in his footsteps next week…
Friday, March 21, 2008
Look elsewhere
I've started contributing to the new Thirteen (aka WNET, New York's public-television outlet) blog, linked to the station's upcoming Sunday Arts show, which debuts this week. You can check out my first post there.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Aussie imports
There are two reasons, both Australian, I started watching Cashmere Mafia: Miranda Otto and Frances O'Connor. Otto (right) is best-known here for playing Éowyn in the Lord of the Rings franchise, but she was a lot more interesting in the small flicks she made in Oz, like The Last Days of Chez Nous, Love Serenade and The Well. O'Connor (left) was really appealing in Love and Other Catastrophes, an otherwise mediocre film.As for the series itself, it begs the question: Is Darren Star shameless or washed-out or both? Centered around a quartet of women (each representing a different hair demographic; see photo), Cashmere Mafia is a total rip-off of his previous show, Sex and the City. Beyond the core idea of four female friends supporting each other through love and career troubles, the aesthetics are identical: The fifth main character is New York itself, with a profusion of brand-name locations (Cielo and Payard in yesterday's episode), and there's even time-lapse footage of clouds in the sky.
The main difference so far actually reflects an evolution in NYC itself: Samantha & Co. hardly had checkbook problems, but the new characters are seriously loaded. They are career women (they met in business school) who live gilded existences—in short, they're the type of people who can afford places in those "luxury condos" we see going up all over town, and they're the type of people who are sucking the life out of real New York by turning it into a playground for the rich. Not that the series is about that, of course, since it gears up to be your usual relationship porn—just like my other fave, The L Word. Still, the first couple of episodes have me semi-hooked because of the aforementioned actresses (particularly Otto, hottt in the ice-queen way that always works wonders with me).
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