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