Okay, so it isn’t quite official yet, but major news outlets are reporting that McCain has picked Alaska Governor Sarah Palin to be his vice presidential running mate.
I admit, between having an African American presidential candidate and a female vice-presidential candidate who isn’t the laughably inept Geraldine Ferarro, this race suddenly looks more interesting than the average TweedleDeemocrat versus RepubliDumbican contest. (In as much fairness as I'm ever likely to grant Ferarro, if Walter Mondale had picked the Pope as his running mate in 1984, he probably wouldn't have carried the Vatican.) Geez, who’d a thunk the Libertarian Party ticket represented the only traditional offering of two middle-aged white guys?
Palin has next to no experience, making even Obama look like a senior statesman by comparison, but both Carter and Ford proved decades ago and George W has since confirmed that there’s no such thing as minimum required qualifications, the Constitution aside, for serving as president.
Meanwhile, I was amused that some accounts claim Palin is also a self-described “maverick.” I hope James Garner is getting royalties for this.
Showing posts with label Television. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Television. Show all posts
Friday, August 29, 2008
Monday, August 25, 2008
On With The Show!
Wait a minute! You mean I missed the Olympics? (Who won the prenatal gymnastics medal?) Dayum! And here I was so much looking forward to watching people of every gender, race, creed, color, sexual orientation and nationality vie against one another in a bogus spirit of brotherhood and good will!
Oh, that’s right. I can get the same thing watching the Democratic National Convention, another mostly staged event, this week.
I vaguely remember, no, not the beginning of American political parties, but a time in the 50s and 60s when some honest-to-gawd political business other than marketing was conducted at these conventions. Mind you, much of that business was conducted behind closed doors in (ah, the good old days!) smoke-filled rooms and not on the almost equally smoky convention floor. Still, deals were cut, party platform planks (mostly meaningless even then) were bickered over and sometimes even who the candidates were going to be was decided by multiple ballot. Sadly, however, conventions have shifted from political Super Bowls to World Wrestling Federation championship events. Except, of course, that the WWF has the good sense not to tell the viewers in advance who will win.
A Positive Liberty reader recently commented sarcastically on another thread discussing the legacy of the 1968 Chicago Democratic Convention, saying with his tongue planted firmly in his cheek that “1968 was the pivotal moment in all of human history, past and future.” Speaking on behalf of my terminally self-important Baby Boomer generation, I will note only that America’s major political parties did begin to conduct their business differently after 1968. Not so much because of the protests (“Yippie!”) outside the convention center -- after all, it isn’t like a guy named Richard Daley would be mayor of Chicago forever, is it? -- but because of the resulting McGovern-Fraser Commission and the subsequent shift to state primaries as the method of deciding delegates and, thus, selecting candidates.
Another “lesson” from 1968 was the increasing importance of television and therefore the need to control convention and convention related events as much as possible. I don’t think Nixon beat Humphrey in 1968 simply because of the violence in the streets of Chicago during the convention, but it sure as hell didn’t help Humphrey, either.
Needless to say, I won’t be watching either the Democratic or the Republican National Conventions in real time. Any really juicy gaffs or other “must-see” moments will be on YouTube before the evening wrap-up, so I’ll catch Ted Kennedy’s likely swan song, Hillary’s dagger-eyed stares, McCain being reminded how many homes he owns and where he left the keys, etc. in TiVo time.
Oh, that’s right. I can get the same thing watching the Democratic National Convention, another mostly staged event, this week.
I vaguely remember, no, not the beginning of American political parties, but a time in the 50s and 60s when some honest-to-gawd political business other than marketing was conducted at these conventions. Mind you, much of that business was conducted behind closed doors in (ah, the good old days!) smoke-filled rooms and not on the almost equally smoky convention floor. Still, deals were cut, party platform planks (mostly meaningless even then) were bickered over and sometimes even who the candidates were going to be was decided by multiple ballot. Sadly, however, conventions have shifted from political Super Bowls to World Wrestling Federation championship events. Except, of course, that the WWF has the good sense not to tell the viewers in advance who will win.
A Positive Liberty reader recently commented sarcastically on another thread discussing the legacy of the 1968 Chicago Democratic Convention, saying with his tongue planted firmly in his cheek that “1968 was the pivotal moment in all of human history, past and future.” Speaking on behalf of my terminally self-important Baby Boomer generation, I will note only that America’s major political parties did begin to conduct their business differently after 1968. Not so much because of the protests (“Yippie!”) outside the convention center -- after all, it isn’t like a guy named Richard Daley would be mayor of Chicago forever, is it? -- but because of the resulting McGovern-Fraser Commission and the subsequent shift to state primaries as the method of deciding delegates and, thus, selecting candidates.
Another “lesson” from 1968 was the increasing importance of television and therefore the need to control convention and convention related events as much as possible. I don’t think Nixon beat Humphrey in 1968 simply because of the violence in the streets of Chicago during the convention, but it sure as hell didn’t help Humphrey, either.
Needless to say, I won’t be watching either the Democratic or the Republican National Conventions in real time. Any really juicy gaffs or other “must-see” moments will be on YouTube before the evening wrap-up, so I’ll catch Ted Kennedy’s likely swan song, Hillary’s dagger-eyed stares, McCain being reminded how many homes he owns and where he left the keys, etc. in TiVo time.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Classic TV Finales, Palestinian Style
Farfour is dead. In the final Hamas-affiliated Al Aqsa TV episode, the Mickey Mouse knockoff who preached Islamic domination was, wait for it... beaten to death by an Israeli Jew.
This whole "beaten to death by Jews" idea for TV series finales could save Hollywood a whole lot of needless time and trouble. Just think, for example, how much easier it would have been to write the final episode of The Sopranos if, by long standing tradition, audiences understood that Tony and his two families would be beaten to death in the end by Hyman Roth's avenging descendants. Of course, such a tradition would have to have started decades ago, so here's what the final episodes of some old TV shows would have gone like if those Farfour writers had been in charge:
Howdy Doody - Clarabell never spoke a word for 13 years until the final minutes of the last show when Buffalo Bob read a note from the clown. "Why, I can't believe it!" Bob exclaimed. "Clarabell can talk! Is this true?" Clarabell nodded. "Well", Bob said, "Go ahead. Say something!" "JEWS!" the clown screamed as Jewish thugs beat the entire cast, crew and kiddie audience to death.
The Fugitive - Just before being stoned to death for killing his wife (ordinarily just a misdemeanor, but she was the Imam's daughter), Dr. Raji Kimble escapes, only to be pursued for years by the relentless police Lt. Mustafa Gerard. Just as Gerard is about to capture Kimble, the One-Armed Jew is discovered lurking in the shadows. Kimble and Gerard catch him and beat him to death, Kimble's name is cleared and the Imam declares a Great Victory and gives Kimble two more of his daughters as a reward.
The Mary Tyler Moore Show - While Mary and the gang at WJM-TV have one final group hug, the phone rings and they discover that their contracts, drawn up by crafty Jewish lawyers, are air-tight and they can't be fired after all. The evil Jewish station owners, outraged, burst into the newsroom and beat them all, except for Ted Baxter, to death.
M*A*S*H: "Goodbye, Farewell and Allahu Akbar" - After the rest of the 4077th bugs out while Jewish North Koreans sweep through the front lines beating to death everyone they encounter, B.J. takes the still recuperating Hawkeye to a waiting helicopter. Once the helicopter is aloft, Hawkeye opens and reads a note from B.J. that reads "My initials stood for ben Judah, you fool!" Realizing he's been duped by evil Jews, Hawkeye is nonetheless too weak to fight back as the evil Jewish helicopter pilot throws him from the chopper to his death. As he plummets, the last thing he sees is where B.J. formed a huge Star of David from stones on the hillside.
Newhart - Bob gets into an altercation with handymen Larry, Darryl and Darryl and they knock him unconscious with a Moose head. When he awakens, he discovers he is in his apartment bedroom lying next to his wife, Rhoda. "What's the matter, Bob?" she asks him, "You've been tossing and turning like a meshugener!" He tells her about his dream and she says, ""That's the last time you nosh on pastrami before bed. You kept me up all night, you putz!" She then beats him to death.
Seinfeld - For no reason at all, the entire cast beat each other to death.
This whole "beaten to death by Jews" idea for TV series finales could save Hollywood a whole lot of needless time and trouble. Just think, for example, how much easier it would have been to write the final episode of The Sopranos if, by long standing tradition, audiences understood that Tony and his two families would be beaten to death in the end by Hyman Roth's avenging descendants. Of course, such a tradition would have to have started decades ago, so here's what the final episodes of some old TV shows would have gone like if those Farfour writers had been in charge:
Howdy Doody - Clarabell never spoke a word for 13 years until the final minutes of the last show when Buffalo Bob read a note from the clown. "Why, I can't believe it!" Bob exclaimed. "Clarabell can talk! Is this true?" Clarabell nodded. "Well", Bob said, "Go ahead. Say something!" "JEWS!" the clown screamed as Jewish thugs beat the entire cast, crew and kiddie audience to death.
The Fugitive - Just before being stoned to death for killing his wife (ordinarily just a misdemeanor, but she was the Imam's daughter), Dr. Raji Kimble escapes, only to be pursued for years by the relentless police Lt. Mustafa Gerard. Just as Gerard is about to capture Kimble, the One-Armed Jew is discovered lurking in the shadows. Kimble and Gerard catch him and beat him to death, Kimble's name is cleared and the Imam declares a Great Victory and gives Kimble two more of his daughters as a reward.
The Mary Tyler Moore Show - While Mary and the gang at WJM-TV have one final group hug, the phone rings and they discover that their contracts, drawn up by crafty Jewish lawyers, are air-tight and they can't be fired after all. The evil Jewish station owners, outraged, burst into the newsroom and beat them all, except for Ted Baxter, to death.
M*A*S*H: "Goodbye, Farewell and Allahu Akbar" - After the rest of the 4077th bugs out while Jewish North Koreans sweep through the front lines beating to death everyone they encounter, B.J. takes the still recuperating Hawkeye to a waiting helicopter. Once the helicopter is aloft, Hawkeye opens and reads a note from B.J. that reads "My initials stood for ben Judah, you fool!" Realizing he's been duped by evil Jews, Hawkeye is nonetheless too weak to fight back as the evil Jewish helicopter pilot throws him from the chopper to his death. As he plummets, the last thing he sees is where B.J. formed a huge Star of David from stones on the hillside.
Newhart - Bob gets into an altercation with handymen Larry, Darryl and Darryl and they knock him unconscious with a Moose head. When he awakens, he discovers he is in his apartment bedroom lying next to his wife, Rhoda. "What's the matter, Bob?" she asks him, "You've been tossing and turning like a meshugener!" He tells her about his dream and she says, ""That's the last time you nosh on pastrami before bed. You kept me up all night, you putz!" She then beats him to death.
Seinfeld - For no reason at all, the entire cast beat each other to death.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Sexist Pigs Abandon Katie
Poor Katie Couric is, according to CBS chief executive Leslie Moonves, the victim of sexism.
Couric's ratings on the CBS Evening News this month hit a 20 year low, pretty amazing when you consider she took over from Dan Rather.
As I have written before, here's the real deal. Every year there are new "men over 55" who used to be men under 55. They haven't been watching network news for years and nothing is going to change that. Years ago, I used to quip that the most frightening sentence in the English language was "More people get their news from ABC News than from any other source." But whether it's from ABC, NBC or CBS, more and more people of all ages are getting whatever news they do get from the many alternatives now available. Why wait for the local weatherman when you can click on the weather any time you want (or click on the Weather Channel on TV)? It doesn't matter who's selling your product if it's a product no longer in high demand because better alternatives exist, and that has nothing to do with Couric's gender or even her modest journalistic skills.
Ms Couric has managed a 2 per cent increase in women age 18 to 49 since her September debut. However, that has been more than offset by an 11 per cent decline among men over 55, who still constitute the bulk of the evening news’ audience.
Couric's ratings on the CBS Evening News this month hit a 20 year low, pretty amazing when you consider she took over from Dan Rather.
As I have written before, here's the real deal. Every year there are new "men over 55" who used to be men under 55. They haven't been watching network news for years and nothing is going to change that. Years ago, I used to quip that the most frightening sentence in the English language was "More people get their news from ABC News than from any other source." But whether it's from ABC, NBC or CBS, more and more people of all ages are getting whatever news they do get from the many alternatives now available. Why wait for the local weatherman when you can click on the weather any time you want (or click on the Weather Channel on TV)? It doesn't matter who's selling your product if it's a product no longer in high demand because better alternatives exist, and that has nothing to do with Couric's gender or even her modest journalistic skills.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
"... And in the end you're completely alone with it all. "
I wrote earlier this year about The Sopranos as its final season began, so I might as well bookend the season with a few valedictory remarks. First, no matter what happens to Tony, whatever happened to the ducks? Second, can we all agree that, forgetting all the goombas that came and went, the sexiest thing week after week was Dr. Malfi's legs? Finally, given that this is, after all, show business we're talking about, does anybody this side of those who really believe the Wachowski Bros. had three Matrix movies in mind all along think there won't be a Sopranos movie?
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
"But I didn't say Minnie was crazy..." (Re-Updated)
Sometimes the set-up is just too good to be true. Here's FOX News reporting that Hamas is using a rip-off of the world's most famous cartoon character as a propaganda tool on a weekly children's program.
So what's a blogger to do? Go with the obvious "This proves what a Mickey Mouse operation Hamas really is!" or the slightly more analytical "If these people think Israel or the U.S. are evil, oppressive powers, just wait until Disney gets through with them!"
I blog, you decide.
UPDATE: The AP (via Der Spiegel) reports, "On Wednesday, after this story went live, the Palestinian Information Minister Mustafa Barghouti announced that the Hamas-affiliated television station al-Aqsa TV had complied with a government request to pull the show 'Tomorrow's Pioneers' for 'review.' He said the use of a cartoon character to urge Palestinian children to fight Israel and work toward world Islamic domination was a 'mistaken approach.'"
See? I told you those Disney lawyers are enough to scare even the Palestinians! Maybe Hamas should look up those out-of-work puppets from Team America as possible replacements. They struck me as mercenaries under the veneer, anyway.
(Hat tip to memeorandum.)
UPDATE REDUX: And now the Hamas television station is refusing to cancel the show in which the "Mickey Mouse look-alike named Farfur and a little girl [not only] urge resistance against Israel and the United States [but also stress] the importance of daily prayers and drinking milk."
My money's still on Disney parachuting in combat hardened airborne lawyers to kick a little Farfur butt; but who knows, maybe a flanking action by Big Dairy is in the works, too.
Excerpts from episodes that aired last month show the squeaky voiced mouse egging on children with nationalistic fervor.
"We, tomorrow’s pioneers, will restore to this nation its glory, and we will liberate Al-Aqsa, with Allah’s will, and we will liberate Iraq, with Allah’s will, and we will liberate the Muslim countries, invaded by murderers,” Farfur says in one episode that aired in April.
The message seems to be working. Poems and songs submitted by young viewers contain violent imagery. "Rafah sings ‘Oh, oh,’" one caller says as Farfur mimes carrying a rifle. "Its answer is an AK-47."
So what's a blogger to do? Go with the obvious "This proves what a Mickey Mouse operation Hamas really is!" or the slightly more analytical "If these people think Israel or the U.S. are evil, oppressive powers, just wait until Disney gets through with them!"
I blog, you decide.
UPDATE: The AP (via Der Spiegel) reports, "On Wednesday, after this story went live, the Palestinian Information Minister Mustafa Barghouti announced that the Hamas-affiliated television station al-Aqsa TV had complied with a government request to pull the show 'Tomorrow's Pioneers' for 'review.' He said the use of a cartoon character to urge Palestinian children to fight Israel and work toward world Islamic domination was a 'mistaken approach.'"
See? I told you those Disney lawyers are enough to scare even the Palestinians! Maybe Hamas should look up those out-of-work puppets from Team America as possible replacements. They struck me as mercenaries under the veneer, anyway.
(Hat tip to memeorandum.)
UPDATE REDUX: And now the Hamas television station is refusing to cancel the show in which the "Mickey Mouse look-alike named Farfur and a little girl [not only] urge resistance against Israel and the United States [but also stress] the importance of daily prayers and drinking milk."
My money's still on Disney parachuting in combat hardened airborne lawyers to kick a little Farfur butt; but who knows, maybe a flanking action by Big Dairy is in the works, too.
Thursday, May 3, 2007
Of course, in the original version there were only seven dwarfs
Mercifully, the first Republican presidential debate has now ended. I never thought I’d yearn for the likes of presidential primaries to begin, but anything to winnow this field of ten, count 'em, ten middle-aged white guys in dark suits can’t happen quickly enough. (And, yeah, I’m a middle-aged white guy who owns a dark suit or two, myself.)
Arnold Schwarzenegger sat with Nancy Reagan in the audience. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’d like to see Arnold as president, but it’s a pity he couldn’t be up there with the otherstiffs candidates.
Why they call these things debates is beyond me. Not only don’t the candidates square off against one another, they don’t even answer the questions, having learned to segue into canned comments no matter how far removed from the original topic.
As a couple of semi-personal asides, I’d never heard Ron Paul speak before and can’t say I found his public speaking skills very impressive. His understanding of the Constitution may not be up to snuff, either. I was away from the screen when it happened, but Reason's David Weigel blogged:
"Matthews asks everyone if they'd support an amendment to allow foreigners - i.e., Arnold - to run for president. Ron Paul says no, because 'I believe in original intent.' Matthews says - into the mic! - 'Oh, God.'"
I might have done the same as Matthews, frankly. Could Paul have possibly meant the Constitution should never be amended for any reason? If so, that's beyond dumb, and not only because the Founders obviously intended it to be amendable.
If not, then he should have made whatever his point was differently. However, and whatever the issue-by-issue libertarianism any of the other candidates might lay claim to, he stuck to his guns (whether he shot anything other than his foot is another matter) and stood out from the crowd insofar as he was given much air time in the first place.
Also, Weigel predicted among other things that Jim Gilmore would lose the debate and then at the end admitted that all of his “predictions fell flat, except, arguably for the Gilmore one.” Wrong. Gilmore won just by being there, as did the other media-starved candidates in this Republican free-for-all. Personally, I think Gilmore is really shooting for retiring John Warner’s Senate seat, though I'm sure he’d be quite happy if his presidential campaign really took off, too. Hey, that's how we got Carter and Clinton, after all.
Dumbest question of the night? (And asking the dumbest question is no small feat for Chris Matthews.) Whether it would be a good thing if Bill Clinton returned to the White House. Best thing about the event? It reminded American that no matter what else happens in 2008, come 2009 George W. Bush will no longer be president.
Arnold Schwarzenegger sat with Nancy Reagan in the audience. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’d like to see Arnold as president, but it’s a pity he couldn’t be up there with the other
Why they call these things debates is beyond me. Not only don’t the candidates square off against one another, they don’t even answer the questions, having learned to segue into canned comments no matter how far removed from the original topic.
As a couple of semi-personal asides, I’d never heard Ron Paul speak before and can’t say I found his public speaking skills very impressive. His understanding of the Constitution may not be up to snuff, either. I was away from the screen when it happened, but Reason's David Weigel blogged:
"Matthews asks everyone if they'd support an amendment to allow foreigners - i.e., Arnold - to run for president. Ron Paul says no, because 'I believe in original intent.' Matthews says - into the mic! - 'Oh, God.'"
I might have done the same as Matthews, frankly. Could Paul have possibly meant the Constitution should never be amended for any reason? If so, that's beyond dumb, and not only because the Founders obviously intended it to be amendable.
If not, then he should have made whatever his point was differently. However, and whatever the issue-by-issue libertarianism any of the other candidates might lay claim to, he stuck to his guns (whether he shot anything other than his foot is another matter) and stood out from the crowd insofar as he was given much air time in the first place.
Also, Weigel predicted among other things that Jim Gilmore would lose the debate and then at the end admitted that all of his “predictions fell flat, except, arguably for the Gilmore one.” Wrong. Gilmore won just by being there, as did the other media-starved candidates in this Republican free-for-all. Personally, I think Gilmore is really shooting for retiring John Warner’s Senate seat, though I'm sure he’d be quite happy if his presidential campaign really took off, too. Hey, that's how we got Carter and Clinton, after all.
Dumbest question of the night? (And asking the dumbest question is no small feat for Chris Matthews.) Whether it would be a good thing if Bill Clinton returned to the White House. Best thing about the event? It reminded American that no matter what else happens in 2008, come 2009 George W. Bush will no longer be president.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
They Fight Crime! **
He's a former actor with such screen credits as Jesuit Joe and Grey Owl. She's the reigning 2007 Miss America. They fight crime!
(** - Title explained here.)
(** - Title explained here.)
Friday, April 20, 2007
Constant Viewer: "The Gordon Keith Show"
Local television programming here in the Dallas / Fort Worth area includes one station, KFWD Channel 52, that airs The Twilight Zone weeknights at 10:30 and immediately before that on most weeknights one of the great guilty pleasures in the annals of situation comedies, Married With Children. Catch as catch can, I’ll sit back some evenings and watch both.
On Thursday’s at 10 pm, however, the independent station indulges in a bit of independent talk show programming, the Gordon Keith Show. (Actually, the show is a production of another local station, ABC affiliate WFAA, Channel 8. It just happens that I discovered the show on Channel 52.) Better known, so far at least, as a radio personality and writer, Keith is an affable if slightly affected sort, inclined to low-key mugging before the camera and an attitude toward the whole operation reminiscent of Letterman calling segments of his show “Network Time Wasters.” The production values (show biz talk for how much money is evidently being spent) make a Robert Rodriguez film budget seem like a David Lean epic, and the shows I’ve seen so far suggest the producers aren’t wasting any money unnecessarily on behind camera frills like professional writers, either.
Still, the show is fun in a goofy, Mickey Rooney / Judy Garland “Hey kids, let’s put a show on in the barn” sort of way. In one program, for example, Keith has the curator of a collection of celebrity bric-a-brac claim that several ceramic pots on display were made by George Washington, setting Keith up moments later to smash them “accidentally” with the neck of a guitar once played by Elvis Presley. In another he had a local critic sit in to provide an ongoing critique throughout the show.
Despite the early promise of cable television and its lamentable sop to local government, the “community access” channel, there hasn’t been much local programming in the U.S. for decades. What once there was, back in the black & white, rabbit-ear antenna days of my childhood was largely either local news or children’s programming. Local news endures, but that’s about it.
And that’s a pity. The talk show format in particular, invented by Steve Allen and perfected by Johnny Carson, remains one of the paradigm inventions of the medium and is perfectly suited to low budget local productions. Alas, the catch is that the seemingly effortless way a master like Carson could make home audiences relax and feel a part of the conversation is anything but effortless, as every behind-the-scenes peek at the Tonight Show made clear. It is art to conceal art even when the “artlessness” of a David Letterman is in fact the art on display.
If the Gordon Keith Show isn’t ready for primetime or, for that matter, syndicated or network late night television –and, believe me, it isn’t – that isn’t because Keith lacks the potential but because, so far at least, the apparently casual artlessness of the show is genuine. But that’s okay. Some of Carson’s own early Carson’s Cellar shows make Keith’s show look as polished as a Marine sergeant’s brass buckle. And besides, like I said, it’s goofy fun. The only question I keep asking myself is, “Sure, but wouldn’t I rather be watching Married With Children right now?”
On Thursday’s at 10 pm, however, the independent station indulges in a bit of independent talk show programming, the Gordon Keith Show. (Actually, the show is a production of another local station, ABC affiliate WFAA, Channel 8. It just happens that I discovered the show on Channel 52.) Better known, so far at least, as a radio personality and writer, Keith is an affable if slightly affected sort, inclined to low-key mugging before the camera and an attitude toward the whole operation reminiscent of Letterman calling segments of his show “Network Time Wasters.” The production values (show biz talk for how much money is evidently being spent) make a Robert Rodriguez film budget seem like a David Lean epic, and the shows I’ve seen so far suggest the producers aren’t wasting any money unnecessarily on behind camera frills like professional writers, either.
Still, the show is fun in a goofy, Mickey Rooney / Judy Garland “Hey kids, let’s put a show on in the barn” sort of way. In one program, for example, Keith has the curator of a collection of celebrity bric-a-brac claim that several ceramic pots on display were made by George Washington, setting Keith up moments later to smash them “accidentally” with the neck of a guitar once played by Elvis Presley. In another he had a local critic sit in to provide an ongoing critique throughout the show.
Despite the early promise of cable television and its lamentable sop to local government, the “community access” channel, there hasn’t been much local programming in the U.S. for decades. What once there was, back in the black & white, rabbit-ear antenna days of my childhood was largely either local news or children’s programming. Local news endures, but that’s about it.
And that’s a pity. The talk show format in particular, invented by Steve Allen and perfected by Johnny Carson, remains one of the paradigm inventions of the medium and is perfectly suited to low budget local productions. Alas, the catch is that the seemingly effortless way a master like Carson could make home audiences relax and feel a part of the conversation is anything but effortless, as every behind-the-scenes peek at the Tonight Show made clear. It is art to conceal art even when the “artlessness” of a David Letterman is in fact the art on display.
If the Gordon Keith Show isn’t ready for primetime or, for that matter, syndicated or network late night television –and, believe me, it isn’t – that isn’t because Keith lacks the potential but because, so far at least, the apparently casual artlessness of the show is genuine. But that’s okay. Some of Carson’s own early Carson’s Cellar shows make Keith’s show look as polished as a Marine sergeant’s brass buckle. And besides, like I said, it’s goofy fun. The only question I keep asking myself is, “Sure, but wouldn’t I rather be watching Married With Children right now?”
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Quick Draw McGraw
[T]he problem is we are programming these people as a society. You cannot tell me -- common sense tells you that if these kids are playing video games, where they're on a mass killing spree in a video game, it's glamorized on the big screen, it's become part of the fiber of our society. You take that and mix it with a psychopath, a sociopath or someone suffering from mental illness and add in a dose of rage, the is too high. And we're going to have to start dealing with that. We're going to have to start addressing those issues and recognizing that the mass murders of tomorrow are the children of today that are being programmed with this massive violence overdose. -- Dr. Phil (McGraw)
Just as we reserve the use of Roman numerals for only the most lofty and dignified of designations such as monarchs, popes and Super Bowls, the use of first names as sufficient identification for public persons is reserved for only the most lofty and exulted in society such as Pope Benedict, Queen Elizabeth, Oprah and her media prince consort, Dr. Phil.
Of course, if I may digress for a moment, there is one other class of adult humanity routinely called by their first name, and that is you and I as customers. It matters not that we might be more than twice the age of the sales clerk behind the counter who has just gleaned our given name from our credit card and whom we have only just met for the first time and barely met at that. He will grasp every opportunity thereafter to call you by that given name as though you and he were the bestest of buddies back in camp last summer. This is called "the personal touch" and taught to such minions by order of their company's executives who would no more tolerate being called by their own first names by said minions than invite them to the club on Saturday for a round of golf.
Not counting government (that's for another rant), this tacit infantilization of one's customers finds the zenith of its expression in medicine, where even the receptionist, incongruously attired in hospital scrubs (does she have a surgery to assist after the filing is done?) blithely calls you by your first name as she finally informs you "The Doctor will see you now."
Ah, yes, the Doctor. You can just hear the capitalization in her voice, can't you? And so it is with Dr. Phil. Who, after all, would take seriously or seek advice from a television psychologist just named Phil? So we have in the case of Dr. Phil a bit of psychological jujitsu, asserting his distancing professional status on the one hand, while projecting a friendly familiarity with his first name on the other.
And who among medical professionals ("medical" broadly construed to include clinical psychologists) make a routine practice of this bit of trickery? Why, pediatricians and child psychologists, of course.
Who better, then, to shoot from the hip ("I'll do the thinnin' around here, Baba Looey!") as in the above quote and explain the psychological nexus between rage-filled sociopaths and psychopaths and video game violence? You or I might have thought just being a rage-filled sociopath would suffice for someone to engage in some sort of rage-filled sociopathic behavior, but it takes Dr. Phil's common sense to connect the dots for us with a "massive violence overdose" ingested from too many hours playing Mortal Kombat.
Now, in fairness, although the research on this topic I have seen shows no statistically significant long-term or lasting effect on children or adolescents in general from their playing violent video games, that isn't McGraw's point. What he is saying is that, whatever the general effect or lack thereof, the higher suggestibility among the mentally ill in particular is causing an escalation in the nature and degree of the sort of violent acts such people may be prone to commit.
Fair enough. I know of no research on that point one way or another and, alas, Dr. Phil cites only "common sense" to support his hypothesis. That, in a nutshell, is the difference between a clinical psychologist and an experimental psychologist, never mind what counts as common sense among psychologists generally. But maybe he's right. Maybe there is a connection in that limited sense between the mentally ill and exposure to violence. Who knows?
Let's assume that it is true. Where does that leave us? Banning violent video games for the over ninety-five percent of the population who are not psychopaths or sociopaths? Following Dr. Phil's lead, I just pulled that number out of thin air, but, hey, you know, most of us ain't crazy.
To what extent are we willing to prohibit the population at large from something, anything that many of them want to do and that doesn't harm them because some tiny fraction of the population is thereby at risk? That, of course, is a question we can ask about any number of things including video games, drugs, gambling, et cetera ad nauseam.
But the libertarian takes the question a step further. What business is it of ours if such things do harm some small number of people or even if they contribute in some sense to their harming others in those still, thank God, extremely rare cases like the Virginia Tech massacre that gave occasion to Dr. Phil's thoughts on video games? How much freedom are we willing to sacrifice for a heightened sense of safety or security?
The answer to that question varies from person to person as a function of how important liberty versus security is to him. But there is one class of persons for whom we don't hesitate in asserting that security is more important; namely, children. And so as we allow ourselves increasingly to be infantilized, as we live on a diet of talk show guru prepared pablum and expert pronouncements for our own good and come to see ourselves more and more as children in constant need of protection from one another, Nanny State smiles warmly and waits to take us by the hand and tuck us into bed and read us a comforting fairy tale where they all lived happily ever after.
Sunday, April 8, 2007
Constant Viewer: Woke Up This Morning, With A Cannoli In My Hand
As its final series begins, eulogies for The Sopranos are already pouring in. (See, also, Joe Gandleman's roundup of commentary at The Moderate Voice.) How the series will end is a matter of much speculation. From the viewer’s point of view, however, the answer is self-evident: it will end badly. Badly because however well resolved or unresolved the final episode may leave all the still dangling plot threads, the viewer will nonetheless be as unsatisfied as the reader of a long, absorbing novel is at the final page. These fictional characters, having become real or real enough to him as he followed their stories over the past six seasons, still have lives ahead of them about which he will remain forever ignorant. How unfair.
By way of perspective, The Sopranos isn’t, let's face it, Shakespearian either in its scope or its writing, it isn’t even clearly the greatest television series of all time, and it worked, when it did work (less and less in later seasons), because of the same largely fortuitous convergence of events that blesses any collaborative art that works and especially any film or television program aspiring to art. It had a great theme, great writers and directors, a great cast and crew and, perhaps most important, it had HBO, which had the freedom to let it be what it was without fear of censorship. Remove any one of these elements, some of them entirely beyond the control of David Chase, et al., and the result would probably have been at best only so-so. (The exact same can be said, indeed has been said by William Goldman, about movies. So much for the auteur theory.)
Finally, of course, it stood out in large measure because most of its competition was so bad. But then there has never been a time or an art form in which most of the competition wasn't bad. Even in Hollywood’s "Golden Year" of 1939, most of the movies the studios churned out were crap.
Television remains just another part of show business, emphasis on the word “business.” It’s “vast wasteland” began as a technology that created a new medium for which there was, from the start, insufficient content, let alone insufficient content worth watching. Producers sold shows first and foremost to commercial sponsors, speculating in an age before sophisticated market research and focus groups that sufficient audiences would, in turn, tune in and watch.
The business model of television, in other words, was to sell anticipated audiences to sponsors, not programs to audiences. Cable television and especially premium channels have changed that model, selling product directly to audiences in a manner akin to the movie industry.
That shift and the equally important freedom from FCC guardians of public mores, made shows like The Sopranos possible. Still, with hundreds of cable channels now available, television has again become or, perhaps more accurately, remained a medium in desperate need of more content of any sort, let alone high quality content, than it can realistically hope to produce.
Even in the days of the broadcast monopoly and censors keeping a watchful eye out against airing anything too shocking or controversial, art managed occasionally to rise from the video muck. Writers like Rod Serling and Sterling Silliphant managed to bring wonderfully literate and engaging shows like The Twilight Zone, Naked City and Route 66 to viewers. Imagine what they could have produced with today’s greater creative freedom, vastly larger production budgets and shorter series requirements. (By the end of this final season, The Sopranos will have run 86 episodes in eight years. The Twilight Zone ran 156 episodes in five seasons; Route 66 ran 116 episodes in four.)
So, yes, I shall miss Tony and his two families, even as I have wondered from time to time whatever happened to Tod and Buz and that Corvette that magically traded itself in for a new model every season. (And will whoever owns Route 66 please ferchristsakes bring them out on DVD, even if only in the half-hearted way Naked City episodes have finally been dribbled out?) And, for what it’s worth, here’s my suggestion for the final episode, supposedly still being tweaked: Tony awakens from a dream about being a mobster, only to find himself lying on a psychiatric couch next to his therapist, a one-armed Bob Newhart. Okay, so maybe not.
By way of perspective, The Sopranos isn’t, let's face it, Shakespearian either in its scope or its writing, it isn’t even clearly the greatest television series of all time, and it worked, when it did work (less and less in later seasons), because of the same largely fortuitous convergence of events that blesses any collaborative art that works and especially any film or television program aspiring to art. It had a great theme, great writers and directors, a great cast and crew and, perhaps most important, it had HBO, which had the freedom to let it be what it was without fear of censorship. Remove any one of these elements, some of them entirely beyond the control of David Chase, et al., and the result would probably have been at best only so-so. (The exact same can be said, indeed has been said by William Goldman, about movies. So much for the auteur theory.)
Finally, of course, it stood out in large measure because most of its competition was so bad. But then there has never been a time or an art form in which most of the competition wasn't bad. Even in Hollywood’s "Golden Year" of 1939, most of the movies the studios churned out were crap.
Television remains just another part of show business, emphasis on the word “business.” It’s “vast wasteland” began as a technology that created a new medium for which there was, from the start, insufficient content, let alone insufficient content worth watching. Producers sold shows first and foremost to commercial sponsors, speculating in an age before sophisticated market research and focus groups that sufficient audiences would, in turn, tune in and watch.
The business model of television, in other words, was to sell anticipated audiences to sponsors, not programs to audiences. Cable television and especially premium channels have changed that model, selling product directly to audiences in a manner akin to the movie industry.
That shift and the equally important freedom from FCC guardians of public mores, made shows like The Sopranos possible. Still, with hundreds of cable channels now available, television has again become or, perhaps more accurately, remained a medium in desperate need of more content of any sort, let alone high quality content, than it can realistically hope to produce.
Even in the days of the broadcast monopoly and censors keeping a watchful eye out against airing anything too shocking or controversial, art managed occasionally to rise from the video muck. Writers like Rod Serling and Sterling Silliphant managed to bring wonderfully literate and engaging shows like The Twilight Zone, Naked City and Route 66 to viewers. Imagine what they could have produced with today’s greater creative freedom, vastly larger production budgets and shorter series requirements. (By the end of this final season, The Sopranos will have run 86 episodes in eight years. The Twilight Zone ran 156 episodes in five seasons; Route 66 ran 116 episodes in four.)
So, yes, I shall miss Tony and his two families, even as I have wondered from time to time whatever happened to Tod and Buz and that Corvette that magically traded itself in for a new model every season. (And will whoever owns Route 66 please ferchristsakes bring them out on DVD, even if only in the half-hearted way Naked City episodes have finally been dribbled out?) And, for what it’s worth, here’s my suggestion for the final episode, supposedly still being tweaked: Tony awakens from a dream about being a mobster, only to find himself lying on a psychiatric couch next to his therapist, a one-armed Bob Newhart. Okay, so maybe not.
Sunday, April 1, 2007
Leno Gives Away Prized Car Collection To Delighted Studio Audience
BURBANK, California – Studio audience members were stunned and delighted during a special Sunday taping of The Tonight Show when host Jay Leno told them to look under their seats where each one found a set of keys and the pink slip to one of Leno’s collection of classic automobiles and motorcycles.
“If Oprah can do it, so can I,” said the lantern-jawed comedian. “Frankly, it was time to start downsizing. I had three football field sized warehouses holding the collection, and what with NBC farming me out in a couple of years for What’s-his-name, that kid from Harvard, the Missus was getting on my case about the upkeep.”
Leno said he was keeping his favorite, the 1941 V-12 American-LaFrance fire truck, to use as a daily driver after he retires from The Tonight Show. “The beautiful thing about the American-LaFrance, aside from the fact that it gets close to seven miles to the gallon,” he said, “is that you can just drive over and flatten three celebrity-owned Prius’s when you need a parking space on Rodeo Drive.”
In related news, rival talk show host David Letterman said he was giving serious consideration to giving lucky studio audience members autographed copies from his extensive collection of speeding tickets, also estimated to require three warehouses to store.
“If Oprah can do it, so can I,” said the lantern-jawed comedian. “Frankly, it was time to start downsizing. I had three football field sized warehouses holding the collection, and what with NBC farming me out in a couple of years for What’s-his-name, that kid from Harvard, the Missus was getting on my case about the upkeep.”
Leno said he was keeping his favorite, the 1941 V-12 American-LaFrance fire truck, to use as a daily driver after he retires from The Tonight Show. “The beautiful thing about the American-LaFrance, aside from the fact that it gets close to seven miles to the gallon,” he said, “is that you can just drive over and flatten three celebrity-owned Prius’s when you need a parking space on Rodeo Drive.”
In related news, rival talk show host David Letterman said he was giving serious consideration to giving lucky studio audience members autographed copies from his extensive collection of speeding tickets, also estimated to require three warehouses to store.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
House Jumps The Shark
My many readers (last estimated at well into double digits) may recall an early post of mine on Inactivist praising Fox’s House as one of the few broadcast network shows worth watching. Dr. Gregory House (Hugh Laurie), the brilliant, crippled, drug addicted misanthrope – what’s not to like? – wasn’t exactly the first of his sort; from Ben Casey through Hawkeye and Trapper John in the original film M*A*S*H, the trope of the cranky and cantankerous but uber-competent physician prevailing against institutional mediocrity and ineptitude is an enduring figure. Let’s just say, though, that Hugh Laurie’s character has managed to ratchet it up a quantum level or two. Notwithstanding the entirely formulaic episode structure (House and his team struggle to diagnose a medical “zebra,” succeeding at roughly 55 minutes into the hour), the banter and the interpersonal relationships among the principal characters have made for three seasons of enjoyable television.
Never mind that no hospital administrator this side of Bedlam would let Dr. House within a hundred yards of the hospital cafeteria, let alone real patients. Ignore the fact that no malpractice insurance underwriter alive would cover Dr. House at any price. Forget that House and his gang are routinely performing surgeries of every imaginable variety in an age when mutually exclusive medical and surgical specialties have multiplied faster than a virus. The show still works, maybe because it is so damned implausible. One need not merely suspend disbelief to watch House, one must drive a stake through its heart.
Last week, however, was simply too much. I refer not to the ultimately discovered medical problems of the almost incidental patient, a Marine claiming Gulf War Syndrome, nor to the nonsense about House’s dream about the Marine and subsequent snooping into his background. No, I refer to what the official website episode recap calmly describes as follows:
Ladies and Gentlemen, let me ease your minds about this once and for all. Having once had a Foley catheter inserted through my urethra into my bladder, I know with near Cartesian certainty that there isn’t a man alive capable of doing that to himself. The Marquis de Sade, himself, would wince, grimace and faint dead away at the very notion. Not to dwell on the gruesome details of my own experience, but at the time I was experiencing such acute abdominal pain that I had already received both a shot of Dilaudid and of morphine just moments before and I would still have gladly opted for, say, chopping out my tongue before performing that particular procedure on myself.
It is the curse, I guess, of the series writer to have to top previous episodes, lest jaded viewers lose interest. (“Next week on Lost, Jack discovers that he and Ben were Siamese twins separated at birth!”) Even so, much as I still enjoy the show, next time perhaps they could have House do something just a teeny bit more believable like, oh, say, leaping over tall buildings in a single bound, finding a cure for cancer using ordinary household products or bringing lasting peace to the Middle East?
(Title explanation here.)
Never mind that no hospital administrator this side of Bedlam would let Dr. House within a hundred yards of the hospital cafeteria, let alone real patients. Ignore the fact that no malpractice insurance underwriter alive would cover Dr. House at any price. Forget that House and his gang are routinely performing surgeries of every imaginable variety in an age when mutually exclusive medical and surgical specialties have multiplied faster than a virus. The show still works, maybe because it is so damned implausible. One need not merely suspend disbelief to watch House, one must drive a stake through its heart.
Last week, however, was simply too much. I refer not to the ultimately discovered medical problems of the almost incidental patient, a Marine claiming Gulf War Syndrome, nor to the nonsense about House’s dream about the Marine and subsequent snooping into his background. No, I refer to what the official website episode recap calmly describes as follows:
At home, House inserts a catheter into his bladder through the urethra and finds instant relief. He shuffles to his bed.
Ladies and Gentlemen, let me ease your minds about this once and for all. Having once had a Foley catheter inserted through my urethra into my bladder, I know with near Cartesian certainty that there isn’t a man alive capable of doing that to himself. The Marquis de Sade, himself, would wince, grimace and faint dead away at the very notion. Not to dwell on the gruesome details of my own experience, but at the time I was experiencing such acute abdominal pain that I had already received both a shot of Dilaudid and of morphine just moments before and I would still have gladly opted for, say, chopping out my tongue before performing that particular procedure on myself.
It is the curse, I guess, of the series writer to have to top previous episodes, lest jaded viewers lose interest. (“Next week on Lost, Jack discovers that he and Ben were Siamese twins separated at birth!”) Even so, much as I still enjoy the show, next time perhaps they could have House do something just a teeny bit more believable like, oh, say, leaping over tall buildings in a single bound, finding a cure for cancer using ordinary household products or bringing lasting peace to the Middle East?
(Title explanation here.)
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