Loser's Guide to Life
Watching “Law & Order” again. As usual, I am amazed at the dedication and ability of the actors in the small roles: new guy being shown the ropes at a waste facility where the body is discovered, two young guys who are supposedly members of some band that's broken up, interesting characterizations. Best on TV. And the regulars are pretty reliable, workmanlike. This episode has Fred Thompson, whose lines I always mute because his voice is kind of boring, but since he's going to run for U.S. president, I thought I should turn him up for once.
ADA Jack McCoy comes into the boss's office to discuss their strategy:
“Well, Arthur, this case—”
“Waar, ain't no hog-down hehnt no blueberra paa!”
“But that would be doing an end-run around the First Amendment, Arthur.”
“Welp—doggone homo-sexual byge o mushmawith!”
I guess that clears things up. Better to mute him.
Labels: TV
HAVING WATCHED TOO MUCH TV, I FIND I CAN NOW ONLY COMMUNICATE VIA THE SYNTAX OF THIS POPULAR GAME SHOW
Labels: TV
It really is amazing how popular media can keep up this blunt, simple message of praise for the powerful—well, their owners, I suppose—even as that message seems to get bigger, louder, and more monotonous every year. It is like a vast brass band that keeps playing “Yackety Sax”, and no one else can get a note in edgewise. And why is this? Well, who doesn't like “Yackety Sax?” Meanwhile the only place to find real news or information is some website or blog somewhere. You have to collect various sources when you find them.
At Firedog Lake there is a well-reasoned summation of this problem: Welcome to My Nightmare.
I've no idea what could be done about this. I think it's even bigger than it looks: mindless PR jabber is everywhere. Every sort of institution now seems to devote extraordinary efforts to the promotion of some kind of fantastic public identity, to the point where the actual business of getting anything done is secondary, even rather humdrum and viewed with condescension. It could be that soon no politician, CEO, or whatever will do anything other than encourage staff to think of new ways to brag about the company, never mind what they're supposed to be doing. I used to think I was witnessing the bieth of some new hysterical religion, and now I see that it is in its toddlerhood, and there is no stopping it.
So perhaps, of the defensive possibilities on offer, I would praise the value of “meltdown”.
Once again the CSI man walks into the crime scene, crisp and black in his pressed suit, a well-oiled tool of a man. Vlip. He checks it out. Then he tells someone else to check it out.
“Check it out: mucus.”
“Uh ... okay, I'll ... hmblg gmb hrrm mrb...”
You will what? You'd better learn to talk a bit more snappily than that. There are all kinds of aging underwear models who'd kill for your job. CSI man looks around, shoots his cuffs, frowns. It's the scene of the crime. This is where it went down, man. Getting a sense of what happened here. Walk me through this. H'mmmm. Okay: what is that weird odour ... ? No, in the plastic bag. Yes, what ya got?
“Appears to be dogshit, Detective.”
H'mm, okay, bag it. Get it to ballistics. See if—
“You know, I don't think so, Detective. I think we're just gonna leave it here. Okay? In fact, why don't you go away? No, I mean, get in your car and drive away entirely. That's right. Bye.”
Labels: TV
Last night TV5 offered Les Brigades du Tigre (2006). This was apparently a TV series in the 1970s but I don't remember hearing of it. There were a couple of historical drama series back then which I found rather dull, though. It's hard to convey a period in a TV series for some reason, maybe because the really good work is just too expensive. The actors always look like modern people dressed up in period costume, as if they're just not comfortable with celluloid collars and waistcoats and so on. The set seems awash with props. Oh, look, now he's getting into his quirky old historical automobile and adjusting his spanking-new prewar cloth cap. Riingkx!Pocka-pocka-pocka-pocka, as the engine starts. Mind you don't run over the kid in the sailor suit playing with his hoop! Or M. Seurat, who's pointilising the scene for posterity!
Les Faucheurs de Marguerites (1974) is the one I do remember. That's to say, I remember seeing a lot of ads for this tiresome nonsense about Édouard Dabert and his aviation pioneer chums. They were always running around in the fields trying to get their aeroplane to fly, and when they succeeded, it was a time to rejoice by rippping your cap off and hurling it to the ground and hugging someone. There was also a mixed choir humming along dramatically at these moments.
But to be fair, it was nowhere close to D'Iberville (1968) for outrageous, smouldering cauldrons of boring anti-entertainment. That was a piece of work. Coming home from school to find nothing on TV but those guns firing out of the side of a ship and the little trumpet flourish as the title “D'Iberville” unfurled across the screen, that was a letdown. And once again, Frontenac would be confronting someone in a wig with an important piece of paper.
This movie, however, was not bad, if a bit complicated. Actually, the story was that interesting that it would have been better to have spent less time on the brigade (an early motorised police squad) and a bit more on the villains. And, I guess, the story.
Here's an exciting new thrilling show about two brothers who are continually breaking out of prison in order to find the witness who will prove their innocence. Now they're escaping through a warehouse as cops follow them, stupidly. Duh! the cops say. The cops can't run very fast and have to keep stopping to remember what they're doing.
Now the two are in a prison van stopped in a tunnel. But not for long! They leap from the van and away with them into a service tunnel, which gives onto an expanse of tunnels and doors. They run masterfully. Another man is running also in some other part of the system. Sometimes he appears to be going the wrong way. He holds his gun up. Then he stops, and then sets off running again. For their part, the two brothers are still running and selecting various passages to run through. Let's check back with the cop. Oh, good: he's running. Not to be outdone, the brothers are charging along like champion underground tunnel runners. The cop is running. I guess he would be chasing them, in his corrupt cop way. But the brothers are running and running. Just look at them run! Exactly like innocent men jailed through no fault of their own. That's how I would run, if I were innocent!
Labels: TV
