A Compelling Kind of Crazy

Is 30 Rock a grown-up Muppet Show?

I know it sounds crazy, but let screenwriter Brian Lynch change your mind.

EXHIBIT A: THE PREMISE
Each week, our smart yet neurotic lead character has to manage a group of
wacky misfits and put on a weekly sketch comedy show. Which show am I talking
about? 30 ROCK plays like NBC went to JJ Abrams and told him to reboot THE
MUPPET SHOW. "Do what you did with STAR TREK. Make it hipper, more adult. Maybe lose the puppets to allow more time for product placement."

Hmm. I need to go talk to some food about this. I have a lot to think about.

The End of Year Tally

2008: nice knowin' ya. Here's what your saucy trails left behind.  

Best in Show

 DRAMA

Mad Men.

Oh, Mad Men. How do I love thee? Let me inappropriately hit on the ways. In its second season, everything about Mad Men I loved was warped and rendered impotent: the changing times made youth the new buzzword and the old guard looked rigidly traditional, the excessive drinking got once-ballyhooed employees quietly fired, and his wicked ways nearly cost Don his home, his wife and his suit as he went on a bizarre pilgrimage to California (actually, the part where he was kind of naked was pretty awesome; also awesome was all that completely hot!bad!wrong! sex he found himself having. Oh, I am a fan in so many, many ways). And in the end, we were back at the beginning- with Betty and Don together, Pete without Peggy or a prayer and those things left unsaid loudly exposed- but it had changed imperceptively yet distinctly, like a party dress worn the next day. The end of season two was a quiet riot that'll ripple into the next. 

 Dexter

In other news, Michael C. Hall continued to confuse my delicate sensibilities as the inexplicably attractive sociopath Though, I suppose next to the overbearing Jimmy Smits, a potted plant would be sexy (future note, Jimmy: “yelling” is not a synonym for “acting.”). Its third season had an excruciatingly slow start, but once it took off, it went running. But once again, it does tend to fall back on its own worn-in tropes: Dexter is given a seeming soul mate only to be forced to exterminate them; La Guerta has poor taste in friends and feels betrayed; Harry Morgan is a douchebag. 

For the win: Mad Men, because at least its sociopaths have an attractively human veneer.

COMEDY

How I Met Your Mother

I remember the announcement of How I Met Your Mother in the din of other sitcoms that would ultimately prove a disappointment. It sounded stupid: a father relays the entire story of how he met the mother of his children to said kids. But check this out: How I Met Your Mother is, dare I say it, amazing, sweet, hilarious and heart-rending. It only gets funnier with time and repeat watching. It corners that nebulous period in between leaving your natural family and starting your own, when your friends and lovers are the only family you need, and pinpoints the exact bittersweet tinge of this gradually evolving lifestyle. It’s a show that blows continuity out of the water (a gag set up in one episode may not pay off for three) and doesn’t waste one of its considerably talented cast members.

30 Rock

30 Rock, on the other hand, corners a far more specific 30 something: the neurosis-fuelled, post-Oprahfied single woman. Skimming the footsteps left by her more obvious ancestors (from Mary Tyler Moore to That Girl--which yes, I remember despite being a ‘maybe someday’ in my mother’s vocabulary at the time of its release), Tina Fey rocks the single girl instability with more candor and honesty than her spiritual foremothers. Plus, here’s Alec Baldwin at his most sexually confusing to tide you over! (WHY AM I ATTRACTED TO HIM?!?)

For the win: How I Met Your Mother. Anything that puts money directly into the bank account of the ridiculously talented comeback kid Neil Patrick Harris is the winner of basically everything.

Best in Suit: Um, even having a category suggests there's anyone other than Don Draper who could take this distinct honor. And I’m insulted by the possibility.

Best in Buff: Is it just me, or should Daniel Craig, Robert Downey Jr. and Kate Winslet just never wear clothes again? It seems like such a waste of effort on their part. Or at least wear as little as possible.  OR! Just make a series of 1930s throwback pictures where they lie around smoking and bantering in various states of undress. NOTE: this is probably one of my better ideas. 

Honorable mention: Chace Crawford, if you’re not going to take off your shirt, at least help your friend and co-star Ed Westwick do so. Honestly. Do I have to do everything around here? Because I’m okay with that.

 Most Bittersweet Inevitability: 

 Best in Film

 The Dark Knight: Hype that’s well-earned, for once. Bless the socks of anyone in this film whose name doesn’t rhyme with “wreath,” because they were overshadowed by his powerhouse, celluloid-shaking turn as the Joker. There’s not much to say that hasn’t been said already.

 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days: Nuanced, gripping and tedious in a way that feels like friendship, this little film about repressed liberties haunted my synapses for way too long.

 Frost/Nixon: I just…I just can’t deal with the fact I’ve placed a Ron Howard film on any list of mine, so I’ll leave it at this: YAY SAM ROCKWELL. 

 Vicky Cristina Barcelona: Charming, frothy and still thought-provoking, Woody Allen granted me the mercy of making Javier Bardem attractive again. Woody: thank you for this. No, seriously.

 Iron Man: Look. Ain’t no better time onscreen than watching Robert get his Downey Jr. on. The marriage of superhero and cool have never blended so logically; in the past, it was a relationship that needed work and a lot of special effects, but in Downey’s hands it becomes an afterthought. His Tony Stark is snickering at us the whole time: “You thought that was cool? Give me two seconds. Ha. See? I know. I’m awesome.”

  

The Spielberg Award for Artistic Echo 2008

 An award that goes out every year to the filmmaker that most clearly exhibits a trademark fascination with a certain subject, movie after movie. Named for Steven Spielberg, who likes to fall back on his artistic themes like a junkie falls behind on the rent, this award commemorates those in filmmaking who, though they do it well, do it often.

 Previous winners include Adrian Lyne (“Hey everyone! I like adultery! Ask me why!”), Sam Mendes (“The suburbs blow—permit me to demonstrate.”), and Stanley Kubrick (“Dear human race: FUCK YOU.”).

 This year’s winner is…

Steven Spielberg, for a stunning return to extraterrestrials! Just when you thought he got it out of his system, folks, it crops up again in the latest ode to B-movie serials, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (sidenote: did someone get paid by the letter for that title?). All those madcap caper flicks and serious dramas couldn’t distract him forever: Steven has a serious thing for the otherworldly, the unexplained, the big-headed and eight-fingered. Steven, darling—I love you. But you really need to get over this little fixation on outer space. It’s beginning to embarrass us all. Out of his entire filmography (both as director and producer) I counted no less than 12 films with either explicit or implicit connections to aliens. Steven, this is too many. Admit it--deep down, if you could have found a way to blame Jaws on little green men? You would have.

 Oh my God. You did, didn’t you? Oh, Steven.

 Extra points awarded because  The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull  managed to straddle at least two more of Spielberg’s old standbys. First up, the unresolved daddy issues: Shiiiiiiiia LeBeouf (goddamn, I love that kid) shows up to give Indy a chance to muse on the disappointed daddy syndrome left dangling by The Last Crusade. Marion is such a whore. Anyway, it’s a big thing with Spielberg: guys and their dads. Never growing up. Etc, etc.

 That being said, Shia LeBeouf is awesome. The fact that his entire character is a thinly veiled attempt to piss off Marlon Brando’s already pissed off ghost made my decade (ps. The Wild One called—it wants its DVD cover back).

 Which leads me to item two: pop culturbation. Steven knows his pop culture, that’s for sure. Between the ode to 1950s greasers (the only time I actually enjoyed myself in the entire running time) and the thwarted attempt to capture the golden age of campy sci-fi, Spielberg had the outlines of something real good. Which brings us back to the insertion of aliens, and the unfortunate fixation therein. Oh Steven. You may be a broken record, but it’s one I like to listen to. 

The Pop Culture Unfortunates

Don’t let the brows fool you: every Ibsen-reading, wine-drinking, Truffant-quoting fancy pants has a store of Pop Culture Unfortunates in their past: those little blemishes on the hull of any perfectly cultivated intellectual inner life. It happens to the best of us: the five-star restaurant foodie who secretly devours Doritos; the opera connoisseur who watches Two and a Half Men; the hipster poet who digs Phil Collins without a trace of irony (he’s got two ears and a heart, doesn’t he?). They’re all alike. And I happen to have it on good authority. What’s that good authority, you may ask? Well, my own sordid past, of course. Full disclosure, kids. That’s what I’m all about.  

 I know all the words to Hungry Like the Wolf. On purpose.

Look, you can’t help love, right? And I happen to love Duran Duran. More than a little. Actually, more than a lot. I think that not only are they great artists, they also constantly redefine the word ‘awesome.’ Also? Their poetics put a tear in my eye, yet a song remains in my heart. Look no further than the exotic seduction found in Hungry Like the Wolf, the stylish yearning of Rio, the tense, moody staccato of Wild Boys, and you’ll see why Duran Duran is the word. . True science fact: Simon Le Bon is a dreamboat.

Nearly everything on the list of Stuff White People Like applies to me.

No, like, everything. Brunches, girls with bangs, gentrification--I am guilty, guilty, guilty. And I accept this accomplishment with equal parts pride, shame and resignation. But, like most White People, it’s mostly pride.

Stayin’ Alive.

Yeah. The real shame from this admission comes from the fact that not only do I like it better than its predecessor (Saturday Night Fever, and I don’t know WHY you would not know that already). It’s from the fact that I…what’s the word? Like it at all. No, I’m sorry. Like isn’t strong enough. I kind of love it. I just…man, when he puts that snooty British lady in her place by letting her fall during the big dance number? I’m all , “LAWYERED, baby. Outstanding.” In fact…

Just say three words: bad. Dance. Movies.

There’s like my Achilles heel, but instead of leaving me dead on a Greek island, these “films” leave me soaring on clouds of rhythm and joy. Ain’t a terribly crafted, shoddily plotted dance movie that I don’t love with the fire of a teenage poet. Bad dance movies teach me how to live my life (Fight for your dreams, says Flashdance. Never give up, says Step Up. Kevin Bacon should have a place in your heart forever, says Footloose). Do you demand more proof? HAVE IT: I paid money to see Take the Lead. In theatres. WHERE OTHER PEOPLE COULD SEE ME.

(UPDATE! On December 29th, I was in a store that had cruelly placed Footloose and Stayin' Alive next to each other, both for seven dollars and ninety nine cents. Seven dollars and ninety nine cents! I don't know how this store stayed in business, charging next to nothing for the greatest films of my whole life. Y'all, it was like Sophie's Choice up in here. I left empty handed becuase the weight of that choice would haunt me like, for at least twenty minutes.) 

Gossip Girl.

Do I need to say any more? Of course not. Because I still totally don’t watch it. (BLAIR + CHUCK 4EVAH!!!1!!)

 More like The Rules of the LAME.

Okay. I know The Rules of the Game (or La Règle du jeu, 1939) is supposed to be this amazing, benchmark film. But um. Okay. It kind of…sucks. Like, not a lot: it’s not like Showgirls or anything. But I don’t really get the big deal. It seems pretty standard to me. Madcap servants, delusional rich people. Isn’t that, like, the whole point of European cinema? Also, I detest Christine, the quasi-protagonist: I fail to understand how one man would be interested in a stale, boring old prune like her, let alone three (that was the final tally, wasn’t it?). I don’t want to say hackneyed but…okay, I kind of do want to say hackneyed. But I won’t! Because I’m pretty sure they’d take away my White Person membership (see above).

She may be the Man, but I AM THE SHAME.

Okay, this one is hard to admit. But DAMN IT. I have to say it. She’s the Man (starring Amanda Bynes and Channing Tatum) is a good movie and a clever adaptation of Shakespeare! I won’t stop there: Amanda Bynes is charming in it and Channing Tatum actually comes close to emoting. Also, I’ve seen it more than once. There. I said it. Okay? Stop LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT!

Clint Eastwood? No thank you.

For some reason, I made up my mind to never, ever willingly watch a Clint Eastwood film. Not that ones he’s in, mind you, only the ones he directs. It has something to do with the fact that he makes the most depressing, life-sucking movies of all time. It’s like the feud between the Capulets and the Montagues: it goes back so far I don’t even remember what started it (OH WAIT. I do. Unforgiven. Do you know who emerges from that stupid film unforgiven? Clint Eastwood.) So that means I haven’t seen any of his blasted critical darlings—a list that includes Mystic River, Million Dollar Baby and Letters from Iwo Jima. And God-willing, I never will. I REALIZE THE ERROR OF MY WAYS. I just refuse to change, that’s all. Isn’t that the best possible way of ensuring personal growth?

 I just saw The Shawshank Redemption for the first time.

No, yeah. I know.   

Jon Hamm is the Man of the Year.

'Kay. Here's the part where, if I were a less-composed young lady, I would insinuate my willingness to assist Mr. Hamm remove that cumbersome, constrictive suit he's always wearing, for free. Yes, absolutely free. What can I say? I'm a giver. 

Were I less composed, I might take one look at the gloriously precious photo spread that's two parts Dust Bowl, one part Calvin Klein and offer to take his place in the bread line. 

I may also threaten to take him behind the middle school and get him violently, unfeasibly pregnant. 

You know. If I were less composed. 

Thank the heavens, I always say, for decorum.