Happiness Is a Big Yellow Dog in a Bamboo Thicket

Looks like Penny and Des are not so pleased at the finale. I LOVE YEH, PENNEH!

Unless you were living in a secret hatch in the middle of a mystical island for the past six years, you most likely heard that the series finale of Lost was last night. A two-and-a-half hour Odyssey of jungles, of planes, and of Dharma beer. Yes, I am coming out of (pseudo) retirement to voice my opinions and humble theories on this ultimate of ultimate television endings.

Where to start? First, that while I thought the end was moving to the point that it was embarrassing and incredibly uncomfortable to sit in a room with my friends for fear of giving out a tell-tale sniffle. It reminded me a lot of this (it starts around 3:10). In fact, there have been more than several allusions to the James Cameron behemoth (the one where the cast isn't blue...at least at first). This season, from the Jack and Rose scene on the sideways/Purgatory plane, to Sun and Jin's watery death, and the two hands floating in the water, cutting to the sinking submarine. Far be it that Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse could resist including any bit of pop-culture, mythology, and literature already deep within the shady ferns of the Island.

The biggest complaint I've heard so far is that so many questions were left unanswered. What of the Island mythology? What was Widmore really after, and why could Ben kill him on the island, and not off? What are the origins of the Others? And what of Walt, the only cast member of Flight 815 to not reappear in the final season? Not to mention hundreds of other questions of the Dharma Initiative, visions of horses, time-travel, and why Claire wasn't eating peanut butter in the Church of the Afterlife/dead survivor pot-luck while canoodling with Charlie. Initially, I was irked that the writers chose a sentimental, somewhat expected ilk. Let's all get the audience in a syrupy fog over reuniting with dead loved ones, misty over Jack's ultimate sacrifice for his friends and for the Island, a red herring to deter viewers from asking the bigger questions.

Once the initial anger passed over me like a post-apocalyptic rainstorm, I realized that I didn't want all the answers. If art imitates life, than being handed answers or trying to be told what to make of the finale means very little, since, last time I checked, no one was telling me the significance of my listening to The Mamas and the Papas this morning.

It's important to remember that this is, after all, television. A medium that was once meant to sell dish soap and play host to tacky game shows and sitcoms with blaring laugh tracks. Most television shows don't make it past the infantile first season, let alone six. And to be given near free reign to introduce the space-time continuum, alternate worlds, and a mostly bare torso'd Sawyer, well, that never happens. To that end, Lost came along and turned that notion on its head. Week after week, we saw movie-caliber production levels and absurdly intricate plot lines. But the vision continually changed. The problem, then, is the constantly shifting view of the writers and the inability to go back and re-edit. J.R.R. Tolkein revised The Lord of the Rings countless times over the span of 30 years, in response to letters from fans pointing out discrepancies. It's different with TV, especially since the writers haven't figured out how to time travel themselves (we think).

Anyways.

So Jack, temporary guardian of the Island, chronic fixer of things, is the Christ figure. EW's Ken Tucker argues the point:

"...if there was one thing we can probably all agree upon, in the end, Jack Shephard was a Christ figure whose sacrifice saved many other people. The imagery could not have been more specific: Jack’s questioning and obeying of his father; his leadership of a small group of disciples; his final ascension (in TV terms, in a glowing white light). Even the piercing of his side by Locke/Man In Black was in the part of his body where Christ was speared while in agony on the crucifying cross."

The Magic Bullet

The History Chanel recently aired "JFK: Three Shots that Changed America," a three-hour documentary on the assassination of America's 35th president.

How the times have changed, irrevocably, inconceivably. No doubt shows like "Mad Men" capture glimpses of the sixties, but these are glossy, orchestrated, and romanticized. Things that seemed bromide are now security risks - JFK mulling about in crowds, though nerve-racking for the SS, was practiced. Imagine Obama doing the same - those forty years have seen some of the most drastic changes of all.

On that day, Jackie O. was wearing "some knobby pink thing" as a CBS reporter observed. The people in Fort Worth were there to see her style, and to shake hands with the President. They wanted a smile, a "how are you?" from the president, and only that.

The Media and, by proxy, news and entertainment outlets, have proven fascinating litmus tests of history. How the news saw the Kennedy Assassination the day of it divulges from how it was seen a week later - and, of course, with forty some odd years of analysis and insight, how will Matthew Weiner and Co. color the assassination? How different a world it is, from November 22, 1963, to the upcoming November 22, 2009, where, when President Obama came to New York City with the First Lady to see a show in May, the closest the press could get was half a block away, carefully watched by the NYPD and rooftop snipers.

These are tumultuous times, times of metal detectors and bomb-sniffing dogs and tracers. Yet, with things as they are, it is all too easy to forget that the so-called Golden Years of America were still riddled with danger - presidents were still assassinated a century and a half ago; America has been, mostly, a dangerous country. There were few sanctions in the developing West, where vigilantes and rogues took the law into their own hands. And yet, the 1950's and, to an extent, the 1960's, were the halcyon days, to be looked upon longingly.

Those days were fugacious at best, a hyperbolic lie at worst.

What of the Bay of Pigs, the Cuban Missile Crisis? How easy it is to get caught up in the worries most germane to us - crumbling economies, swine flu, Lady Gaga - but how important it is to turn back the pages of history, to be reminded of the echoes of the past.

I'll Watch the Emmys, Even Though "30 Rock" and "Mad Men" Will Be the Only Things that Win

Ah, the Emmys. The awkward, red-headed step-child of the Oscars. Then again, television has been coming into its' own, with behemoths like Mad Men, 30 Rock, and nearly everything on HBO and Showtime nominated for a plethora of awards. Some say it's unfair that there are so many categories, or that Tina Fey has been nominated so much that she could build a spiral staircase of potential Emmys. Regardless, here are my predictions, for better or worse.

Best Comedy Series:
Should Win: 30 Rock
Will Win: 30 Rock

Referencing everything from B-list zombie slashers to Peter Shafer's Amadeus, I'm not the first to say it, nor will I be the last, but I want to go to there.

Best Drama Series:
Should Win: Mad Men
Will Win: Mad Men

Though its return was lugubrious, the payoff was well worth the wait. Season Two of this slick drama chronicles the complicated lives of the addies at Sterling-Cooper. Don disappears to California. Peggy discovers clothes that didn't belong to her grandmother. And we, the viewers, discover how much we love the unfolding intrigue. Can there please be a LOST/Mad Men hybrid, so we can all time travel back to the 1960's? (I'm looking at you, JJ.)

Outstanding Lead Actor in a Comedy Series:
Should Win: Jim Parsons as Sheldon Cooper (The Big Bang Theory)
Will Win: Alec Baldwin as Jack Donaghy (30 Rock)

Jim Parsons, the slight, gangly Sheldon, defines "poindexter." With zero social skills and the uncomfortable burden of a genius IQ, he bumbles through life, stuttering physics formulas and committing faux-pas. Meanwhile, Alec Baldwin plays a slightly more egotistical version of himself.


Outstanding Lead Actor in a Drama Series:
Should Win: Jon Hamm as Don Draper
Will Win: Jon Hamm as Don Draper

Watch this genius SNL clip. And tell me you don't believe every word uttered by the once Dick Whitman.



Outstanding Lead Actress in a Comedy Series:
Should Win: Mary-Louise Parker as Nancy Botwin (Weeds)
Will Win: Tina Fey as Liz Lemon (30 Rock)

Let's look at these characters academically:

Liz Lemon: Neurotic, over-committed brunette writer with fast food fetish, has to deal with incompetent co-workers, writers, and actors.

Nancy Botwin: Neurotic, over-committed brunette drug dealer with Diet Coke fetish, has to deal with incompetent co-workers, drug lords, and DEA agents.

Sadly, the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences will go for the safe option. Not to say you're not brilliant, Tina, it's just...share the wealth, mmmkay?


Outstanding Lead Actress in a Drama Series:
Should Win: Elisabeth Moss as Peggy Olson, Mad Men
Will Win: Elisabeth Moss as Peggy Olson, Mad Men
Who would have thought that meek and dowdy secretary-cum-copywriter Peggy Olson would blossom into such a rich, complex stalwart of moxie and guts? Anyone doubting Moss' ability to exhibit this richness, watch season two's season finale, "Meditations in an Emergency." And then we'll talk. Marska Hargitay (Detective Olivia Benson of Law and Order: SVU) was, at one point, a contender, but already has a nod from the Academy, and has been so absent from the current season that it seems unlikely she'll get another statuette.

Outstanding Supporting Actor in a Comedy Series:
Should Win: Neil Patrick Harris (Barney Stinson, How I Met Your Mother), Jack McBrayer (Kenneth the Page, 30 Rock), or Tracy Morgan (Tracy Jordan, 30 Rock)
Will Win: Jack McBrayer (Kenneth the Page, 30 Rock)

While tempting to say all supporting actors are created equal (and only serve as foils for the lead characters), the truth of the matter is this year's batch of auxiliary funny men are as varied as Barney Stinson's collection of suits. Ultimately, McBrayer's earnest naivete wins out as accidentally hilarious. Sorry, Rainn, but Dwight just doesn't cut it any more. Fact.


Outstanding Supporting Actress in a Comedy Series:
Should Win: Kristin Chennoweth (Olive Snook, Pushing Daisies)
Will Win: Anyone's call

Chennoweth delights in the now defunct Pushing Daisies, as a jockey slash waitress Olive Snook, a pint-sized songbird and spy who helps the Scooby gang solve crimes. It doesn't hurt that this Broadway alum has some serious pipes, which she uses to great affect from time to time.

Outstanding Supporting Actor in a Drama Series:
Should Win: Michael Emerson (Benjamin Linus, LOST)
Will Win: John Slattery (Roger Sterling, Mad Men)


Outstanding Supporting Actress in a Drama Series:
Should Win: ? (To be fair, I have not seen enough of any other show to give an accurate, angry rant over talent and the Academy being biased. It happens.)
Will Win: Sandra Oh (Dr. Cristina Yang, Grey's Anatomy)

Cristina has had a tumultuous season - first, getting impaled by an icicle, then falling for Lieutenant Night Terror who tried choking her in her sleep. There are only so many people who can pull off obsessive-compulsive neurosis with such likable charm, and Sandra Oh is one of them.

So, it's time to watch the magic unfold. Updates to follow as to how wonderfully/poorly I did. Enjoy!

New York, I Love You

There is nothing in this world that I love more than movies. I did, after all, devote four years of study to the crafting, telling, and analysis of the medium. There's something so great about film - it taps into telling stories and delving into the human condition, belly-first. But, if there was ever a contender for things I love more than movies, it might just be New York.

Enter "New York, I Love You," the perfect hybrid of motion picture and the Big Apple.

It's like Christmas when I first discovered they're making a companion film to 2006's Cannes Film Festival darling, "Paris, Je T'aime," appropriately titled "New York, I Love You." The premise is simple: each five minute vignette is about a specific part of New York - the Upper East Side, Bronx, East Village, and so on. And each vignette is written and directed by a prominent director.
It just so happens to be the directorial debut of Natalie Portman, who appeared in a "Paris, Je T'aime" vignette.

Emmanuel Benbihy, the architect and ingenue of these love letters to various cities, is also planning "Shanghai, I Love You," slated for release in 2010. And though "NY, ILY" won't be out until October, there's still plenty to love about this film - it boasts all-star cast, from Robin Wright Penn, Orlando Bloom, and Andy Garcia (it angers me that Blake Lively is in it, though she is a part of New York, if only fictitiously.)

Does this mean "Cleveland, I Tolerate You" is in the works? Doubtful. But who knows, the wanderlusting writers of "Paris, Je T'aime" might have started a vast empire.

Half Blood Wince

It has finally arrived. The torturous weeks walking through New York viewing pictures of a very macabre Daniel Radcliffe in subway stations are at an end. For any Muggles who have been like Sirius Black, and living in a cave for the past decade, I am, of course, referring to the debut of Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince this evening.

Prepare for a masterful tale of spells and villains, of castles and creatures, and a lot of wizard angst. Review to follow after my viewing. To Hogwarts! To Harry!


Well. That was that. I braved the lines at the Regal Cinema in Union Square, and precisely at 12:01, was the magical moment. Viewers clapped and cheered as though they were at a Quiddich match between Slytherin and Gryffindor. But enough about my irrefutable nerdiness.

Let's start out with the good the film has to offer. No director seems to stay around very long - one could even argue that the position is cursed, much like the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. But, in the whole mess of them, David Yates (of several acclaimed BBC series) has proven he can handle the epic span of storylines that J.K. Rowling presents. He transformed "Order of the Phoenix" from an angst-ridden teenybopper (cough, cough...Twilight) popcorn flick to a Big Brother-esque lesson on totalitarianism and absolute power. And to that end, Yates has made a successful, visually stunning film with HBP.

The issues lie in several aimless plot twists screenwriter Steve Kloves threw in. Too much butterbeer at the Hog's Head, perhaps? Or not enough Felix Felicis? I am not the first, nor will I be the last, to complain about the completely irrelevant scene in the middle of the film, where the Burrow is stormed by Bellatrix LeStrange (Helena Bonham Carter, in a disappointing role handled with the finesse of Gwarp in a chinashop) and the pointless were-man Fenrir Greyback (Dave Legeno). I realize that movies usually deviate from their heftier cousins, the novel, but to spend over five minutes on a battle that was not in the book, did not further the plot, and took the place of the skirmish at the end of HBP?

A definite plus to nearly a decade of witchcraft and wizardry and wee little Brits is that they were bound to get better at some point -- Emma Watson, especially. She has always been the strongest actor of the three, no more than in the third film where she proved she was more than a brainy poindexter, and a deep, emotional being with as much insight into Muggle Studies as she does wizard romance. We see her and Won-wo--I mean, Ron's love blossom, from denial to the touching scene in the Hospital Wing where Ron mumbles "Erm-on-knee."

Another performance to be applauded? How about the creepy little nephew of the scary serpent-like Dark Lord Ralph Fiennes, Hero Fiennes-Tiffin. Finnes-Tiffin plays the intensely creepy 11-year-old Tom Riddle cum Lord Voldemort. Thankfully, though, he hasn't developed his odd penchant to play with anagrams like in Chamber of Secrets.

The film's peaks do not make up for its valleys, and vice versa. Though the climax at Voldemort's cave is, at points poignant and touching, when Dumbledore offers himself as the potion drinker, telling Harry, "You're too important." Harry, of course, plays the hero, helping the wizened old Michael Gambon (who never quite captures the sparkle of Richard Harris' Dumbledore) escape to safety. [SPOILER ALERT] Yet minutes later, on the highest tower of Hogwarts, Harry watches blithely by as Dumbledore is murdered by Snape, another plot point that isn't consistent with the characters. In the novel, Dumbledore has the choice to defend himself or perform a bodybind spell on Harry to keep him safe and unseen under the Invisibility cloak. He choses to protect Harry, knowing that one way or another, he was to be sacrificed for the cause of good and light.

The movie, as a whole, is consistent with every other, in that every film has consistently disappointed and strayed away from the crucial plot points. Yes, the films are visually stunning, like a Fabergé egg but upon any amount of pressure or scrutiny, one finds it hollow, and it cracks and crumbles upon itself. Nowhere in the film does Kloves mention the Gaunts, Tom Riddle's only pure-blood wizard relatives; likewise, he only spends a pittance of time with the Horcruxes. Or the lessons with Dumbledore. Or Snape assisting Malfoy in his all-important mission for the Dark Lord. The film spends so much time proudly flaunting how great it is to be a wizard and no time explaining why things are happening.

Kloves should examine the methods of the Academy Award winning writers of the Lord of the Rings trilogy - Fran Walsh, Philippa Boyens and Mr. Peter Jackson himself. The three knew the texts religiously, had read and love the books for years before carefully adapting it to the silver screen. Any changes were made for a reason, to adapt the characters to the deceptively tricky medium of film. Boyens once commented on changing the character of Faramir in The Two Towers:

If you're trying to up the tension, you don't have your main characters captured by someone who sort of interrogates them, but, not really, who then offers them a cup of tea and says, 'I'll do anything I can to help you.' It's death on film. And it's not just the effect that the character out of the book...it's trying to establish that this is the most evil thing ever created, it's tearing apart the mind of your main character, it's reduced this other character to this miserable creature Gollum, and now you come along someone who says, 'I would not touch this thing if it lay on the highway.' You've just stripped the Ring of all its power.

The issue is apparent for avid readers of Rowling's series: it is obvious Kloves has no love of the text he is transforming, it is merely another assignment, another job. Much of the joy and mystery felt from reading the books was lost to me, as it felt like an itenerary for much of the film: "Go here, do this, say that, cast a spell or two, Quiddich match, someone dies, Hogwarts Express."

Bethertainment Weekly Grade:
Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince - starts out wholley splendid, and half-heartedly fizzles out. B-

Harry Potter quote of the day: "He's covered in blood again. Why is it he's always covered in blood?"

The Finale Countdowns

Bethertainment Weekly Presents:
Twittereviews: Season Finale Reviews in 140 words or less.

LOST
I wish I could time travel to the season six premiere. A+

GREY'S ANATOMY
Everyone's McDying or McMarried. McBoring. C+

SCRUBS
Titanic-like montage of JD leaving Sacred Heart. Awkwardly heartwarming. B

THE OFFICE
Michael Scott and Holly put on 'Dunder Mifflinaire.' Pam and Jim is havin' a bay-bee. That is all. B+

And, I am proud to announce I have - from a reliable source - the information that "Mad Men" has started production for a solidly brilliant season three. Let's just say I may or may not have run into a certain Art Director of Sterling-Cooper at certain Broadway revival show and may or may not have asked him questions about the marvellous "Mad Men."

The Ballad of Daniel Faraday: LOST Recap

Huh. Wasn't expecting the variables in "Lost's" 100th episode, conveniently titled "The Variable."

Talk about a conundrum. We discover the details of Faraday's encounter in the 1970's. He doesn't work in the Dharma Initiative, unlike many of the other islanders. He presents the quixotic knight-of-obligation haunted by the requests of his mother, who was either the biggest fan of Fate on Facebook, or an insatiable Destiny's Child devotee.

Faraday as a boy is the jumpy, nervous Physicist Faraday in Boy Size. Turns out most everyone on "Lost" harbors a secret pianist talent -- Jack, Benjamin Linus, and now Far-Away Faraday -- and is well-versed in the classics. But the important thing was Eloise Hawking, tearful and stern, telling him he cannot play piano anymore, that there's not time.

LITTLE BOY FARADAY: But I can make time.
ELOISE: If only you could.

Every line between Faraday and Eloise is a double entendre, each glance has meaning. Sadly, since I am neither J.J. Abrams or a staff writer on the show, the best I can do is hypothesize and use my shiny college degrees to make educated guesses.

First things first. Through flashbacks of Faraday's life, we get a better picture of who exactly Eloise Hawking is. One part scientist, two parts crazy pageant mom, she drives her son to be what he is meant to be -- a top scientist -- so there was simply no time in Faraday's childhood for games of Candyland and trips to the lake. When Faraday graduates from Oxford, Eloise is remarkably cold to his then-girlfriend-soon-to-be-brain dead Theresa. And when confronted by Charles Whidmore about sacrifices, slaps him. "You have no idea what I've had to sacrifice," she says. Which begs the question: does Eloise know what she must do? I would argue, to a certain extent. I'll come back to this idea.

This episode reveals that people are the variables -- that is, their actions and, convexly, lack of actions -- are malleable and are not set in stone. Exhibit A: Charlotte, "just remembering" a man who came to her as a child telling her she must leave the island.

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Does "just remembering" mean that Faraday of 1977 talks to Past-Charlotte in that moment, that Charlotte didn't have that memory until Present-Day Faraday (functioning in 1977) talked to her? It was in the past, but, much like Billy Pilgrim of Slaughterhouse Five, the past is subject to change, and memories with them.

Fans of the show will revel in a "big win" -- we find out the causality for everything! In 1977, unparalleled power is released. The hatch is built to control the power, the button made to reset every 108 minutes. Without the hatch, and the varying power, Oceanic flight 815 would not have crashed, and none of the events on the island would have happened. Jack sees this as promising. No island. No smoke monster. No Benjamin Linus. No feasting on Dharma O's and Dharma Ranch Dressing. Just landing in Los Angeles, a little worse for the wear.

And what of Penelope and Desmond Hume? There was a poorly attempted "ER/Grey's Anatomy" moment when we think Mr. Hume is on his way to the bright forever. Only to find out he's miraculously fine -- looks like the Wheaties he had in his bag o' groceries really did protect him!

Now, to address the giant smoke monster in the room. What of Eloise Hawking of 1977 shooting her son? Faraday storms The Other's Camp awkwardly brandishing a gun, demanding to see Eloise. A whole host of questions arise: why did Faraday feel the need to raid the camp? Did Richard Alpert know that Eloise was present, and, if so, why would he lie and say she wasn't in camp? Was Faraday aware of what needed to be done? That is, did he know it was his destiny to go back to 1977 and be murdered at the hand of his mother? These are questions I can't readily answer. But Eloise seems to have little idea of who she just shot in the stomach. Or, she knows it's all part of the island's destiny.

And, for those who subscribe to the church of H.G. Welles and Steven Hawking, another quantum-continuum "win" was won. "We are the variables," Faraday explains, building on the excellent season four episode "The Constant." That is to say, people are the variables. It was a giant awwww moment, because you think, People's actions aren't set in stone. We're erratic at best, unbalanced at worst. It goes back to Season One, where the story again revolves around the people of "Lost" (as per my letter seen in Entertainment Weekly) and not the extraordinary events surrounding them.

So, Daniel Faraday is dead.

For now.

But as evidenced by other resurrections, (see also: Jock Locke) dead means very little on the island. From next week's previews, Jack is again on a mission to save the island and perhaps stop Oceanic Flight 815 from crashing at all.

Gather round, and say it with me: "Oooh, mindplay!"

Bethertainment Weekly Grade: B+

Lusting for "LOST"

A new, two-hour epic episode of our favorite time-traveling island castaways airs tonight at 9PM. Obama's fourth press conference airs at 8PM. Expect a review of one or the other (or both, if you're lucky).

Quick Stats: LOST's 100th Episode, "The Variable." Daniel Faraday makes a long-awaited appearance, along with a young Charlotte. A whole unmitigated 40 minutes of Oceanic goodness.

Stay tuned!

Not Shaken, Not Stirred, But Boyled

By now, I'm sure even your slightly senile neighbor Bertha has heard of Susan Boyle. It trumps Somalian pirates, economic chaos, and even the newset addition to the Obama household, Bo'bama. Larry King managed to snag this singing sensation for "Larry King Live." For those of you who have been living in a cave, please click this link.

Boyle, 47, has done the impossible--rising from complete obscurity from a small town nested in the British Isles, to win the hearts of the world.

What I ask is this--why the shock, the complete and utter disbelief that an overweight and homely middle-aged British woman cannot hum "Happy Birthday," let alone belt a power-ballad from Les Miserables. Audience members began first to applause, then stand, then cheer, as a national hero was being birthed before their very eyes.

This isn't the first time this has happened. In a previous season of "Britain's Got Talent," a lowely man by the name of Paul Potts told the judges (scowling Simon Cowell included) that he was going to sing "Nessum Dorma," one of the most famous tenor arias of all time, from Giacomo Puccini's celebrated opera Turandot. The judges were again doubting Thomases. Not a one expected an uneducated British man to be able to pronounce an Italian syllable, let alone create a moving work of music and art.

What is it about these unassuming, ordinary people that instill so much doubt in audiences? The answer is as obvious as Tyra Bank's very fake hair color. We (that is to say, scholars and followers of the media) have been programmed to believe only the thin, lovely, and avant-garde have any idea of what art is, and indeed--how to perform it. Beauty comes in unexpected places, but when a society-ordained "fugly" Scotswoman belts out Schönberg--is this cause for media exploitation and international acclimation?

Just a thought.

The "Unusual" Suspects

Can the unusual cast of The Unusuals prove their New York prowess? And what's with the unusual facial hair?

Cop shows have been around for a long, long time. From Hill Street Blues to NYPD Blue, and the original Andy Griffith Show, audiences have been fascinated by the crime crunching men (and women) in uniform. So it comes as no surprise that ABC is trying a new spin on the New York City cop with the premiere of The Unusuals.

It is entertaining enough. Newcomer and ex-Park Avenue Princess Casey Shraeger (Amber Tamblyn) is moved to a new unit after a detective's partner is mysteriously murdered in a park during a shift where she was an undercover - ahem - woman of the night. A man dressed in a hot dog costume is arrested. Police radio quips fade in about a "man in a cape and no pants."

New York is certainly an unusual place, and these crimes do happen. But each character falls flat, each plot line fizzles out before it plays out. You find yourself watching, but disengaged, like an 8th grader sitting in biology class watching a NOVA special on covalent bonding: mildly interesting, but only because of the promise of lunch afterwards. The characters fall flat on their own cliches--LOST's Harold Perrineau plays the one-dimensionally paranoid detective Leo Banks, a man who wears a bullet-proof vest at all times in fear of stray bullets. The awkward, Brady Bunch 'stached Detective Eric Delahoy (Adam Goldberg) finds out he has a brain tumor, and has six weeks to live if it goes untreated.

Though these are all good building blocks, the talented cast fails to deliver the expected quirkiness promised in trailers. Bones veteran writer Noah Hawley keeps dialogue snappy and self-aware, but it is simply not enough to distinguish the show from every other crime and/or cop show with a "new and exciting" twist. Ratings for the pilot were poor, even though its' lead in was the hit show LOST (which was at one of its' highest points last week. Thumbs up, by the way). I wonder--will these gregarious gum shoes find an usual way to beat the barrage of cop and crime shows out there?

(Sidenote: Bring back Pushing Daisies! Please, I beg you, ABC Exec's. It was the only forensic fairy tale I ever liked...)

Bethertainment Weekly Grade: C+

Pace Lifts - Or, How to Improve the Somewhat Struggling Primetime Shows So They're A Lot, Lot Better

As Bob Dylan once noted, the times, they are a changing. We've got a new, tech savvy president who bequeaths iPods to royalty. There are pillow fights on Wall Street. And the once entertaining, freshly piloted network television series I fell in with love so many years ago are approaching middle age. With the wisdom comes creaky bones, weak plot lines, and plateaued characters. Here is my (non) expert advice on how to give face lifts (or, in Grey's Anatomy lexicon, face transplants) to these struggling shows.

Scrubs (ABC)

THE PROBLEM: For seven surreal seasons, I followed Scrubs religiously on NBC. When there was warning that its seventh season was the last, I accepted my fate stoically, without complaint. But after hearing ABC was picking up the quirky cast of Sacred Heart for another season, I had a JD-esque daydream of what this meant for me. Another year of Turk, Carla, and the Todd. A whole new season of ironic jokes and Dr. Cox's penchant for calling JD by girl's names. And yet, the joy isn't there. Zach Braff has been absent in two episodes already (perhaps foreshadowing an ill-advised 9th season without the front man) and the last episode ("My Full Moon") was just about Elliot realizing the American Dream - that when the right man came along, she would throw her talents as a doctor aside for a frilly apron and a family.

QUICK FIX: Though I am loathe to say it, the quickest fix here would be calling it quits at the end of the season. Scrubs has had a respectable run and survived the chop block once. Who knows if its' luck will last. Another idea? Have Turk have a run-in with diabetes that requires JD to wait on him hand and foot. The two will realize their undying love for each other, elope to Iowa, and live happily ever after dancing to "99 Luftballoons."

Grey's Anatomy (ABC)

THE PROBLEM: Avid "Bethertainment Weekly" readers will remember I once blogged about shows that were Jumping the Shark and Healing the Deer. Might you also remember that Grey's Anatomy made that list last season? While the show has proven more interesting and complex with new additions like Iraq veteran Dr. Owen, the show doesn't have the playful self-indulgence it once did in its first and second seasons, flawlessly balancing drama with dark humor, and a McPun along the way.

QUICK FIX: Shonda Rhymes needs to tap into the synergy of the early years of Grey's while finding new ways to develop the characters. Meredith's "dark and twisty" thing has been done, but what about her and Derek dealing with an unexpected pregnancy? Izzy will knit a whole Baby Gap worth of kiddy gear, Christina will get weirded out, and Boy George will fade into television obscurity. Another idea: playing off of the new batch of interns, having them mirror Seattle Grace's first and finest, but making their situations seem utterly ridiculous and trite. Or they could just keep up with the face transplants and robot pig surgeries.

The Office (NBC)

THE PROBLEM: Remember in middle school, when your mom packed you a bologna and mayo sandwich every day for a year? Good the first week, unfathomably dull the next. You were stuck in a lunch rut, and had no way of fixing it. The Office is no different. It's been pulling the Jam/Pim will they/won't they for too long. Dwight is not oddly endearing anymore as much as neighborhood pedophile with a beet fetish. The set-up's are far too obvious. Jim has been making a fool in front of the new boss, Charles Miner. Look who's on the chopping block. And Pam leaving Dunder-Mifflin to work for Michael? I smell financial ruin for the darling Halperts. And chronic boredom from the audience.

QUICK FIX: Have Pam and Jim get hitched, but have them run into an awkward situation whilst they're honeymooning on Dwight's beet farm. Might I suggest a classically biblical Leah/Rachel switcharoo, where Pam doesn't realize it's Dwight come to her marital bed, and not Jim. And what of the peripheral characters? I think we deserve a Creed-centric episode where we find out at least some of Mr. Bratton's dirty laundry.

Family Guy (FOX)

THE PROBLEM: I hate to belittle a show that is so admired among my friends and peers, but this problem has reached the size of a dwarf star. The show. Is. No. Longer. Funny. And I hate to break it to you, college sophomores, but much like Dane Cook, Family Guy loses much of its humor after you graduate college. If everyone could conjure up obscure pop-culture references from the 80's and 90's, would they have a successful show? It's possible. I'm not questioning Seth McFarland here, but in simplified form, all he is is a flashback magpie who gathers seemingly useless artifacts thrown on the side of the entertainment highway. Stewie already killed Lois, Peter has gone from fat to skinny, rich to poor, Meg lost her virginity to Jimmy Fallon. What else is there?

QUICK FIX: Why not take a leaf from South Park's almighty offensive book and make political statements that aim to both enlighten and offend? (Sidenote: "About Last Night..." was incredibly brilliant. I just needed to say that). The show was canceled once. That might have been the better alternative. Here's an idea: bring back Arrested Development, get rid of asinine shows that take movie parodies and Kool Aide commercials to absurd levels.

West Side Adore-y

We all know the story. Boy in gang. Boy meets girl whose brother is in opposing gang. Boy and girl fall in love. Boy shoots girl's brother in gang rumble. Boy and girl celebrate fake wedding in dress shop. Girl feels pretty. Boy and girl consummate love. Boy hears that girl is dead: girl hears boy is dead: boy seeks girl and vice versa; boy is shot. Boy dies. Gang wars solve nothing. The end.

Such is the classic tale of "West Side Story," the love ballad of two impossible star-crossed souls destined to be together but damned to be apart. We've heard it all before with Tristan and Isolde, Romeo and Juliet, Brad and Jen. But the 2009 Broadway Revival brought a new take from the 1961 classic. Political correctness, it seems, was taken into consideration, and some of the dialogue and lyrics were translated into Spanish by "In the Heights" writer Lin Manuel Miranda. It had a mixed effect. For those who have spent five years studying Spanish, it makes little difference that the much-parodied "I Feel Pretty" is performed "Yo Soy Linda," but to those who don't, it detracts, rather than enriches the performance.

The performance overall is a dazzling spectacle of sights and sounds; though Irving Berlin's gripping score combined with Stephen Sondheim's tongue-in-cheek lyrics are the star performers. Dare I say it, but the quintessential rumble between the Sharks and the Jets came off rather...lackluster. Don't get me wrong. The choreography was flawless, executed with a surgical precision. But Tony and Maria, and even the rough-and-tumble street rogues came off intimidating at best, flamboyant at worst.

Little is done to add depth to Tony or Maria. Tony ("Grey Gardens" veteran Matt Cavenaugh) sings "Maria" with the ferver of a disengaged adolescent trying out for the school musical. His voice, though pure and gentle, lacks the reedy presence that a Tony should incorporate. It draws to mind "American Idol" auditions, where the well-to-do yet insipid boy wants to make it big, but hasn't quite figured out falsetto, belting, and stage presence.

Newcomer Josefina Scaglion of Argentina brings warmth to the quixotic and naive role of Maria. She encapsulates the single-minded daydreamer that every teenage girl in love has been. Her movements, her body language, all hint to the sort of hopeless devotion sung about by another naive teen in a greaser musical. Her voice is flawless, bright and welcoming. Much like sipping on a hot cocoa in a bubble bath.

Of course the scene stealer is the stars and stripes swooning Anita (the unflappable Karen Olivo.) In the heeled footsteps of Chita Rivera and Rita Moreno, Olivo uses her hips and hair like weapons and exudes the sort of sensual confidence that Protestant WASP's are never taught and rarely learn.

The ending is one of condemned tragedy that makes you twist your hands into a clammy knot. For me, having been sucked into the spectacle of the show, that one fatal shot came as a shock that forced me a foot out of my plush red velvet seat. It was, of course, to be expected, but I found that each element - the music, the dancing, the iconic symbolism of it all - had combined to form a truly great show. One that will last for a long time in America. (That's okay by me in America.) The story leaves a charming imprint - frothy, fabulous, and everything that exemplifies the old glamorous Broadway.

Lord of the "Kings"

I hope all of you paid attention in Sunday school. No, there won't be a quiz later, no, it's not the end of the world (at least, for another three years, give or take), and no -- I'm not going to give you a Pioneers Club badge if you recite John 3:16 properly. But, for watching NBC's new epic drama, "Kings," your Old Testament prowess would do nothing but help. Can I get an amen?

From writer/producer stalwart Michael Green comes NBC's newest drama about the fictitious kingdom of Gillboa and the city of Shiloh. Like other epicsodes (epic episodes of series like "Lost," "Heroes," and "Eli Stone"), "Kings" would do well to find a fervent, niche audience to decode the many biblical references. Gillboa is a country - proud and passionate - raised from the ashes by King Silas Benjamin, a man who, as he says at any political rally or gala, anointed by butterflies, chosen by God to be king.

Po'dunk little farmboy David Shepherd (Christopher Egan) plays a Rolfe-like idealist private in the Army who mistakenly becomes a hero after facing off with enemy tanks (called GOLIATH'S). He finds himself at the center of celebration, a Captain, who becomes so after saving the king's son. He asks for none of it, and yet, finds himself unwittingly drawn into this new military life.


It was a beautifully cinematographic two hours of my life. The location scout deserves an Emmy immediately for finding all of the real-life New York locations (some of which was filmed at Columbia University's Union Theological Seminary...well worth investigating for those in the New York area). However, there was something that didn't ignite. Maybe it was my years of conservative Midwestern Christian upbringing, but some things were too obvious, too expositional. Such as: David Shepherd. We get it. Jack Shepherd of "Lost," Derek Shepherd of "Grey's Anatomy." They all lead their people through greatness, blah blah blah. The headline "DAVID SLAYS GOLIATH" on the Gillboa Daily was a bit much, too.

But overall, the use of classical elements, mythology, and Old Testament lore (bonus props for the nod to Rachmonninoff), make "Kings" an enthralling and strange journey. It will be interesting to see how the characters develop - Silas is certainly hiding a dark past and harbors an intense pride that borders on tempestulent to protect his kingdom. And David, the It Boy of Gillboa, has a lot o' learnin' to do.

Can I get an amen?

Bethertainment Weekly Grade: B+
A royal introduction of a pilot...

If It Were an iPod, It Would Be a Shuffle! ("The Office" Review)

There were two bowls at play yesterday - the epic battle between the Steelers and the Cardinals, and the epic bowl Olympian Michael Phelps was seen smoking. But I'm not here to write of either. No, I have my head set straight, and know that the most important thing about Super Bowl Sunday is not the actual game, the advertisements, or even the halftime show. No, dear readers, it was the hour-long "Office" that followed.

I've had my doubts about this season of Scranton misadventures. Many of the plot lines have been unlikely (Andy forgiving Angela and being alright with Dwight) or trite (the budget surplus that resulted in a copy machine/chair debacle). Dwight's plights became annoyingly predictable, and I was almost hoping for a "Lost"-like intervention where he might get sucked into the space-time continuum, get time-travel sickness, and die a violent death at the hands of an astrophysicist; kind of what is happening for Charlotte Lewis). But fear not! Mr. Schrute is back with a bang, starting the show off right with a "practice" fire drill, in which he locks the doors, warms door handles, and sets a trash can on fire. At the first sign of smoke, the Dunder-Mifflinites break into a raw panic. Angela pulls out a cat from a filing cabinet (sidenote: awesome!) and eventually throws it up in the ceiling tiles. Michael Scott tries to throw an overhead projector to break the window. Kevin breaks the glass of the vending machines. Stanley has a heart attack. And among the mêlée, I rekindle hope for the workers of Dunder Mifflin Scranton.

Let's start from the beginning. A very un-contrite Dwight is dragged into corporate to get a stern lecture from David Wallace. He is told he must collect signatures from everyone in the office before he's let off the hook. Stanley returns to the office, a little shaky, but not enough for the wheelchair Andy offers him ("Just use it until you can walk," Andy says).

Thus begins official safety training, beginning with First Aide and CPR. The woman tries to coach Michael how to use the dummy. "It's 10o pumps a minute," she says, "kind of like that Bee Gee's song." And ridiculously Michael begins singing...as does the rest of the staff. Each gets a little more into it, Andy most so with his "Here Comes Treble" harmonies. Michael at one point is having so much fun with the impromptu karaoke that he forgets to pump. Never one to pass up an opportunity, Dwight breaks out a hunting knife and rips into the dummy's chest. "We must harvest his organs," he exclaims as he plummets a hunting knife into the dummy. Really, Dwight?

Michael begins his own stress-relief seminar, complete with ambient music he downloads from the interweb. He tries to help Stanley relax, but every time he gets closer to Stanley, a little heart monitor goes off, alerting Stanley of a dangerously high heart rate. Oscar tries it and the same thing happens. "You're the one stressing people out," he says. So Michael institutes a Roast, a la Comedy Central; a way for all of the busy bees at Dunder Mifflin to take out their anger and aggression. "It could be my race," Michael says, as if anyone needed ideas on how to Roast Michael Scott. "It could be the fact that I'm so fit, or a womanizer, anything. I don't want to write your stuff for you, but I want it to be good."

Turns out, it is. The whole of Dunder Mifflin meets in the warehouse for the Roast. Highlights include Kelly's list of people she'd rather make out with than Michael (a turtle, a wood chipper, anyone from warehouse, Lord Voldemort). Pam roasts Michael's "thing." "How small was it?" someone from warehouse calls out. "If it were an iPod, it would be a Shuffle."

Bam, Pam! Someone's got quite the searing wit. All of the roasts seemed a little much for Michael, and he fails to show up to work the next day. He wears a turtleneck. He tries to feed pigeons, but they've migrated south for the winter.

Meanwhile, on the Pim/Jam front (I haven't decided which adorable couple name to use), they're fighting...again. Pam's parents are on the rocky road to divorce, and Pam encourages Jim to talk to her father. He does, and next thing we know, Mr. Beasley, Senior is on his way to finding a new apartment. "What did you say to him?" she demands.

Turns out, Jim just said the sorts of things to make the 17-49 year-old demographic melt. "I told him I loved you since the moment we met, and that I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you."

Pam's dad never felt that, even at his best, and that's why he's moving out. And that's why we don't get married at 21, kids.

And Michael finally shows up (still in a sort of Paul Simon-esque turtleneck), this time, ready to roast the roasters. "Oscar, you're GAY!" he says. "Meredith is an alcoholic! Kevin, I don't know whether to make fun of you because you're stupid or because your fat!" Rather than the scandalized faces usually seen, Stanley starts...chuckling. And the rest of the office joins in. Could Michael Scott, the blundering, clueless captain of the sinking Dunder-Mifflin ship, actually have done something right? It would certainly appear so.

In my hot-wings induced state, I arrived at two very important conclusions. One, it was a decent episode. Decent, not great. Much like the 3D Sobe commercial that aired mid-Superbowl, this week's episode seemed high on the gimmicks and low on the substance. One of the great joys of this show is the unpredictable moments, the awkward pauses, the ignorance and bigotry that is somehow turned comedic; but points can only be made so many times, and at a certain volume. Dwight's character seems too much of a stereotype now to be anything more than the catalyst to a quick laugh. Pam and Jim have had far too many bumps in the road for me to care. Second, get on with it, already. The show has gone from speaking to me pleasantly to a loud monotone of stale jokes and a lack of insight.

Maybe they should be more like Pam and take the rest of art school, even if they fail and have to return to Scranton.

But it's just a thought. I'm not the inspiration in the black turtleneck.

Bethertainment Weekly Grade: B-

The Bird at the Carneie

I'll admit it. I'm the self-proclaimed music elitist, the one who laughs at your so-called "indie bands," or mercilessly mocks those who jam to Miley and Britney on their pink iPod Nano's. I shy away from anything that could potentially be used in an episode of "Grey's Anatomy" or "Private Practice," I have nightmares about Shonda Rhimes discovering my favorite bands. (David Carbonara, you just keep using The Decemberists for the betterment of "Mad Men." My battle is not with you.) So, stereotypicaly thinking Andrew Bird was much the same, I wore the cynical cap to his concert yesterday at Carnegie Hall.
Forgive me, Andrew Bird, for ever doubting that your first performance kicking off your "Noble Beast" tour would be anything short of breath-taking.

The concert opened punctually at 8 o'clock with musical Renaissance man, Stephen Dost (of the band Dost), who builds songs from the ground up. Why not start with percussion on the top of a keyboard? Then, a synth vamp. Then, layer on a glockenspiel, some guitar, a saxophone solo. And you've got the very definition of "geek rock" - the kind of music where the flesh and bone is created, exposed, covered by layers and layers of musical pseudo-stratified epithelium.

And, the glorious moment arrived. Andrew Bird walked out on stage, violin in hand, in a smartly tailored skinny suit. The stage was set with ironic throwbacks. Victorian phonographs were scattered across the stage, as well as drums, microphones, and a rug - to make Carnegie feel a bit more homey. The crowd went wilder than any noble beast could. I couldn't help but be swept in by the grandeose moment. "Wow," Bird said. "This is pretty cool, I guess."

The concert was mostly new tracks from "Noble Beast," which Bird explained as such: "So, as you know, I just came out with a new album." [Racious cheers and applause]. "'Noble Beasts.' I'd like to think everyone says the album with the same inflection as David Attenborough." [Some appreciative laugher, more confused chortles; apparently, indie kids don't watch the BBC]. Every song was surprising, each one performed better than the last. Proving that whistling did not in fact die with "The Andy Griffith Show," Bird's magical chops whistled his way through "Masterswarm," "Oh No," and "Tenuousness."

"It's nice," Bird confided late into the concert, "to be able to rock out like this. On the album, I have to keep the folk up, but this is nice."

It was nice. More than nice. Bird's unique mix of quirky lyrics and brazen musicianship (he broke into several sonata-type solo's that were in themselves worthy of Carnegie Hall). I've been converted to the Church of the Bird, and I don't think I'll go back.

Noble job, Mr. Bird. Noble job.

Plight of the Conchords

It is, indeed, Business Time for New Zealand's second most popular folk novelty band members Jemaine Clement and Bret McKenzie. After a few shadowed months of doubt and wallowing, "Flight of the Conchords" is back and zanier than ever. Though no fan is more loyal than Mel, the group's lone fan, Conchord tolerators might remember where the band was at the end of Season 1: Murray (the brilliant Rhys Darby) introduced a third Conchord, Todd (comedian Todd Barry), the over-zealous bongo player. Bret quits in protest, and forms his own Flight of the Conchords with keytar player Demetri (comedian Demetri Martin). After a bit of quibbling, Demetri and Todd split...to form their dream band of The Crazy Dogggs. With a breakaway hit ("The Doggy Bounce"), America has spoken with dubious taste, and Murray is on his way to being an actual person with an actual managerial position with actual gigs (arf, arf!). Bret and Jermaine play the library.


Season Two picks up exactly there. Murray has hit the big time, lunches regularly with Tori Amos, and drives a BMW, though fancy gilt casings cannot hide his former self ("R. Kelly wants to perform with you...do you want me to find out who that is?") Seeing that their future is bleak with Murray managing both the Crazy Dogggs and the Conchords, Bret fires Murray. Murray sings.

This is not the "Goodbye, Leggy Blonde" of last season. Murray is no longer a failing manager, and neither is he a failing singer. In a grandiose salute to Pavarotti, Murray dawns a tux and a dashing vibrato in a grand cinematic gesture of his grief. I forgot how much emptier my life was without this darling show.

Life Without Murray becomes slightly easier. Bret and Jemaine manage themselves, and manage to land a gig all their own, writing a jingle for Femident, the Woman's Only toothpaste. I must admit, while I did enjoy the Kiwi's donning Toothpaste hats and emerging from giant tubes, it struck me that the dynamic inexplicably, insurmountably, changed. With the cult success of Season 1, HBO gave "Conchords" a bigger, flashier budget, which resulted in a bigger, flashier show. And, as we all know, there is no killer to creativity like a big budget and the desire for more-well-money.

Murray finds out that money is no longer expected. Turns out, "Doggy Bounce" was nothing more than the doppelganger song from a Czech 80's band. Cue lawsuit, indemnity, and Murray's eminent poverty. He begins living out of his Honda Civic. He eats there, sleeps there, shaves there, conducts band meetings there. And he would for a very long time, if Bret and Jermaine had not needed green cards to get paid for their (gasp!) paying gig.

The songs in the premier were not as wholly rewarding as they were in episodes past. Ending the episode with a song about horny angels? Though I'm a supporter of non sequiturs and surrealist sequences, this one left me scratching my head. What purpose did this serve? How did it further the plot? Why do I now wonder what angels have going on under their robes? No thank you, FotC. No thank you.

In the end, Murray keeps his "other" job at the New Zealand Consulate, as Steve never realized he left. Bret and Jemaine are back to their old plight of scoring gigs and shaking off Mel. And all was right in the surreal New York that these crazy Kiwi's inhabit.

Bethertainment Weekly Grade: B

Little (Economic) Drop of Horrors

Apologies for the serious lapse in updating, dear reader(s). However, with the constant call of a 9-6, the demands of living in New York City, and general negligence on my part, I have failed to update Bethertainment Weekly by its' promised calendric measures of time.

America is melting. It is a giant mushroom cloud of stale credit, foreclosures, and vaporized 401K's. Wall Street has transformed into a leviathan bowl of Jell-O in which financial brokers flail, wearing those little orange floaties and go down with the proverbial ship as the orchestra plays "Nearer to Thee." Leonardo diCaprio can be found whispering endearing words to the Kate Winslet's of the world; Frodo can be found wandering the streets looking for Mount Doom.

So, what's a body to do when there is little to celebrate, little funding to attend keystone cultural films such as Nights in Rodanthe and Twilight, where teeny-bopper vamps run around in the forest making doe-eyes at each other? Why, very little, of course. But American film has done much of the same. Taken hard times, made them a little less hard. Or just added cushiony fluff to pad the fall. Such economic destitution call for one of two things: one, a lot of comfort in the form of alcoholic beverages. Two: films to make the general populous forget that they might be begging for spare change on Delancy St. next week. So, here are five films that either embrace or deny the need for the god of green, the root of all evil, and, the unobtainable.

1. Golddiggers of 1933 (1933)
What better way to celebrate monetary prosperity and the end of Herbert Hoover's asinine presidential rule? By celebrating capitalism, of course! With show tunes! And Pig Latin! In Mervyn LeRoy's musical romp, veteran showgirl Trixie Lorraine (Aline MacMahon) and her roommates are simply drowning in debt. The bright lights of Broadway have lost some of their gleam, and no production can seem to last past rehearsal. There's just no money. Until, of course, the dapper Warren William (J. Lawrence Bradford) saves the angry producer (Ned Sparks) from an embolism by writing a winning show, and magically funding it. The story is pure fluff-sugar and spice and everything with a price-there's socioeconomic wars between William's family when his older brother finds out Warren is courting a Broadway showgirl. Or that he's using his trust fund to support the frivolous "Gold diggers."

In the end, you have a feel-good lavish production that uses appoggiatura and bobbed hair to coat the economic horrors of the Great Depression. Which could be why the studio adds a politically charged number to the end of the film, "My Forgotten Man," a mournful ballad about the faceless thousands still stuck in breadlines, still scarred from war. A true show stopper.

2. Marie Antoinette (2006)
Ten minutes watching Sophia Coppola's brazen rock'n roll rendition of the lavishly opulent French monarch will make you want to eat cake in Versailles, too. Although it was greeted with less than stellar acclaim, Coppola's artistic ambition is worth its weight in gold. You know the story.

Self-involved teenage queen forced to marry young, produce an heir, discovers the pleasures of carnal affection. Though chocabloc full of anachronisms (see: a pair of blue Converse All-Star's in Marie's dressing room), it's a fantastic mix of wealth and waste. Not to mention, several dozen pairs of custom-made Manolo Blahniks.

3. Little Shop of Horrors (1986)
Ever want to get rich quick? Try stumbling across a curious plant in Chinatown after a total eclipse of the sun, bring it back to your failing floral business, and see where that takes you. The only snag is, the plant doesn't have a taste for Miracle Grow: the only fodder it fancies is the kind with platelettes and leukocytes - yes, folks - blood. Such is the woeful tale of Seymour Krelborn (Rick Morranis), a down-and-out orphan who was taken in by the surly florist, Mr. Mushnick (Vincent Gardenia).

Turns out, this bloodthirsty plant, christened the Audrey II after Morranis' love interest (the wonderful Ellen Greene), is more than he barganed for. Morranis nurses the fledgeling plant as much as he can, literally giving his lifeblood for the sake of the plant that's bringing so much publicity to the small florist. So, Seymour is bloodless and spineless, letting Audrey slip through his awkward finger to the clutches of the maniacal dentist, Dr. Orin Scrivello, DDS (Steve Martin). Audrey II needs blood: Seymour needs Audry I: Dr. Orin Scrivello, DDS is full of blood. You see where I'm headed?

One may argue this little gem of a musical is not specifically about economic crisis. But it's about slumming it, finding a way, and has a nifty paralell to the consequences of unbridled addiction. What's not to love?

So tighten your belt, dig out your library card, and rent away, these movies that make you feel wealthy...at least, in the intellectual sense.

Quote of the Day: Seymour: The Audry II isn't a healthy girl.
Mr. Mushnik: Strictly between us, neither is the Audrey I.

A Heartbreaking Letter to a Staggering Genius

Dear Tina Fey,

Stop it. Stop it now. We all know how intelligent and beautiful and witty you are. You probably use all of your Emmy's and Golden Globes as marshmallow roasters and back-scratchers. At least those that you have room for. But stop making the rest of us feel like wife-beater wearing slobs like Frank, or clogged and strained and utterly beat, like one of Jack Donaghy's coronary ventricles.

If your life is remotely like it is portrayed on "30 Rock," then give me a navy Brook's Brothers blazer, the impossible task of monitoring Tracy Jordan, and call me Kenneth the Page. I promise I won't be as hilariously creepy or have as many hick-like tenancies as Jack McBrayer, but I will bring some good old-fashioned Midwestern flair. Though, if I see Jerry Seinfeld in the elevator, don't wager I won't start humming the theme to "Seinfeld," rather than make polite conversation. ("So, Jerry. I hear you were in a show. That's terrific. I clean up stale pizza and was urinated on yesterday by a bearded man on the Six Train!") I have cute, antiquated sayings. I say words like: fiddlesticks, gosh-darn it, crappers, and mrrrrf. "Mrrrrf" isn't so much a word yet, but I'm thinking it could be my own personal "Blurg."

I'm trying it on for size, if you will.

I think, Tina Fey, we're not that different. We're not that different, you and I. While I may not have those chocoatately brown tresses or the affinity for Solidad de Sabor chips, I must say, we both look really really good when bespectacled. Though I got my degree in Creative Writing and you got yours in drama, I did my fair share of acting, as I'm sure you did in the crafting of great stories. And, we share some genetic background! We're both of Scotch-Irish stock! Isn't that fantastic, Tina Fey/Liz Lemon?

Also, we love to eat our feelings. Once, when I graduated college and couldn't find a job, I lived off of cookie dough and Mr. Pibb for a month. And then I realized that people would probably want to hire me even less, the closer I came to resembling Java the Hut. So, though I haven't purchased a wedding dress because it was "40 percent off" and tried it on at the office, and inadvertantly was seen by all my co-workers and was forced to wear said dress all day to make a point and get ham juice on it, I think that you have tapped into one of the deepest parts of my persona. And that bond lasts longer than "I Love Lucy" sindications.

But enough about our similarities, because that's where they stop. You were a writer on SNL - the first female head writer, in fact - before you came to bless America with "30 Rock." You led Weekend Updatet with unwavering reserve; a sort of younger Peter Jennings with lady bits who sometimes was confused for a lesbian.

Also, there is that whole writing thing.

So, please, Tina. I give you two options. Either stop being so darn good at what you do, or take me with you to the top. I would scale a medium-sized hill for you. I would wake up eight minutes early, if it meant I might see you. If I saw you on the Six Train and I had a seat, and you were standing, I would seriously consider giving you my seat.

That is to say, if the homeless man was nowhere in sight.

Mrrrrrrf.

Yours Sincerely,
Beth

Yes We Did!

Some Thoughts of Media's Impact in Presidential Election

As part of the "East-coast Media Elite" (and I use that term very lightly, as I am on the lowest rung of that elitist ladder), it has been fascinating to watch how pop culture has shaped this election. Shows like "The Colbert Report," "The Daily Show," and "Saturday Night Live" have all put in their two cents worth, either explicitly, or hidden behind a faux-Channel suit-wearing, 'g' droppin' Tina Fey. It's no secret that the media has a liberal bias. Jon Stewart proclaimed his support for Obama early on; Fey brought to attention Palin's down-home quaintness - and her adorable way of dodging questions.

(Amy Pohler as Katie Couric): "Is it true that you become increasingly more adorable when you're cornered?"
(Tina Fey as Sarah Palin): "I don't know, you tell me! Pyew, pyew!" (She shoots imaginary finger guns into the air).

And what of Stewart's Old Man McCain jokes? In the weeks preceding the election, he would constantly make "get off my lawn, you crazy kids!" smears.

Now that isn't to say Obama was not the brunt of many a joke. With the middle name "Hussein" and a unique ethnic background compared to the pallid Protestants that preceded, come on. That's easier than falling out of the proverbial tree of knowledge into grassroots! But, for example, the opening skit to Saturday Night Live featured Obama and Hillary Clinton in a CSPAN interview. Everyone proclaimed to have "Obama-itis," "Obama fever," and just plain Obama-session. Obama was never portrayed as a feeble old man who had to take a nap on the road from caucus to caucus, but neither was he.

I was sent by the Post last night to report on the happenings at Union Square. There were hundreds upon hundreds of people - mostly the errant hip and young crowds of NYU, but a few older fuddy-duddies weaved intermittently. The energy was palpable. People hugging, dancing, drinking, singing - with all of their hearts. It was as though Christmas came early, or New Years happened on the fourth of November. People brought anything they had - pots, pans, garbage cans, drums, cello's, trumpets, silly string - to celebrate. Then came the brown bags and the dubious clouds of smoke. And then, a few daring young gentlemen thought it wise to scale the lampposts in the Square. One climbed to the top and was handed an American flag, which he waved euphorically over the crowd. It was a once in a lifetime experience.

McCain's Concession Speech was gracious and humble and beautifully delivered. At no point did he sound bitter or spiteful, or like he was going to chase some young hoodlums off his (seven) lawns. He admitted Obama was the candidate for the time, and hushed the boo's and hisses of his still fervent supporters.

Obama, meanwhile, delivered a speech that I think will be a hallmark in history books and presidential documentaries. As he has for the past two years, he spoke of hope, and of change, and begged Americans and politicians to drop the silly bipartisan labels of old. It is time for change. And this great nation will pursue that change, under the guidance of Obama.

In honor of Obama''s glorious win, I have written a poem:

Some people call it an abomination
I like to call it Obamanation
'Cause he Obamanated every
Insane husseincusation
And Came out
Solid as Barack.

I Wished I Looked as Smoldering and Pensive in Eye Makeup as Edward Cullan

I'm not one to hate on vampires. They've been through a lot these past thousand years. The whole condemned to darkness, eternal damnation thing seems like it might be difficult - even more difficult than waiting for the next season of "Mad Men." And I love shows like "Buffy the Vampire Slayer," and mildly tolerate "Angel." Underworld was pretty baller, too. But seems like everyone's been bitten nowadays with something I like to call the "VampStamp." That is to say, latching on to a trend that was popular nearly a decade ago, and approaching it with as much creativity and insight as Sarah Palin does with foreign policy.

Case in point: Twilight. I, of all people, am not immune to pop culture phenomena: the Harry Potter series, "Gossip Girl," gaucho pants, and blue eyeshadow. But this is where I draw the line. I justify The Boy Who Lived with intellectual excuse: J.K. Rowling may be a literary magpie, a wordsmith of wile, but she begs, borrows, and steals from credible places. Hidden within all of the expecto millions and marketability, Rowling cleverly embeds references to classical Greek mythology, Celtic legend, and enough pathos and humor to keep the reader interested.
You're, like, totally hotter than my last girlfriend, Buffy.

As a social experiment, I decided to find out what all the fuss was about with the Twilight series. And so, I swallowed my pride as I marched in to Barnes & Noble and marched out with a shiny new copy of Twilight. On the subway ride back to my flat, I read the first chapter. "First Sight." Alright, I said to myself. This could be promising, in a sort of YA-bit-of-guilty-pleasure-to-hide-under-the-bed-when-English-major-friends-come-to-visit way. Like a cookie. Sinfully indulgent. But, as I sat on the L train and read the first few words, ("My mother drove me to the airport...it was 75 degrees in Phoenix...the sky was blue...") I cringed. This was everything - EVERYTHING - I fought so savagely against in my college workshops. Unimaginative, dull, poor writing.

It's every story I have heard before. The estranged and awkward (but appropriately pretty) new girl, Bella, has moved from her warm roots of Phoenix for upstate Washington to live with her father. (Fly Away Home, anyone?) Her new school is unfamiliar and bizarre. She seems out of place, though she manages to find friends to sit with at lunch. She asks one of the girls, Jennifer, about those five svelte hotties with the alabaster skin sitting all alone at a table in the corner. "That's Edward. He's gorgeous!" Jennifer says. Bella and Edward Cullan lock eyes. We know where this is going.

I could not make it past the first chapter. Call me closed-minded, call me a vampire-hating fishmonger, but when books are that obvious, there's little point. Please, humor me, and let me make my educated guesses:

Bella and Edward find they have much in common - mostly, their ridiculous good looks and incredible glow-in-the-dark pallor. Neither of them say much, because when you're that hot, what's the use? Oh, except he's a vampire and wants to suck the lifeblood out of her. Brilliant. Where have we seen this before? Not Joss Whedon's ingenuous "Buffy the Vampire Slayer," no? Of course, there is trouble in paradise, and something keeps Edward and Bella from being together. Insert a dark character shrouded in evil mystery. There's probably a kidnapping, a near-death scare, and a prom thrown in there somewhere.

Maybe I'm as off base as snow in Phoenix. But, maybe not. Does that mean that I'll boycott the film? Probably not. It is my patriotic duty to screen and suggest to you, loyal readers, what is quality and what is not.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to avoid the sun and try and seduce a mysterious man with a pallid complexion.

Quote of the Day: "He's gorgeous!"