Let's talk about MyNetworkTV.
The idea is so overdue that it almost seems quaint; thirteen-week
stripped serials that tell arced dramatic stories, and then are over,
poof, and another one starts up.
Because of the "gap" left by the merger of UPN and the WB into the
CW, lots of local affiliates all of a sudden had hours without
programming, and a whole network was left with empty prime time. So
now, from 8 to 10 (Pacific, I don't know how many feeds there are)
we're getting Desire and The Fashion House, based on classic
telenovelas that have enthralled millions of our neighbors down south.
These are full American remakes, of course, drawing talent like Bo
Derek, Morgan Fairchild, and Tippi Hedrin (Tippi Hedrin, people!) in
Fashion House, which, according to its website, "delves deep into the
glamorous, yet unscrupulous, world of the fashion
industry and how greed, lust and blind ambition make or break careers,
and hearts, in the business." Desire, a serial about mobstery
restaraunteur brothers, stars Sofia Milos, near and dear to us from
CSI: Miami's many adventures.
Every weekday for thirteen weeks we'll get another episode of the
unfolding mystery, and as a bonus, the ADD-ridden among us will get
special "catch-up" episodes on the weekends, where the week's events
are condensed into an easy-to-swallow hour. And then! When the story's
over, the shows go away. And whole new shows start, with whole new stories. Revolutionary!
The shift from the rigid network format (half-hour or hour,
twenty-two week episodic structure that builds its story in time for
sweeps and hiatuses) to a story-based one is the natural evolution of
the medium. With DVD boxed sets and bittorrent downloads, we're eating
TV series by the season, not the month. Me, I've only watched
"24" on DVD. I just wait till the season's over and go to Amoeba so I
can consume Jack Bauer's entire day in one go, and I have been known to
do just that -- though, unlike Jack, I pause to eat and pee and get
from place to place, so it usually takes me longer than twenty-four
hours to get through a season.
And let's all look at Doctor Who, the classic version, for a change:
here's a show that's been producing story-based arcs for something like
twenty-six seasons. And the BBC still remains a rich proving ground for
short-form serials; six-episode, thirteen-episode, three-episode
stories come and go, year in and out.
Now, we've had our share of excellent miniseries, don't get me
wrong, and from Roots to Band of Brothers to that one where William H.
Macy had really big ears, I love me a good miniseries. I sat through Taken! I mean, mostly for Matt Frewer and Dakota Fanning, but still. Ten hours! I love a story that takes ten hours!
MyNetworkTV has all the hallmarks of failure, from a cheap-ass logo
to programming that looks like it was shot on a sound stage behind the
Border Patrol station in Tijuana, but it's got nothing to lose, and it
can afford to be shameless, and that just might propel it to that weird
sort of hypnotic success. Soap operas run for twenty seasons, not
because they retain viewership from start to finish but because
everyone dips in, once in a while, enjoys a season or two of Luke and
Laura and then goes back to college or whatever and leaves the series
for the next generation to enjoy. This leads me to believe that we will
eat this kind of storytelling up.
Thanks to the nice folks at Laurel's TV Picks, namely Laurel, I've got our fall TiVo/download schedule mapped out to the hour:
Mondays
8:30-9 How I Met Your Mother CBS (9/18)
9-10 Heroes NBC (9/25)
10-11 Studio 60 NBC (9/18)
Tuesdays
8-9 House FOX (fall, 9/5)
8-9 NCIS CBS (winter, 9/19)
9-10 House FOX (winter)
Wednesdays
8-9 Bones FOX (8/30)
8-8:30 Twenty Good Years NBC (10/4)
8:30-9 30 Rock NBC (10/11)
Thursdays
8-9 Survivor CBS (9/14)
Fridays
8-9 Bones FOX (winter)
Battlestar Galactica
Stargate: Atlantis
Sat
-nothing-
Sundays
8-9 The Amazing Race CBS (9/17)
9-9:30 Family Guy FOX (9/10)
+ nonspecific FX/TNT shows, like probably "Rescue Me"
+ HBO shows ("Big Love")
+ BBC/ITV shows (Aftersun, Torchwood, GW X-mas special, DW, Little Britain, 2 Pints, Catherine Tate, etc)
+ misc procedurals that conflict with the above (or midseason) and will
therefore be downloaded and saved for dry spells and special occasions
(Jericho, Kidnapped, Vanished, Traveler)
Dear Google,
You've been telling us you're peeved by people using the term
"googling" as a generic term for searching on the internet. You've
asked us to stop.
We would like to assure you that we are not using "googling" generically -- we are actually Googling that much.
We can't stop googlin' as long as we're Googling on a regular basis, and I personally plan to Google The Hell On.
Your devoted Googlers,
The Internet
Or, How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Beeb
I finally had to take "anglophilia" off my disinterests list. Not that, up until now, I wasn't interested in England, the way I'm interested in Norway and Fiji and the Falklands, but I never felt the need to fangirl the UK, the way some misplaced Americans do, reaching out for some beautiful, centuries-old, Stonehenge-crumbling historic past with kings and dragons and Shakespeare. I always identified more as a straight-up pomo American, too thick with irony to appreciate any of that very genuine, very poncy history that draped itself all over the Queen's England. England was a modernist icon, I thought, trapped in endearing -- but all the while very earnest -- echoes of the past.
Let's not forget I'm talking about television. And though it's 2006 it took me this long to get past my own stereotyping -- up till now England had been that place with four TV channels and nothing on but Masterpiece Theatre and Fawlty Towers, and all of that was adorably quaint but had very little to do with me, over here, slamming Rocky Mountain's finest ale and mainlining Family Guy, here on the brink of the second revolution in three hundred years, here in this country that's hasn't even reached her two hundred and fiftieth birthday yet. I was busily being the young punk runaway, and I'd very decidedly cast off the shackles of the Mother Country, 'cause fat lotta good they'd do me over here.
Tony Kushner, in the early 90s, back before 9/11, before air attacks on our home soil, let Louis say this, in Angels in America: Millennium Approaches.
LOUIS:
[...]In spite of all this the thing about America, I think, is that
ultimately we're different from every nation on Earth, in that, with
people here of every race we can't...Ultimately what defines us isn't
race, but politics. Not like any European country where there's an
insurmountable fact of a kind of racial, or ethnic, monopoly, or
monolith, like all Dutchmen, I mean, Dutch people, are, well, Dutch,
and the Jews of Europe were never Europenans, just a small problem.
Facing the monolith. But here there are so many small problems, it's
really just a collection of small problems, the monolith is missing.
Oh, I mean, of course I suppose there's the monolith of White America.
White Straight Male America.
BELIZE: Which is not unimpressive, even among monoliths.
LOUIS: Well, no, but when the race thing gets taken care of, and I don't mean to minimalize how major it is, I mean I know it is, this is a really, really incredibly racist country but it's like, well, the British. I mean, all those blue-eyed pink people. And it's just weird, you know, I mean, I'm not all that Jewish-looking, or...well, maybe I am, but, you know, in New York, everyone is...well, not everyone, but so many are but so but in England, in London I walk into bars and I feel like Sid the Yid, you know I mean like Woody Allen in Annie Hall, with the payess and the gabardine coat, like, never, never anywhere so much -- [...] in London, there's just...and at one point I met this black gay guy from Jamaica who talked with a lilt but said his family'd been living in London since before the Civil War -- the American one -- and how the English never let him forget for a minute that he wasn't blue-eyed and pink and I said yeah, me too, these people are anti-Semites and he said yeah but the British Jews have the clothing business all sewed up and blacks there can't get a foothold. And it was an incredibly awkward moment of just...I mean, here we were in this bar that was gay but it was a pub, you know, the beams and the plaster and those horrible little, like, two-day-old fish and egg sandwiches -- and just so British, and so old, and I felt, well, there's no way out of this because both of us are, right now, too much immersed in this history, hope is dissolved in the sheer age of this place, where race is what counts and there's no real hope of change -- it's the racial destiny of the Brits that matters to them, not their political destiny, whereas in America... [...] Racists just try to use race here as a tool in a political struggle. It's not really about race. Like the spiritualists try to use that stuff, are you enlightened, are you centered, channeled, whatever, this reaching out for a spiritual past in a country where no indigenous spirits exist -- only the Indians, I mean Native American spirits and we killed them off so now, there are no gods here, no ghosts and spirits in America, there are no angels in America, no spiritual past, no racial past, there's only the political.
And I was eager to fight for
our political future, because America felt like the future, even though
"future" might simply be what fills the vacuum in a world without a
past. And because of that, I was threatened by all that past, all those
beams and fish-and-egg sandwiches, all that deep racial history and
tradition that paralyzed England and enabled us to open a can of
whup-ass on y'all at Yorktown.
Then the Millennium was Approaching, and since then, the millennium came, and brought with it our first attacks on civilian soil; the first serious foreign attack on America since Pearl Harbor, and we all recoiled a little bit and realized how our parents must have felt, wondering what we'd been up to with all our tongue-in-cheek irony and sweeping entitled sense of security, like we really were the Brave New World and nothing could touch us.
Point is, we're not as cutting-edge as I'd thought we were, and England's not so backwards modernist as all that. Where we're actually quite paranoid, stuffy and neurotic and afraid of jinxing ourselves, England's let loose over the last decade, and all of a sudden those four channels are pushing at the parameters of what we've come to expect in television, and over here, the WB and UPN collapse in on one another, folding under the weight of trying to support all that teenaged, contrived sarcasm.
Our new hit shows, "My Name is Earl," "Supernatural," "Battlestar Galactica," "Grey's Anatomy," are so much more earnest than anyone would have dared pitch in '99, in 2000, back when it was all edges and irony. Now we find ourselves craving some security in the familiar, the old tropes of love and loss, heroes and monsters. 2006's television's just 50's television grown up, where the men are men and the doctors are doctors and the heroes kill the monsters and the girls are witty, and clever, and behind every good man.
I watched Coupling and some Eddie Izzard specials in '03 and '04, watched The Office and Little Britain in '05, Green Wing and Doctor Who in '06. (I also watched AbFab in the late 90s and early 00s, but French and Saunders didn't do much better than Fry and Laurie to subvert my BBC stereotypes, still the same sort of classic combination of slapstick and vulgarity, no?)
In the optimistic economic eighties, we had yuppie TV like "thirtysomething," like "The Wonder Years" (yuppie nostalgia) and "Murphy Brown," like "Family Ties" and "The Cosby Show."
In the counterculture 90s we had "Ally McBeal" and her dancing babies. We had "The Simpsons" and "Seinfeld" and we reinvented the evening soap with "Melrose Place" and "90210."
We got confused in the 00s, the decade we came under attack and went to war for reasons no one could really identify. For the first couple years we played it safe, we returned to Family Values, we carefully filed down anything that might mean fear. Aaron Sorkin left "The West Wing" just like Clinton left the White House, and both the fictionalized and real versions of the West Wing became treacleized and stopped having anything to say.
And we crawled out of the post-9/11 safety cushion with our wallets out in front of us; we bought what came next with our checkbooks. We got "Family Guy" back on TV because we bought the DVDs, because producers of media were too scared to take a gamble on what we might want, and instead gave us what they already knew we did. "Lost" came and reminded mainstream America of the escapist power of science fiction and the paranormal, and in a move that hasn't been seen since the Formica-plated 1960s, we brought back sci-fi with a vengeance. Sixteen paranormal themed shows premiered, and were as quickly cancelled.
Which isn't to say some people didn't get it right. After all, the 00s gave us "Arrested Development" and "Scrubs," and saw the practical death of the four-camera sitcom. And in our nostalgia we did some things right, like the reimagined, sexy "Battlestar Galactica" and the completely user-friendly and female-viewer friendly "Supernatural" and "Stargate: Atlantis."
But the UK beat us to it, lapped us, paced us, set the standard for television in the millennium. While we were busy nursing our wounds and looking for anything unthreatening, the UK went wild with some of the most threatening, raunchiest television ever. Queer as Folk in 1999 came like a big fuck-you to the United States, for all our new-world mentality, we weren't the first to launch a big gay drama, and then, like we were afraid anything new we dreamed up would look pale in comparison, we just went ahead and took QAF and adapted it for the US. Like there are no other gay stories to tell; like the Beeb had Jossed us good. We took "The Office" for the same reason; we tried to take "Coupling" as if we didn't really understand that, minus the no-holds-barred penis jokes, minus the really human awkward unflushable insights, NBC-clean, "Coupling" wasn't really any better than any four-camera sitcom we could have created ourselves, stock, stock and barrel.
So the UK reinvents "Doctor Who" and, across the pond, we reinvent "Battlestar Galactica." DW adds a canonically gay character in Captain Jack; we heteronormalize a queer relationship (Apollo/Starbuck) but also manage to get a lesbian icon out of the deal. BSG's poised like an epic space adventure, but what it privileges is the domestic -- maternal and paternal leaders, with Conservative military and religious ideals, lead their flock home to the bosom of the promised land, and we hear what we've heard in the United States since that September day in 2001, namely, "wouldn't it be nice to feel safe again?"
Russell Davies' "Doctor Who," while reimagined in much the same way, inventing comedy and irony in place of bad special effects and totally unscary robot villains, has the opposite moral, and that's where the UK's lapped us. "Doctor Who" doesn't say, "there's no place like home" -- in fact, it posits that we're living in a world of infinite possibility, where almost anywhere is an adventure and everyplace beats home. BBC used the same old tin trashcan Daleks and spent its focus on reinventing the characters, and letting them tell (in "The Christmas Invasion," and others) contemporary political stories, and a timeless love story, with humor and ambition and hope. Maybe the money David Eick and SCI FI used to make the Cylons look so good would have been better spent trying to inject some wit, and some sense of adventure, into Galactica's sprawling and humorless morality play.
And that's where the Beeb has dared to revolutionize television for the new millennium. Comedies like "Green Wing" play with taboos I wouldn't have known the world was ready for, stuck in backwards America in 2006. UK television's got nothing left that's sacred, and that in and of itself's an example of how far they've left us behind. In "Little Britain," Dafydd's "the only gay in the village," and for the first time we've got not only a canonically gay regular on a TV series, but we've got several, which allows us to mock Dafydd's one gay stereotype by holding it up against lots and lots of others. Because America still hasn't learned that there's more than one gay story to tell, more than one gay in the village after all.
Watching British TV now is like seeing ourselves in our parents. I can totally see where we got our wit, our sense of irony, our stubbornness and underdogsmanship. And I can see where we went wrong, where we got too big for our britches and where we didn't live up to their expectations. In "Green Wing," Guy challenges Mac to name five famous lesbians. Mac immediately goes to the Brontes, which Guy blows off as too easy, off limits. When was the last time anyone on American TV offered up the name of a nineteenth century author as part of casual banter? Next time Turk asks JD to name five famous lesbians, furrow your brow and look for it.
I still stand by the idea of America, and I love that this country's all future and no past, all potential and no shackles, because somehow even our most embarassing moments, our lapses in judgement, our slavery days, all feel very recent and natural, the growing pains of a country too big and faced with more freedom than it knew how to handle. But we got attacked, in this decade, and it changed us, despite feeling like we were all grown up in big-boy pants and way past changing, past being sensitive or scared.
"Doctor Who" 2005, "The Empty Child." The Anschluss has come to London and the kids are hiding from the air raids and Rose tells the girl not to worry, she's from London, fifty years from now. They win this one.
I was in Brooklyn on September 11th of '01, and Rose in the air raids reminded me that that's my experience, the closest we've come to being in a country that's been attacked on our own soil. Seeing a city like London under siege in my dad's lifetime gave me chills. Like it was impossible to believe this city of Panzers and exploding artillery's the same as the city where I went to the theatre in Picadilly Circus. And Nancy can't believe it either, even when Rose tells her they win.
Fifty years of recovering from that does something to a country, I imagine. Fifty years of rebuilding with the same stubborn manifest destiny that's going into rethinking the new World Trade Towers, nationwide, over generations. And so it is like seeing ourselves in our parents, and more, watching them watch us. And we were on the cutting edge for a while there but in this millennium we're behind the curve, backwards and stodgy and without any real sense of how to play well with others. From across the pond they mock us and watch us stumble, and in their television and movies and rhyming slang we get a peek into how we could have been, how our parents grew, in a different world, in a different time.
Talk back to me about British TV of the last decade, or American TV of the last decade, or strange books about war. I'm about to start the first series of "Black Books;" I'll keep you apprised.
Dear Mr. Tennant,
I'm writing from Hollywood, California, because your star's rising so brightly I can see it from here, and it's gorgeous, and it's blinding, and I thought you should know what it looks like from 6000 miles. This is also a love letter.
From today I give you a year, maybe eighteen months till you're a household name, top-billed, in the States as well as abroad. Here's what's gonna happen.
They'll make you work out, you beautiful lanky stringbean, and you'll get biceps and a chest and then they'll make you do (more) shirtless scenes. Then you're gonna cultivate an American accent. They'll tell you to do it because more roles'll open up for you. We'll tell you to do it because we want to hear you sound like us, and you'll do it because you got a bit of the cowboy in ya and a damned good ear. Take it for a test drive on Doctor Who this year, because in the age of BBC America you've got a bigger captive audience than Tom Baker ever had, and in a week you'll end up on YouTube.
Next you get a breakthrough hit. Something with critical appeal on a low budget, this year's Trainspotting. I bet the scripts are coming in already, and you're with ICM, so you'll pick the right one. Then it's a question of do you want to do the mainstream summer American romantic comedy they send ya, or do you wait for the villain role in the smaller American thriller? And the girls join the gays, as they tend to, and next thing you're beating out Brad Pitt in every poll there is. Glossy magazines that smell like perfume will call you things like "The Scottish Sensation" and the Desperate Housewives will start fantasizing about you. Quite possibly call you to offer you a six-episode arc.
I just met you this past year because I'm a geek and a fangirl and I watched Eccleston in Who, and, like everyone, thought I'd never get over him once he left. (If you're playing the home game, you had me in three episodes. I marked the moment, it's at the end of "School Reunion" when we get our very first giant Tennant grin, breaking around "my Sarah Jane!")
Since then I've made a point of getting hold of screeners for Casanova, Blackpool, Secret Smile. I watched 2005's Quatermass for you, and the internet provided old episodes of Taking over the Asylum where they noticed you first, all limbs and energy and that weird wisdom in your eyes. You like props and stage business. You like smiles that break from one corner of your mouth to the other, like a wave. You like to touch people. You like to pace, to sit down and get right back up again. You like to cross a room and then look back over your shoulder. You bite your upper lip and shoot a knowing look. Most white guys bite their lower lips, but you've redefined mouth business for a whole new generation, with that pop of your lower jaw and the way the tip of your tongue folds up against the roof of your mouth. I suspect some of that's you, just as I suspect that even when you're not performing your face tells a hell of a story.
So I did twelve years of Tennant in about two months, real time. I watched you grow up and blow up and explode on the screen as Casanova, as Carlisle, as the Doctor. This time you took the slower path, and I tripped through the pages of your book and fell for you as I watched you blow the roof off the place.
The reviews I've read describe your Doctor as quirky, electric, I've even heard "waspish," but if you ask me (and boy how you didn't) I think the key element you bring to the character's what we saw in the very first five minutes we had him on screen -- he's a fellow who's hop, hop, hopping for his life, in perpetual motion because if he ever stops, even for a second, he'll be forced to come to terms with the weight of his 900 years and all his angst and guilt. And so you spin him across the screen with a sort of desperate mania, like the guy who hides his emotions behind humor or the guy who talks too fast because he doesn't want to hear what you're gonna say if he lets you interrupt. Actually, it's kind of chilling. One gets the feeling that just beneath the surface, Tennant's Doctor, for all his infinite adaptibility, is about one good guilt trip away from smiting the universe with his wrath for all of its injustices. Kind and passionate, yeah, but don't ever mistake that for nice.
All this in sharp contrast to your Casanova, though on the surface they do share a sort of Peter Pannish irrepressibility, because you somehow managed to make Casanova -- while entirely a rogue -- the domestic sort. Here's a man who, despite appearances, really does just want that perfect love affair, to run off with his heart's desire and settle down for a life of domestic wedded bliss. And how you managed to do that while keeping him a self-centered cad is just another little indication of why I spent the last two months seeking out every credit of yours I could get my hands on. Casanova who wants nothing more than for his son to be proud of him, or nothing more than to play house with Henriette, and still manages to botch the whole thing up because he's crippled by his own need for instant gratification and because he's got that magpie-like attraction to the shiny and new and untried.
And then Carlisle's a third sort entirely, probably the laziest character I've seen you play. And of course it's not really laziness he's got, but what you present as sort of a combination of complete worldly entitlement and a sort of boredom with everything around him. Your Carlisle slouches through his life completely convinced he'll get whatever he's got his eye on without much effort on his part. When other folks talk, he lets his mind wander. He lopes around with that air of bored confidence, but then, in a really phenomenal performance, you litter all that confidence with nervous behavior, the eye poking, the oral fixation. Like even Carlisle doesn't know how insecure he really is. And it works for him, both the insecurity and the overconfidence; he gets his man, he gets the girl, he's a corrupt antihero and we all root for him anyway.
In other words, you've impressed the socks off me. And that doesn't mean anything, I mean, my opinion, as I'm not famous, or noteworthy, or an asshole, but I'm brighter than most and I've got discerning taste and I'm not even an Anglophile; I'm a dyed-in-the-wool Jewish New Yorker cum-Angeleno, and I think you are the greatest thing to come along since belly lox on a bagel. And not just because you're a beautiful man, which you are, from the loud arch of your eyebrow to your toothy grin that can stop a girl's heart, ka-thud, just like that. And not just because you're a legitimate talent, a genuine actor's actor, an alive, electric performer with a freakish ability to shift from beaming to broken or from charming to creepy with a curl of your lip. Because one bit of stage business isn't enough for you, and they may call you spastic and jumpy but every single one of those movements is controlled, elegant. You slide into your roles like you were born in them, which, I suppose, in the Doctor's case, you were. You make good decisions. You see the whole picture. And I've grown absolutely addicted to watching you do it, and falling just a little bit in love with you besides.
Not even just because you're a Socialist, or you did 7:84 or can probably match me at West Wing trivia, or because you still believe in agitprop, though those are points in your favor. And I didn't fall for you just because you're six feet and can't weigh more than a buck fifty but you move like a dancer and your head's always square on your shoulders and you can't teach that kind of confidence, that kind of posture, that's just born, and either you got it or you don't, and you've got it in spades.
But mostly I'm impressed from 6000 miles away, and I felt the need to write to you, because you're taking this in stride, all of it, hop hop hopping for your life and making good choices and living in the present and building a career not by cutthroat ambition but by sheer talent, each role coming out of the next because we want you, and not the other way around. And you say now that you don't have a five year plan, and I believe you, because I've read articles from '04 where you mentioned trying to get your agent to put you up for a walk-on role on Who. But a year from now you're going to belong to the world, The Next Big Scot, because the scripts are only going to come in faster after Christmas, after Recovery, after whatever's next, and I'm gonna miss you.
Scotland's known you forever, but we just got hold of you over here across the pond, and we're proprietary! I love that this year you're property of the geeks, the fanboys and fangirls and the Pink Paper gays, all of us who always jump on board just a little bit quicker than the rest of the world, all of us who know how to see magic in the mundane and who saw it in your amazing face. We're a clever bunch, geeks and artists, and we usually find the cool stuff first.
We're on the brink, you know? Doesn't it feel like apocalypse weather? This big world and my country's diabolical administration and the conflict that arises when a planet gets too small for its population? Good time for agitprop and a great time for geeks -- we made the microphones and the internet and the podiums and now we've got 'em in our hot little hands. So what do we SAY? What do we DO? How do we use what we got to change the world for the better? Is it any wonder I fantasize about this year's love in the form of a Socialist Scot with a talent that even The Man can't keep down?
But that's also why this is a love letter, because I'm aching for our lost year, because next time you're in LA you'll be bigger than Brad Pitt and rich as Croesus, and I'm never gonna get the chance to work with you, to use your energy and vast, sprawling talent to tell my stories. And we'll never get that drink.
And it woulda been a good drink, David, it woulda been awesome.
Maybe I'm wrong, and you'll stay staunchly where you are, the pride of Scotland and the Pink Paper heartthrob for five more series of Who, and then maybe after that you'll team up with Russell Davies and write your own pilot, and star in that, and spend some more decades with the RSC and follow the path of other actorly British sorts, and you'll crossover to the states when you're seventy and playing Dumbledore in Harry Potter 21.
But either way, I hope you feel the potential, the excitement, the fire of your shooting star. Because from over here, it is absolutely incredible to watch, and I can't look away.
The best of luck to you in everything you do. Come to LA and I'll show you a good time.
