The True Death

Our long, sexy, national nightmare is over.  This past summer, perennial WTF generator True Blood finally met the True Death and concluded a seven season-long run on HBO.  And while I can’t say that I’ll really miss the show, I am going to miss always knowing that there was something on TV that would make me shake my head and mutter, “well, okay…” 

True Blood started ridiculously strong back in 2007.  In an era where every single story emphasized the misunderstood, sympathetic, chaste, teenage nature of vampires, True Blood’s malicious, randy bloodsuckers were a breath of fresh air.  There was no “romantic” staring into each other’s eyes scenes, no “they just don’t understand us” soliloquies set to classical music.   You got the sense that the entire cast and crew of the show read about 30 pages of an Anne Rice novel and said to themselves, “well this is boring as hell” and then immediately got to filming a butt sex scene while covered in blood.

YES!

Because the show’s mission was always to showcase adults, the initial storylines functioned as a mature, if telegraphed, metaphor not for growing up or some other theme ripped from Joss Whedon’s notes, but for social issues like racism, anti-gay bigotry, and the American South’s continuing struggles emerging into the 21^st century.  (Sorry, southern readers.  You know it’s true.)  And while the show was never subtle about its issues (the opening credits featured a billboard sign reading “God hates fangs”), it made up for its lack of grace with original storytelling and fresh visuals that hadn’t been used before.  If you haven’t seen the show, the first time a vampire is staked it will make your mouth fall open. 

The first season featured an erstwhile murder mystery as a framing story to introducing us to a world where vampires have “come out of the coffin” (what is this thing you call subtlety?) and organized, more or less, under two factions – those who want to integrate into society and live among humans thanks to a new synthetic substance called True Blood that mimics human blood thus negating the need for vampires to feed off humans, and those vampires who still believe that they are the superior race and that humans should be subjugated, not cohabitated with.  Later seasons ran with this tension, showing more and more about how vampire society worked and the ways in which the rest of the world had adapted or not, including the rise of “fangbangers” who are humans who have a sexual proclivity with vampires and drinking blood and even vampire-focused legal offices that only operate at night and help vampires who have been undead for many years figure out what their legal rights are to property owned while they were living.  Add that to a healthy dose of graphic sexuality, and you're at least going to be entertained for an hour each week. 

Did I mention the ho-yay?

All of this world-building made for fascinating watching.  Even as the show began to jump off the rails around its fourth or fifth season, seeing how the creators imagined how the most mundane aspects of everyday life would be managed in a world where vampires were real (a specialty airline service with UV-blocking windows caters to the vampires who wish to travel abroad) was always still interesting.  And if you couldn’t get into the subplots involving werewolves, fairies, shapeshifters, or witches, you always at least had the recurring southern gothic drama between the townspeople of Bon Temps, Louisiana, to keep you occupied. 

Unlike the characters, however, True Blood was not destined for an eternal life and began to age.  Plotlines got more and more ridiculous, the show developed an unhealthy tendency toward melodrama such that the speechifying and campy grandstanding of the later seasons stand in stark contrast to the more nuanced and, at times, genuinely scary first few seasons.  Where the first two seasons played with the audience’s expectations about reality and mystery, the show in its later life preferred to keep strictly to over-the-top plot contrivances and characters behaving like characters instead of people. 

An assemblance of well-developed, three-dimensional characters that were sadly never seen again after season three. 

Nothing is more illustrative of this trend that season seven’s insistence upon finding a way to bring lead characters Sookie and Bill back together.  True Blood was premised on the story of diner waitress Sookie Stackhouse falling in love with Bill Compton, a nearly 200-year-old vampire who is the first of his kind to make himself known to humans in his small Louisiana town.  Sookie and Bill remained the show’s primary couple for the first three years before starting to breakdown in season four.  By the start of the final season, it is well established that both characters have moved on, however the writers couldn’t resist the chance for an easy bookend and piled on the nostalgia to create a final story arc where both characters realize that they are Meant To Be or something.  This is particularly remarkable considering that neither character in the novels that serve as the show’s source material ever comes to any similar consideration.  Thanks, Hollywood. 

The final season is slightly mitigated by sheer number of Easter Eggs tossed in to appease long-time viewers.   The return of several fan-favorite characters, as well as the reunification of several others, helped to send the show off properly even if several other major characters, Tara and Alcide being the two most prominent, are given some of the most abrupt write-offs in the history of television.

So Hail and Farewell, True Blood.  I won’t miss your convoluted storylines, but I will miss Eric.  I won’t miss your unfortunate tendency toward saccharine storytelling, but I will most definitely miss Pam.  Actually, thinking on it, Pam is the thing I’m going to miss the most.  Someone get Kristin Bauer van Straten a pilot, STAT.  Meanwhile, I remain confident that television audiences have not lost their taste for WTF programming.  In any case, Salem is going to have some large, bloody shoes to fill.

Oh, Pam.  You can keep sassing me/slitting my throat for another ten seasons. 

Psych-Out

Another day, another series finale review. This time, guest-blogger Priya tackles the Psych finale. --Maggie Cats

For the uninitiated: Psych is at its core a criminal procedural with a twist. Shawn Spencer (played by the hilarious James Roday) masquerades with the Santa Barbara Police Department as a psychic detective. The twist? He's not really psychic, but is really good with deductive reasoning and sees details that no one else can. Together with his BFF Gus (Dule Hill, whom I LOVE) and a great cast of characters at the SBPD they solve crime and engage in entertaining tom-foolery.

What worked for the show was just how un-serious it was. In an era where CSI, Law and Order, and other macabre shows fill the airways, Psych always took its crime with a level of tongue-in-cheek ridiculousness. With guest stars like Cary Elwes playing an art-thief con artist, or Ally Sheedy as a nefarious crazy villain (who was just one member of the Breakfast Club to appear on the show) they upped the ante each week. 

Psych was also incredibly successful in pulling off the comedy-as-parody routine. Many episodes each season would take on a theme that mimicked other shows and movies. For example, the penultimate episode was called "A Nightmare on State Street" and involved Zombies and classic shots from horror movies that scared me silly.

So what about the finale? Did they do it justice? I think so. The creators took the hour as an opportunity to circle back on some eight-year long jokes with surprising guest stars (Val Kilmer!) while giving friends one last glimpse of team Psych in action. In the finale episode, Shawn tries to give Gus one last case as he tries to tell him he is closing down the business to move to San Francisco to be with his lady love, Juliet. In the end the show gave us a satisfying conclusion. Spoiler Alert! Gus moves to San Francisco where they may have to compete with Monk in the consulting biz....and they live happily ever after. Shawn, Juliet, and Gus. One big happy family.

Also, the theme song is pretty awesome.

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One Last Time (We Promise) With Breaking Bad

For the past six years, Walter White has reigned as the king of television on top of his empire of meth. As of last Sunday, the king is officially dead. Whether I mean that figuratively or narratively will be revealed later (I’ll warn you when the spoilers show up), but by any definition, America’s love affair with Breaking Bad has officially reached an end point with the series finale.

No, I'm not tearing up. There's just so much smoke in here suddenly.

But I come not to bury Walter White, but to praise him. And his wife Skyler, son Walt Jr., brother in law and DEA agent Hank, and the myriad of other Rosencrantzes and Guildensterns that made up the show that has been called the best television show ever. Despite a decidedly unglamorous setting (meth labs among unattractive downtrodden people in Albuquerque, New Mexico) and a cast of people who seemed, you know, real and not like caricatures, somehow this taut, tense little show found a way to worm itself into our collective bloodstreams and leave us just as addicted as the wasteabouts we were watching each week.

Through preternaturally solid and consistent writing, precision directing that would make German auto engineers jealous and award-winning acting, Breaking Bad let us see a story that started off utterly sympathetic and turned horrific. The basic premise, that sad-sack high school chemistry teacher Walter White learns that he has terminal cancer and so decides to cook meth with a former student to raise the easy money he needs to ensure his family’s survival after he’s dead, is well known, even for those who haven’t watched the show. What was fascinating though was how much the characters that we initially believed would be the victims, like wife Skyler, turned out to be just as morally ambiguous as the character we started off with. The cheap and easy classification of this show is that it is another in a long line of anti-heroes that we love despite knowing that we shouldn’t. What made Breaking Bad different, though, was that at his core, Walter was never an anti-hero; he was a villain, right from the start. We just didn’t notice it until we, like the rest of Walter’s family and associates, were so deeply enmeshed in the chaos that we couldn’t turn away from him.

In retrospect, we all probably should have seen the writing on the wall.

It’s a testament to how well Breaking Bad did things that the episode that sounds the most dull on paper, Season 3’s “Fly” which followed Walt and Jesse through one long, interminable night stuck in their underground meth lab and unable to leave because of a delicate chemical process all the while being tormented by a single fly that’s managed to find its way into the otherwise perfectly sealed lab, seem interesting and tense. Because no one just talked about the weather in this show and every line of dialogue could be interpreted multiple ways, we as the audience sat through 45 minutes of two men chasing a fly around a lab and couldn’t stop watching because we knew that what was really going on was that Walt was carrying a secret that he couldn’t tell Jessie – namely that the previous season, he was in a position to save Jessie’s girlfriend from dying and actively chose not to, mostly to keep Jessie loyal to him. The continual ratcheting up of tension and dread, which started with a terminal cancer diagnosis for a man who just turned 50 and who’s wife is seven months pregnant, meant that learning that your life is about to end ends up seeming like light-hearted fun by season five.

And so we watched Walter build up his empire, all under the nom de plume of “Heisenberg”, the Mr. Hyde to his Dr. Jekyll. Before long, it becomes clear that Walter has long since stopped making meth, and in the process becoming one of the most powerful drug lords in the southwest, just because he wants money for his family – he’s doing it because it’s the only way to get the respect and the fear that he’s long craved and never been able to claim as a low-paid, disrespected high school teacher. In the fifth season, Skyler, who has long since showed her true colors by helping Walt launder the massive piles of money that he’s acquired, brings Walter to a storage facility that she’s been forced to rent just to house the mound of money, well into the millions of dollars. “How much is enough?” she asks him. “How big does this pile have to be?”

Thus marking the first time in history a wife ever got angry with her husband for making too much money.

Walter agrees to retire, but not happily. We’re led to believe that Walter is corrupted by his experience, turning more ruthless as he amasses power, but in reality Walter was really just becoming what he always was inside. Walter White was the persona – Heisenberg was the reality. Meanwhile, just as he is out for good, his DEA agent brother-in-law finally makes the connection that the meth empire he’s been hunting for the last two years is being run by none other than his own family member, setting into motion a blitzkrieg of final episodes that bring us to the end of our story.

Spoiler-phobes, skip the next paragraph. I go back to spoiler-free mode after it.

With all this drama, then, it was odd that the series finale chose to go the way of safe television, an unconventional choice for a show that was so bound up in allowing the worst of all possible things happen to its characters. There was no ambiguous Sopranos-style ending here. As such, the episode felt like a victory lap, to use the phrase of my friend who watched it with me. The episode was almost fan-service, showing Walt outsmart everyone that he had to confront and even resorting to an almost Robert Rodriguez-level of ridiculousness involving a hidden machine gun in the trunk of a car. In the end, Walter’s family is ruined – his son hates him, his wife is broken an unemployable due to her association with him and has moved herself and her kids into a dingy basement apartment. The various drug dealers and kingpins are all dealt with, most of whom are killed outright. And in the end, we’re down to Walter and Jessie, the two who started this whole mess, staring each other down and the audience wondering which one is going to kill the other. Walt, knowing that his cancer has returned for good and that there is no survival for him now that his crimes have become public knowledge tries to manipulate Jessie one last time into killing him. Jessie, for once, is able to resist, telling Walt that if he wants to die so badly, he should kill himself and then tearing off into the night in a stolen car, weeping and broken but finally free. Walt however, unbeknownst to Jessie, has already been fatally wounded in the epic shootout that occurred moments before and makes his way over to the meth lab, appreciating the setup that produced the purest form of meth and was his signature contribution to the world. Walt collapses to the ground, dying as we always assumed he would – in his lab, just as the police finally arrive to arrest him for good, thus allowing the Scarface that we knew we shouldn’t like something like a final getaway. And a flight of angels sing thee to thy rest.

"I love you, meth bin. Never leave me."

And maybe it was because the final episode, while powerful and as satisfying as an ending to a beloved show can be, never really hit the high emotional stakes that I wanted to, but for me, the true finale was “Ozymandias”, the episode airing three weeks ago when Walt’s vast criminal empire finally comes truly tumbling down at the same time as several major characters are killed in the desert.  At the moment when Walter White finally allowed himself to rip off the mask and become the monster, the show utterly proved how fearless and rare it was. There have been “the best television show”s before and there will be “the best television show”s again. But here’s one that deserves its moniker, regardless of how monstrous or good the characters were. 

Everyone Cries When They're Stabbed

So, I just spent the better part of the last view days mainlining the Canadian gem of a show, Slings & Arrows, to the detriment of all else. Yes, yes, the first season is ten years old, but if you missed it the first time it aired on Sundance, the entire series is back on Netflix streaming. I am an uber geek and I own a box set, but if you, unlike me, spend your money on things like food, rent and bills, you can also get it on DVD from same. 

Slings & Arrows, people. OMG. Where to begin.

Slings & Arrows is a cynical behind-the-scenes look at the goings-on of The Stratford Festival  a fictitious Canadian Shakespeare festival in the equally fictitious New Burbage, Ontario. No one can ignore the fact that the show is mocking the famous and successful mecca of North American theater. However, most of the actors and writers on the show are Stratford vets themselves. Uber hottie Paul Gross portrays Geoffrey Tennant (no relation to David), the unstable yet brilliant artistic director of the New Burbage Festival, who fights the good fight against forces that would destroy good theater: apathy, pretension, commercialization, mass marketing, cynicism, corporate interference, cliche, musicals and Darren Nichols.

If you want to say something to the proletariat, just cover it in sequins and make it sing.

Geoffrey is given the job as artistic director after his former friend and mentor, Oliver Welles (Stratford mainstay Stephen Ouimette), is killed after he falls into the road drunk and is hit by a pig truck.

But not to worry, Oliver's ghost appears to Geoffrey after his death to guide him as he directs, and only Geoffrey can see him, lending more credence to everyone's belief that Geoffrey is insane. Before Oliver's death, Geoffrey hadn't seen Oliver in over seven years after Geoffrey walked off stage during an apparently incandescent production of Hamlet, which Oliver directed. Geoffrey had a mental breakdown and left, and Oliver lost his edge and began staging trite, predictable productions which relied on special effects and big-name stars as draws, rather than relying on honest productions with a core group of solid, gifted actors. Further complicating things is the fact that Geoffrey's former love, Ellen Fanshaw (Stratford and Shaw Festival vet Martha Burns), is still at the festival, but she's getting older, thus is playing Gertrude and boinking men half her age in a desperate attempt to feel young again.

Each season, the show focuses on one main production of a Shakespearean play, and OMG we get to watch brilliant acting not only from the cast, but also from the "company" of players when the productions are ready for previews and performance. Although they can't show one or two entire Shakespearean plays during the performance episodes, we do get to see scenes from these productions, which are no less magical on teevee than I'm sure they would be in real life.

The show was written by Susan Coyne, Bob Martin and Mark McKinney of Kids in the Hall fame, who also stars as starched-shirt managing director, Richard Smith-Jones. 

The first season focuses on Hamlet, and stars Rachel McAdams as Kate/Ophelia. If you can watch her turn as Ophelia and not get chills, then you my friend, are dead inside. DEAD. DEAD LIKE YOU'VE BEEN HIT BY A PIG TRUCK.

 You mean after this I'm going to make The Notebook?

The second season features The Scottish Tragedy and Romeo and Juliet, and the third features a hysterically bad original musical and King Lear. I can't even begin to talk about how good this show is, and if you like theater, black comedy and good TV, you must get all over this forthwith. The acting is phenomenal and the writing is sharp-witted and wickedly funny. I just love Canadians. Even when they say "fuck" every other word or are supposed to be drunk or partying, they are SO ADORABLY DORKY. 

Fabulous Canadians appearing on S&A:  writer, actor and filmmaker Don McKellar as the uproariously pretentious Darren Nichols; actress, writer, director Sarah Polley as Cordelia/Sophie (her father, Michael Polley, appears in each episode as well); actor and erstwhile Gilbert Blythe, Jonathan Crombie, as Geoffrey's understudy in Season 1 and Lionel Train (yes) in Season 2; Warehouse 13 star Joanne Kelly as Sarah/Juliet; the late William Hutt as Charles Kingman/Lear and the late Jackie Burroughs (Aunt Hetty on Road to Avonlea) in a minor but effective role during Season 2. 

Unlike some other shows about theater which I won't mention that try to push their preachy, phony agenda upon the masses, Slings & Arrows takes the stand that good theater does not have to be dumbed down to be appealing to the masses. It carries the message that overwrought, overly thought-out and (dare I say it) overly theoretical productions are not good theater; they are simply dishonest interpretations that are more about the director and his/her enormous ego than anything else. In Geoffrey Tennant's mind, the play is the thing.

There are only three seasons, but the story feels very complete when you finally finish the last episode. Slings & Arrows doesn't take on social problems and try to correct them in "a very special episode" and that's what makes is so true and so goddamn fucking honest. It says within the tiny world of the New Burbage Festival and struts and frets its hour upon the stage with stunning brilliance.