[sic]

The Memorial Day weekend was rolling strong and steady. Dodger game Friday. Errands and “Indiana Jones” Saturday. Then Sunday Susan and I rose early to drive out the 5 to the 126 all the way out to San Buenaventura to explore the town a bit and ride bikes along the awesome Ventura River Trail and back. I’m not one to rave about fastfood burgers but on the drive back home we stopped at Burger King and I couldn’t get enough of their new Angus Steakburger. Yumma.

We got back around 4 p.m. and a couple hours later I punched eight-year-old bruises watching Recount on HBO and yesterday was pretty much a bust in that I put out the flag and then was pretty much grumbling and grousing around the house rather than out on my bike riding out to Los Angeles National Cemetery and back as planned.

I managed to be somewhat productive. I got laundry done. I patched a flat on my mountain bike. I broke up and green-binned the quartet of fallen palm fronds that for whatever reason the gardeners didn’t touch. I cleaned up my singlespeeder — I even carved out a patch to plant the sunflower seeds I received last week as part of the Great Sunflower Project. Heck I also managed a late-inning sweep up of the backyard before Susan grilled us up a fine pair of porterhouses and we enjoyed Richard Widmark, Thelma Ritter and Jean Peters (and a young Richard Kiley!) in the highly recommendable 1953 Sam Fuller noir classic Pickup On South Street.

So it’s not like I just sat on my hands in some sort of paralyzed state as the World’s Angriest and Past-Dwelling Democrat, but the movie definitely took the wind out of my sails bringing back some bad memories on yesterday’s Memorial Day.

As with every fall TV season I usually get all revved up about a show. Last year it was “Heroes,” and this time around it was “The Bionic Woman,” which NBC went to such serious lengths to hype. Sure enough the biggity bigbig debut was last night and I bought into the massive build-up enough to discard the third episode of Ken Burns’ mostly riveting (but sometimes not so much) “The War” over on PBS.

I am ashamed.

Already over “The Old Adventures Of The New Jaime” less than a half-hour in but willing to let it come back after one more commercial break for one last chance to redeem itself, we shut it off right after the bionic woman ends up in an alley searching for a mysterious departed rogue blonde and the writers in all their lack of originality reached knuckle-deep into the cliché pool to pull out disposable meaningless Character No. 12, otherwise known as: The Creepy Hoodlum Who Appears From Out Of The Shadows To Open A Switchblade And Confidently Threaten The Seemingly Helpless But Decidedly Not Protagonist With Bodily Harm Only To Be Immediately Disarmed And Have His Ass Short-Order Handed To Him.

Talk about putting the “yawn” in bionic. Zzzzzzzzzz.

That HBO’s Entourage survived my post-Suckpranos-finale boycott of the network surprised me. Seriously, John From Cinncinnati suffered my dismissive wrath. Debuting immediately after Tony and family and a plate of onion rings left us forever in limbo I couldn’t change the channel fast enough and vowed never to return no matter how rave the reviews.

And Flight Of the Conchords? Please.

But I kept on watching Entourage. Partially because I’m a huge Jeremy Piven and Kevin Dillon fan, but mainly because we had set it up with a season pass on the TiVo. Certainly not because of the ever-weakening story line. Then something happened. There was a brief break and then the show’s new season started and it centered around the trials and tribulations that Vince, E, Johnny, Turtle and agent Ari (with wonderful sidekick Lloyd) had to go through in order to get their dream project — a biopic film of drug kingpin Pablo Escobar — made with little in the way of a safety net and a madmadmadmadmad genius of a director.

Where there’d been wafer-thin episodes about spending thousands of dollars on a pair of sneakers, all of a sudden there was crisp insider intrigue and conflict — not to mention Vince in a silly fatsuit as Escobar.

Well, that all went away with last night’s sex farce episode. Unabashedly titled “Day F***ers” it opened with the general opinion that E can’t have unemotional sex (apparently a bad thing) and then centered around a $5,000 bet between Johnny and Vince that Johnny could get Turtle laid before Vince could do the same for E.

Suffice it to say that by the end of the episode Vince, E and Johnny (substituting for a retiscent Turtle who couldn’t muster up the furry bluster to do it with a Craigslist date while donning a pink bunny costume) all get down, and just like that the show has reverted back to its vapid roots and left me on the verge of deleting its reserved slot from the TiVo’s memory.

But the power of Piven as an actor provided reason for a reprieve via a continuing B-story featuring his Ari resorting to dirty tricks that fail to keep his son from being booted out of the exclusive private school he attends (not for anything the kid’s done but because Ari’s a certified ass who the school despises). After exploring the other educational options (public school, eeek!) he comes home one night with an arm full of children’s books and a desperation plan to be a better father. Sitting with his son to read to him the boy looks at him wide-eyed and asks his dad if he’s going to be able to go to school with his best friend next year. With no way left to spin the truth a heartbroken Ari breaks down in frustration right there and the powerful and honest moment of raw emotion totally caught me by surprise.

Later on, Ari shows up at the school director’s home in the middle of the night and with tears streaming down his face literally begs the man not to make his son suffer the transgressions of his father. And I was choked up right along with him.

Of course, this being Hollywood the headmaster happens to have a “special” son he’d like to see promoted out of the talent agency mailroom he’s in. As Ari can make that happen a deal is brokered that keeps his son in school, but one I’m sure he’ll regret next week.

And I’ll be watching.

I had high hopes for “Saving Grace,” the new series starring Holly Hunter that debuted on the AMC channel yesterday. I also had high hopes for “Mad Men,” which began last week.

I’m disappointed with both, but it’s Holly’s that’s the biggest folly. Right out of the gate it’s title should’ve been a big old red flag, what with it being taken from the name of the boozin’, fornicatin’ narsicistin’, Porschin’ Oklahoma City detective she plays.

To be fair, I didn’t fly in blind. I knew the premise and was all set to enjoy this rough and ready “Touched By An Angel” meets “Highway To Heaven,” primarily because Hunter who I’ve missed for far too long would be bringing her phenomenal acting chops to the small screen. And sure enough, in the preview commercial when she’s giving CPR to the man she’s just drunkenly decorated all over her Carrara and the road behind her and she stops mid-heart massage and haltingly says “Dear God, please help me” I got chills and thought to myself this is gonna be good. And then when scraggly guardian angel Earl shows up spitting tobacco juice into a plastic soda bottle and asking her “Whatcha need?” I was all: homerun!

Guess you could say I got…

Jeez, sorry. Couldn’t resist the… temptation. I’ll stop now, have faith. Quit it!

Anyway, Hunter is great as the not-quite-ready-to-be-saved Grace. And they certainly offset any holierthanthou-itude with the occasional swear word and sex scene. And honestly my problem isn’t with its religious overtones, no matter how ham-handed they’re handled.

It’s the cliches, gahdamma! The show was lousy with them.

• She’s having an affair with her partner, who’s married.

• Earl yanks Grace to the edge of the Grand Canyon for a little purgatorial pow-wow that ends with her getting wrapped up in the power and the glory of Earl’s wings after waking up from it and thinking it’s a dream she finds red Arizona dirt in her boots. Whoa! Guess it musta happened Grace!

• She has a token brother who’s a token catholic priest.

• Same thing with her next meeting with Earl in the backyard of her house. Right after she’s stepped in dog crap he shows up for a little Q&A and when we next find her she’s awakening inside the house and repulsed because her shit-kicker is still shit covered. Whoa! Guess this Earl’s for realz Grace! Either that or you drunkenly passed out in bed with your boots on.

•There’s a cow with a pattern on its flank that resembles Jesus Christ. What does Hunter’s forensics pal (played by Laura San Giacomo) say in response to seeing it? “Holy cow!” Though in fairness the way she delivers the line is nice and chuckle-worthy.

• And then there’s the weak comic-relief B-story that could’ve been left out entirely. On a stakeout at a cattle auction Grace is hit on by an ass-grabby trucker-hatted geezer who sexually harasses her verbally and physically. Eventually she breaks off the engagement with a right to his jaw and down he goes out cold. If that’s not bad enough, the guy then turns out to be the richest cattleman in Oklahoma and as a result of his complaining to her superiors, her captain without so much as even asking her what happened pulls her off a missing child case growing colder by the minute and won’t put her back on it until she physically goes to the asshole’s ranch and personally apologizes for being a woman in a man’s world or for not being entirely tolerant to his unwanted sexual advances.

What is this, the ’50s?

But wait, it gets better. Itchin’ to get back on the kidnap case the mono-dimensional writers make Grace suck up her pride and go to the dude like a good little girl and say she’s sorry. Does she at least say she’s sorry for not hitting him sooner or for not arresting him afterward or for having to put up with such a sorry excuse for a man? Does she thank him for getting her removed from an ongoing investigation in which the life of a little girl might have been lost as a result and if that proves to be the case he’d better hope not or get the fuck out of town and quick because she’ll be coming back bringing fists and guns and a murderous rage with her?

Nah. She just bites the bullet and shakes hands at which point why should the writers quit now: the cattle baron pulls her in close and demands that if she wants her job back she’s gonna have to do more than that and then he puts a paw on her chest, tells her to pucker up and plants a kiss on her decidedly unpuckered face. After respectfully but directly requesting he remove his hand from her breast, he asks “Or what? You gonna sucker punch me again?” Of course she does.

I’m supposed to be entertained and engaged and compelled by crap like that? Hell no.

I can’t remember anticipating a television show at the level that I’m eagerly awaiting the arrival of the series finale of The Sopranos that airs in a few minutes. Will the last episode go Shakespearean in the proportions of its tragedy and make everybody and I mean everybody dead? Will A.J.’s suicidal tendencies manifest itself with patricide? Will Tony see no way out but to seek government protection in order to save his family?

All I know is ain’t better be anybody riding off into the sunset happily ever after else I ain’t never watching that show again! Ever.

UPDATE (7:44 p.m.): Screw me for expecting a final episode with some balls. This makes the ridiculous Seinfeld series sayonara look like genius in comparison.

Couple days late in tapping my keyboard about the season finale of Lost in large part because of the vast number of characters made dead. I almost can’t count that high. And if the episode’s still sitting on your DVR or VCR tape unwatched, move along because I gotta break down the massive carnage.

Let’s see. By far the greatest bulk of deceased stems from 10 of “the others” who took the bait in invading the survivors’ boobytrapped and deserted beachfront camp. Seven of ‘em were dynamited at the outset of the attack and then later the other three were dispatched via a broken neck from a patented Sayid leg lock; a coldblooded bullet from Sawyer and the front end of a VW bus being piloted at speed by Hurley.

After that and in no real order I remember Locke (suffering little the effects of being gutshot at the end of the previous episode by Ben) showing up to throw a hunting knife with deadly accuracy into the back of “rescuer” Naomi (so long, we hardly knew ya); then there was the good chick/bad chick duo in the underwater station, both shot by the mysterious one-eyed dude on orders from Ben but who was then surprised and dispatched by Desmond armed with a crossbow.

But actually old cyclops wasn’t, and lived to die later (or did he?) pulling the pin on a grenade that sealed Charlie’s fate and sent him to Davey Jones’ locker (or did it?).

Did I forget anyone? Well, Jack did beat the tar out of Ben but didn’t kill him so… no. I think the final deathtoll from Wednesday’s show stands at 15. Heck of a bodycount!

Couple odd ends: Walt shows up to rally and rise Locke from where Ben left him to die. I don’t think we’ve seen the kid since the second season and though only 90 or so days have passed for the survivors of Oceanic Flight No. 815, on this side of the TV screen it’s been a couple/three years, the latter half of which is plenty of time for a prepubescent actor to have enough of a growth spurt to make him look hardly like the Walt we remember. Kinda jarring.

And in regards to the writers shuffling Charlie off, I’m troubled by what I see as a bad decision not to have him save himself… especially when the scribes gave him the opportunity to do so. When the not dead one-eyed guy surprisingly appears outside the underwater station porthole window as Charlie’s communicating with the “rescue” boat and pulls the pin on the grenade, Charlie — now armed with a new crucial bit of information to pass on to Desmond — has plenty of time to bolt out of the chamber to where Desmond is and pull the watertight door shut behind him before the explosion. But instead he remains in there and shuts the door between him and Desmond. When the boom breaks the window’s glass and water starts flooding into the now sealed room, he pulls out a pen and writes that aforementioned news nugget on his palm that he then places up against the watertight door’s window for Desmond to read. Desmond makes out the “Not Penny’s Boat” scrawled there and then Charlie drowns.

WTF? Why not just go to Desmond close the door, contain the water and tell him? Or hell, just tell him and then get the hell outta there back up to the ocean’s surface.

I suppose one could argue that as Desmond had foretold it was Charlie’s fate to die so that his beloved Claire and her child might live, and I’m fine with Charlie fulfilling that and sacrificing himself for whatever greater good, but the scene was rushed and there was no real moment of clarity provided in which Charlie makes that decision. He just ran to the door and shut it and then started scribbling on his hand. Feh.

And in regards to the one-eyed man with the crossbow arrow sticking through his chest, why go to all the trouble of swimming out of the station and finding the window to the chamber to blow up Charlie. His grenade would’ve worked just fine or better even lobbed at Desmond and Charlie from where things were dry and oxygentated.

Anyway, endgame glitches aside it was a great finish to a season that managed to keep me glued to the show despite a number of hitches throughout its run, and I’m looking forward to next year!

My fellow Blogging.la contributor David Markland is psyched for the Star Wars Celebration beginning this Friday at the L.A. Convention Center, and wrote that he can track his desire to be a filmmaker back to when he saw the film and then the landmark “Making of Star Wars” special that aired on CBS back in 1977.

Which reminded me of the 2005 posts I wrote during the frenzy building for the release of the series’ much-anticipated final chapter about me actually being in that TV special. So climb aboard my flashback machine and let’s relive that glory:

April 7, 2005

With all the overblown obsession of all the people in line at the Mann’s Chinese Theater in Hollywood planning to wait the 43 days until the next “Star Wars” film opens (but at the Arclight, not the Chinese), it got me kinda nostalgic for those good old days back in the summer of 1977 when my friend Luis DeJesus and I cut summer school at Le Conte Junior High to go see C3P0, R2D2, and Darth Vader get their feetprints enshrined in concrete in the famed theater’s forecourt.

And wouldn’t you know, the website of those geeks who are currently lined up there has an image posted of that very same event:

I kid you not, Luis and I were standing in the area indicated by the arrow, perhaps 12 feet or so from where the coolest droids and the bestest villian ever showed up to smoosh their tootsies in the Ready-Mix. We were in 13-year-old heaven!

The cool thing was Luis’ mom was working at 20th Century Fox at the time and had scored us each an authentic film crew tee with the distinctive logo on the front — which of course we both wore.

Later, after the ceremony was over and the crowd had dispersed Luis and I were trying to figure out a way to sneak in to see the film when a guy near the box office with a video camera called to us as we stood beneath one of the posters on the right side of the courtyard. We both looked over at him and he held the camera on us for a few seconds before saying thanks and moving on.

We thought it was just a local cameraman grabbing footage, but we later found out it was much bigger than the six o’clock news. Shortly thereafter, to capitalize on the fever the film induced, we heard of a “The Making of ‘Star Wars,’” a documentary that aired about a month later on TV — just after 8th grade had begun.

Of course I watched it, having no idea that near the end when the doc was wrapping up with an exploration of the merchandizing phenomenon the movie had become, all of a sudden there I was with Luis onscreen standing under the poster in our matching “Star Wars” t-shirts. In a blink we were gone, but it was enough for me to come to school (in the shirt, of course) and wallow in some short-lived celebrity from a steady stream of schoolmates who throughout the day would yell at me, “Hey! I saw you on TV last night!”

Man it would be so cool if I could get my hands on a copy of that old doc… but maybe I already have it. I should dive into the special features discs of the “Star Wars Trilogy” that Susan got me for Christmas… perhaps it’s in there. How cool would that be!?

Turns out four days later, bad back not withstanding,
it would be very cool, after the jump.

(more…)

Just a quick hit from TV Land.

So far everything’s going how I envisioned it on American Idol. Last night Seacrest drops that 35 million people voted, up two mil from last week (which was up three mil from the week before) just as I predicted it would be. Next, Sanjaya — who made a great song choice Tuesday and turned in a performance even his mediocre talents couldn’t destroy — wasn’t even in the bottom three, just as I said he wouldn’t be. And who was in that dreaded category: exactly who I said would get gone before Sanjaya: Haley, Phil and Chris.

Chris was safe, which I figured he’d be. But I’ll admit I was surprised that Haley got the hook before Phil. I thought her eye-candy factor would offset her Kathy Lee Gifford talent and keep her around longer than the Batboy.

Oh well, he’ll go next week.

Who dah man? I’m dah man.

Am I obsessed? Oh yes.

I’ve given up hating on Sanjaya, the agonizingly underachieving American Idol contestant who for the last two weeks hasn’t even been among the bottom three votegetters and has remained firmly in the running while other much more talented singers have gotten the hook.

But I’m not resigned because I’ve come to accept his accendancy to the Idol throne and subsequent climb up to the top of the popcharts as something ordained or inevitable. Nor have I changed my tune because his hair, smile and Tiger Beat looks have finally worked their charms on me. On the contrary, his performance of “Cheek to Cheek” Tuesday night was as gag inducing and infuriating as all his previously disconnected uncommitted wafer-thin performances.

Instead, being the good conspiracy theorizer my mother raised me to be, I’m letting go because I recognize that I’m being played. We all are. Every single one of the millions of people who enjoy the show — and I’m not talking about any subversive efforts such as votefortheworst.com or Howard Stern.

Look, it’s a simple and obvious chain reaction that I’m sure AI producers and Fox network execs are all too eager and willing to exploit: controversy = publicity; publicity = increased viewers; increased viewers = higher ratings; higher ratings = more ad dollars; more ad dollars = greater revenue. Go Sanjaya!

Check it out: For all the elimination episodes that Sanjaya’s survived and built up a buzz, host Ryan Seacreast has hauled out the tried-and-true tally of “30 million votes.” Not yesterday. Seacrest reported a record 33 million votes had been counted this time around. Cha-ching!

Bottom line is the closer to the finale that Sanjaya gets, the more uproar there’s going to be and the more people are going to tune in to watch the runaway train. Why do I subcribe to the idae that things are being manipulated so? Easy: the votes. I don’t believe them. There’s no audit. There’s no Price-Waterhouse organization validating things. There’s no disclosure about the process or which contestant got how many. Just Ryan each week spouting a big old nebulous sum total and week-in and week-out the nice kid with little talent who should be getting the fewest magically isn’t. and the apoplepia grows.

This is not to say that I think Sanjaya’s going to win. Oh hell no. I’ll bet Sanjaya’s already over-stayed his half-life and the puppetmasters won’t keep him around past the point of no return. I say he’ll advance one/two more weeks… three on the outside. In that time we’ll lose Haley and Phil and Chris (or for a huge ratings boost maybe Jordan or Blake!), but then the powers that be will realize they better not mess with things anymore than they already have and Sanjaya will be shown the door with much head shaking and relief, because then we can get back to the business of being jerked around without all the drama.

But it’ll be fun while it lasts.

At the risk of damaging any tenuous perception that I have an intellect, my must-see-TV list consists of the following programs:

• 24
• American Idol
• Lost
• Studio 60 On The Sunset Strip
• Survivor

Susan and I were both into Heroes pretty diligently, but then it went on a lengthy mid-season hiatus around Christmas only to come back rather sluggishly which waned my enthusiasm big time and I missed the last two or three episodes — which I promptly stopped feeling guilty about when I found out the show went on yet another recess (that I don’t think is over).

I’m now about ready to give up on 24. Though it induces a facial tick/seizure everytime Keifer Sutherland has his Jack Bauer say “noo-kyoo-lure” instead of “nuclear” in exactly the same assinine way as Duh-bya does… that odd homage is a minor point and one I can get past.

What I can’t put behind me is the bullshit. Be it absolutely useless scenes detailing various of the lesser players’ entanglements be it romance or revenge driven, or cookie-cutter characters such as the hellbent and irrationally agenda’d vice president dead set on nuclear retaliation against a Middle Eastern country (to be named never), it’s all just cheaply written and weakly realized.

This week they even gave us a minor civilian character who seemed an amalgam of Dustin Hoffman’s character in Rainman and Leonardo DiCaprio’s in What’s Eating Gilbert Grape. What’s scary is that when pressed into the service of Jack to nab one of the bad guys he seemed to be the only one in the damn show who follows and executes orders. Pretty much the whole rest of them are in some throes of lust, jealousy, deception, drinking, bigotry, insubordination, doubt, blah blah blah blah blah. What gave the writers and producers the idea I give a crap about these people beyond their ability to kick ass and take names?

For gawd’s sake last week in the midst of a nuclear bomb-equipped drone launched by terrorists toward San Francisco, you had a distraught Jack stopping traffic on the main floor of CTU headquarters to angrily demand the file of Audrey — his love interest last season — who he’d just learned had been killed in a suspicious traffic accident… in China… where he had been imprisoned for several years. WTF Jack!? You are the last one to slow down the wheels of justice!

And as to the shoe-horned announcement that Audrey’d been offed? Hmmmmmm. what is it the church lady used to say? How… conveeeeeeeenient!

Pretty much since its inception, I’ve always rushed to the show’s defense and said that even when 24 is bad it’s still some of the most riveting and entertaining stuff on TV. I’m not so quick to say that anymore.

It still may be riveting but the more the show’s powers deem it necessary to fill an hour with the Chloe and her off-the-wagon ex-husband subplot, or with Ricky Shroeder as some tough ass racist jackass named Doyle, or Regina King as the president’s conflicted sister, the badder it’s gonna get and the less inclined I’ll be to keep coming back for more.