Ya smell that?

Who is this imposter and what have you done with NPH?

Sunday night was smell-a-vision night here at the House of Chair. Except that it felt like a combination of baby diapers, horse manure and the unwashed gym socks and muddy jock strap from a gym locker in 1982. What other way was there to describe the highly anticipated Emmy Awards telecast hosted by the perennially charming Neil Patrick Harris? Well, charm only gets you so far. Remember – even Clooney once played an awful version of Batman, latex nipples and all.

As if this wasn’t enough we were treated to the HORRIBLE (no other word for it) series finale of Dexter – a program that was formerly one of the best television shows in recent memory and one which helped define the Showtime brand of over-the-top but compelling anti-heroes. Michael C. Hall was still great but even he couldn’t save….well, you get the drill (but more on that below…)

Perhaps it was the mood in the House of Chair. For the last three days I have been in full binge of the entire Breaking Bad series– Season 3, Episode 8, bitches!!!! – and probably didn’t want to be interrupted. (Note: For those who don’t watch – and you should – please know the aside in the middle of the last sentence is a relevant, rather than sexist, comment).

Look for the full Binging Bad experience next week with as few spoilers as possible. In the meantime, what’s that I still smell —–

1. Network Stench

CBS will undoubtedly be patting itself on its back due to the Emmys drawing its best audience in 8 years.

But when the best looking guy or gal in school who doesn’t use deodorant raises their arms in the air, it still stinks to high heaven. Sunday night’s Emmy broadcast was an embarrassing hypefest for the CBS brand and all of its programming rather than a salute to the small tube in general. Did you notice that a large group of the presenters were from current or upcoming CBS shows (I’m looking at you Mark Harmon & LL Cool J of NCIS, Anna Farris & Allison Janney of Mom)? Not to mention the deadly backstage cut-ins hosted by Shemar Moore (Criminal Minds, much?) Not to mention every other commercial interruption – and there were many – was for a newly premiering CBS show. (Can’t wait for Hostages!!!)

I knew we were in a trouble when the program started and Emmy host NPH was being escorted into the theatre by a security guard being played by CBS president Les Moonves, a former actor. Followed by a badly-conceived bit where NPH was stuck in a chair watching numerous five second TV series clips that turned out to be the only examples from current television series that we got to see all night.

It’s supposed to be a program honoring the best of television. Not a kickoff to the new television season starring CBS actors and its top executives.

Rating: Five Smelly Diapers.

2. Music

What… is… this?

I don’t know about you, but when I think of the 50-year anniversary of the Beatles appearing on The Ed Sullivan Show in 1963 I immediately think of country singer Carrie Underwood. And why not have her sing Yesterday, a Beatles song released in 1965? Because we can. And because Okie Carrie will be starring as Maria Von Trapp in a live television production of The Sound of Music in November. Again, who better?

Elton John is a gay pianist and Liberace, the subject of the Emmy-winning (but early Sunday night just nominated) biopic Behind the Candelabra, was also a gay pianist – get it???? Elton John has a new CD/album/record out this week, so why not cross-promote? And why not get BTC stars Michael Douglas and Matt Damon to introduce him??? Well, because try as he might to make the connection, EJ’s new song Home Again didn’t feel like it had anything to do with Liberace – certainly it had nothing to do with television. Which is the point of the entire show. Or – is it????

Rating: Twelve gym socks. Though if we were on the telecast we’d certainly choose jock straps because we’d be making a dumb gay joke like Emmy winner Michael Douglas did when he picked up a statue for playing Liberace (Paraphrase Note: …I should be splitting the award with co-star Matt Damon – do you want the top or the bottom?? Or – this is really a two-hander!). Yuk….yuk…yuk.

Bonus eyeroll!

3. Specialty Items

In the middle of the program there was finally a Neil Patrick Harris song and dance number. It was called The Number in the Middle of the Show. For some reason it was thought by someone that it would be a funny idea to do an elongated song and dance number parodying a seventies dance number from the 1970s program Solid Gold. NPH was helped along by Nathan Filion (Castle) and Sarah Silverman, followed by a gaggle of Solid Gold type dancers. It was not a good idea. It was quite painful. Perhaps mostly for Nathan Filion, who is said to have a bad back that has caused him to miss several days of filming Castle in the last few weeks. Was it worth the risk? Uh – no.

D. Hough in a suit.. silver lining?

This is the first year the Emmys gave a choreography award on-air. Consequently, it was thought necessary to do an elongated interpretive dance to the tune of Luck Be A Lady from the classic Broadway musical Guys and Dolls. Then, we were treated to interpretive dances meant to evoke such TV series as Mad Men, American Horror Story, Boardwalk Empire, Breaking Bad… and Big Bang Theory? This really happened. Really. It did.

Rating: Six rancid dancer’s belts. One for each of the TV show tributes.

4. Comedy?

Neil Patrick Harris’ co-stars from the CBS show How I Met Your Mother came together to do a sort of filmed PSA comedy bit for something called Excessive Hosting Disorder. Well, it was sickly and obsessive, as far as comedy goes. HIMYM never would have survived nine seasons if they were only this funny. So we can’t blame them.

OK forget Carrie.. what is THIS?

Will Ferrell brought out his three kids – or someone’s three kids – to deliver the final awards for best TV series. They wore pajamas and had a tablet they were playing with. People laughed. I’m not sure why. There was some mention he was just pulled in to give the awards because Maggie Smith and Helen Mirren, who had been scheduled to do it, couldn’t make it. Well….okay. But the mere mention of Dame Maggie made one long for one of her Downton Abbey bon mots to save the show. To wit: What’s a Will Ferrell and why has he dragged those vagabond roustabouts onto my stage? Yes, she would have said it better. But she didn’t get the chance to. But then again, neither did any other of the characters on TV that we really care about these days.

Note to the Emmy’s: A few clips from the current golden age of television might be nice.

And now – back to Breaking Bad.

HOLLY’S CORNER: A EULOGY FOR DEXTER

Wrap it up.. it’s over.

Crazy to think that a serial killer deserves better, but that, and more, can certainly be said about the uber-lame Dexter finale that aired opposite the Emmys last night. After eight seasons, a few football fields worth of plastic wrap, and countless bad Michael C Hall wigs, the show that came in with a ear piercing screech of freshness, went out like a sad shriek and a whiff of old garbage.

I started watching the series just as it aired, having piggybacked it with catching up on Hall’s fantastic turn as David Fisher in Six Feet Under. Dexter was superhero meets supervillian – and the writing was superb. I shared my love for this devilish leading man with The Chair and he too agreed that this show was breaking new ground, and slicing up some excellent week-to-week water cooler moments. I would promise to follow that Dark Passenger until the very end…

Yes, this meant getting through Miguel Prado, Lumen, Doomsday, and the Russian mafia … but for every misstep there was Doakes shouting “Surprise, Motherfucker!”, Jordan’s hypnotizing “Take It!”, Lila’s Parisian demise, and of course, fan-favorite (and rightfully so) Trinity. With so many bad things made right, I was sure the finale would supersede an otherwise lackluster season….

Instead, I, like our beloved “Slice of Life,” was set out to sea, destroyed by the wrath of the illogical, ridiculous Hurricane Dexter – and the most devoted fan was forced to admit with heavy regret: Goddamn, that sucked.

And so we go on, with Season 4 DVDs clutched tightly to our chest, cherishing the good times we had, forgetting that in the end we were left with a bearded, damp, Twin Peaks Dexter, and instead remembering Deb the badass, Masuka the freak, Quinn the over tanned, LaGuerta the over accessorized, Battista the loyal, Jamie the clueless, Rita the saint, Harry the guardian and of course Dexter, the darkly dreaming disaster we’d all come to love.

Farewell Miami Metro… at least we’ll always have breakfast.

09.08.13

by notesfromachair

Rubbernecking

Target Practice

We Americans love to gawk. Okay, maybe it’s not a totally American thing since the term paparazzi became popular as a result of Fellini’s legendary La Dolce Vita (the perpetually annoying photographer in the film was named Paparazzo). Still, in my limited travels around the world it feels as if me and my fellow countrymen (and women) are always among the first to arrive – either by ourselves or with some sort of filming device – to either a celebrity sighting or crime scene, especially when those two events happen simultaneously.

Granted, it is not necessarily a bad thing to be observant. But – what exactly are we observing?

That all came to the forefront this week when Valerie Harper, the 74-year-old actress who was recently diagnosed with terminal brain cancer and is best known to us baby boomers as Rhoda from the Mary Tyler Moore Show, was announced as one of the contestants on this season’s edition of Dancing With The Stars.

Let’s be clear. Anyone who has terminal brain cancer gets to do anything they want, including spending their final year(s?) of life rehearsing ballroom dancing four and a half hours a day in order to perform a 3 minute weekly dance routine before a live television audience of 17 million people.

Plus – full disclosure. I LOVED Rhoda! She was sassy, spoke with an accent from the NYC boroughs, endured an overbearing mother who made her life crazy AND had trouble keeping a guy. With the exception of the head scarves and a few lady bits, I found watching her in my twenties was often the equivalent of looking into a one-way mirror.

I could have rocked that look

So I’m not quite sure why her appearance on DWTS strikes me as a bit exploitive and over-the-line. Could it be my own fear of death? Perhaps. I mean, I know it is there and have witnessed it more times than I care to remember. Still, I don’t like the idea of it staring me in the face weekly. Though I did love Laura Linney on The Big C, a Showtime series about cancer where anyone, anytime could die each week because, well, it’s cable.

No – I don’t think it’s that.

Maybe it’s my general concern for Ms. Harper as a fan who has enjoyed her work for decades. Aside from her time as Rhoda, she ‘s done lots of other interesting things over the years, including a recent brilliant onstage performance as the iconic actress Tallulah Bankhead in the stage play Looped.

Yes, she started as a dancer on Broadway, her cancer is near remission, and she announced that she wanted to attempt this enormous feat of athleticism to be a role model so others won’t fear life in their final days. Hmm, maybe I’m turning into Rhoda’s overprotective mother? Or even worse, my OWN MOTHER???

Sorry – I REFUSE to admit that’s it. Or to even think about it one second longer.

Here’s what I do think it’s about. It’s the idea of being compelled to watch DWTS at all, which I now most definitely will do, at least on DVR – and probably a lot more than sometimes. This makes me nothing less than a typical member of the flash mob out there that we call society. All too human, all too base, all too bloodthirsty. But to see what exactly? Valerie Harper die live on television? Or at least pass out from exhaustion, only to get up again and barely make it through the number amid gasps and awe? Or to see her emerge victorious as many weeks as possible, proving you can cheat death when you have a terminal disease?

And all for this hideous, tacky thing?

If we’re all hooked up to a lie detector, which would we all MOST want to watch? Which would be the most…ENTERTAINING? (Note: You cannot choose none of the above. And…you must tell the truth).

It did not escape me that a survey by Fandango this week of the most anticipated of all the fall movies – a time that is (or used to be) considered THE time to launch the classy or at least more serious Oscar contenders – the #1 choice was The Hunger Games: Catching Fire. This is important to note because it is the sequel to a film that is literally about watching people die in a live (or in this case dead) televised competition. Well, one supposes that could really be next. Or perhaps it has already begun to arrive but we have not yet realized it.

En fuego

I might be stretching the metaphor. But barely. Humanity has a history of such things, from Gladiators fighting to the death in the Coliseum to boxing matches where every so often someone gets knocked out cold. The difference is that hundreds of years ago the very function of gladiators was to do battle until someone literally collapses and dies. These days we sort of just like putting people into impossible situations to see if or how long they can survive and how well they do it. Yes, they can die or be irrevocably injured for our own enjoyment. But it’s their choice. Certainly, that’s a lot more civilized. Isn’t it?

Civilized? Well, all except Wipeout.

It’s interesting to read or watch the news each day and see what passes for current events. Sure there are real wars but we usually black out the actual killings on television in favor of showing our politicians deciding whether or not to fund either more bloodbaths or more social programs. Still, we get to see George Zimmerman, the man acquitted in the killing of Florida teenager Trayvon Martin, being arrested for the second time in several months for a speeding ticket or photos of Zimmerman’s wife filing for divorce because he spends so little time at home and has become too selfish. You can’t blame him. I suppose I’d be a little full of myself also if I got that much attention. Speaking of attention, did you just hear that his defense attorney Mark O’Mara has been signed by CNN to be a legal analyst? That’s something else we can look forward to when we inevitably tire of this season’s DWTS. God Bless America.

It’s not as if the US media and entertainment industries (yes, technically they are different) always know what we want, or are even thinking. If this were so Neil Patrick Harris wouldn’t have happily announced several days ago that he would not be doing a musical opening number when he hosts the Emmys later this month. Sure, the Oscars get Seth MacFarlane singing and dancing but television DOESN’T get Neil Patrick Harris singing and dancing. Just what are they thinking there? Obviously, not much.

You’re breaking my heart, Doogie!

Then there is the massive advertising campaign for Ron Howard’s new film, Rush. It’s gotten glowing advance reviews and very nice film festival reaction. And Mr. Howard’s teaming on a somewhat commercially risky subject matter written by acclaimed British writer Peter Morgan (Frost/Nixon, The Queen) also deserves kudos. But Rush is based on the 1970s true life story of two competing race drivers – a sport where fatal and near fatal fiery crashes and the charred beyond recognition human remains they left behind were a way of life. You’d think they could give us a little more of the actual blood sport in the trailer, knowing as they do our taste for carnage. Right now there are mostly the supremely enviable blonde tresses (not to mention other things) of the supremely enviable Chris Hemsworth as he charms the machinery off of every human and non-human being in his sight lines. Well, I suppose audiences can forgive a little lack of carnage for that. I know that I can.

Oh.. is this movie about car racing?

What is difficult to accept is that one easy way to get attention these days is to always do more – a lot more – and preferably in as dangerous or titillating a way as possible. Perhaps this was always the case. In fact, when you chart the rise from Playboy, to Penthouse, to Deep Throat, to Hustler, to online porn, to Showtime’s annual and highly-rated multiple broadcasts of the AVN Awards (the Oscars of the Adult Entertainment Industry, which I stumbled across one day and reacted to like a bad car accident on the highway – I couldn’t look away) we can prove it not only was but that today it is even more so.

Of course, none of this means I will cancel my subscription to The New Yorker. Or that any museums will be closed down. But one can’t help but wonder if, as the years go on, those touchstones of culture won’t be viewed much like we now look at the language of Latin or the iambic pentameter of Shakespeare – intellectually impressive, perhaps even brilliant artifacts of another time and generation but nowhere near as exciting to us as the potential slaughters or killings occurring right before our eyes in any one of the Coliseum-like arenas of entertainment that we’re choosing to put right in front of us.

Hmm, on second thought, maybe the times haven’t changed all that much at all.

notes from a chair

Category Archives: The Biz of Show

Ya smell that?

Rubbernecking