The True Death

Our long, sexy, national nightmare is over.  This past summer, perennial WTF generator True Blood finally met the True Death and concluded a seven season-long run on HBO.  And while I can’t say that I’ll really miss the show, I am going to miss always knowing that there was something on TV that would make me shake my head and mutter, “well, okay…” 

True Blood started ridiculously strong back in 2007.  In an era where every single story emphasized the misunderstood, sympathetic, chaste, teenage nature of vampires, True Blood’s malicious, randy bloodsuckers were a breath of fresh air.  There was no “romantic” staring into each other’s eyes scenes, no “they just don’t understand us” soliloquies set to classical music.   You got the sense that the entire cast and crew of the show read about 30 pages of an Anne Rice novel and said to themselves, “well this is boring as hell” and then immediately got to filming a butt sex scene while covered in blood.

YES!

Because the show’s mission was always to showcase adults, the initial storylines functioned as a mature, if telegraphed, metaphor not for growing up or some other theme ripped from Joss Whedon’s notes, but for social issues like racism, anti-gay bigotry, and the American South’s continuing struggles emerging into the 21^st century.  (Sorry, southern readers.  You know it’s true.)  And while the show was never subtle about its issues (the opening credits featured a billboard sign reading “God hates fangs”), it made up for its lack of grace with original storytelling and fresh visuals that hadn’t been used before.  If you haven’t seen the show, the first time a vampire is staked it will make your mouth fall open. 

The first season featured an erstwhile murder mystery as a framing story to introducing us to a world where vampires have “come out of the coffin” (what is this thing you call subtlety?) and organized, more or less, under two factions – those who want to integrate into society and live among humans thanks to a new synthetic substance called True Blood that mimics human blood thus negating the need for vampires to feed off humans, and those vampires who still believe that they are the superior race and that humans should be subjugated, not cohabitated with.  Later seasons ran with this tension, showing more and more about how vampire society worked and the ways in which the rest of the world had adapted or not, including the rise of “fangbangers” who are humans who have a sexual proclivity with vampires and drinking blood and even vampire-focused legal offices that only operate at night and help vampires who have been undead for many years figure out what their legal rights are to property owned while they were living.  Add that to a healthy dose of graphic sexuality, and you're at least going to be entertained for an hour each week. 

Did I mention the ho-yay?

All of this world-building made for fascinating watching.  Even as the show began to jump off the rails around its fourth or fifth season, seeing how the creators imagined how the most mundane aspects of everyday life would be managed in a world where vampires were real (a specialty airline service with UV-blocking windows caters to the vampires who wish to travel abroad) was always still interesting.  And if you couldn’t get into the subplots involving werewolves, fairies, shapeshifters, or witches, you always at least had the recurring southern gothic drama between the townspeople of Bon Temps, Louisiana, to keep you occupied. 

Unlike the characters, however, True Blood was not destined for an eternal life and began to age.  Plotlines got more and more ridiculous, the show developed an unhealthy tendency toward melodrama such that the speechifying and campy grandstanding of the later seasons stand in stark contrast to the more nuanced and, at times, genuinely scary first few seasons.  Where the first two seasons played with the audience’s expectations about reality and mystery, the show in its later life preferred to keep strictly to over-the-top plot contrivances and characters behaving like characters instead of people. 

An assemblance of well-developed, three-dimensional characters that were sadly never seen again after season three. 

Nothing is more illustrative of this trend that season seven’s insistence upon finding a way to bring lead characters Sookie and Bill back together.  True Blood was premised on the story of diner waitress Sookie Stackhouse falling in love with Bill Compton, a nearly 200-year-old vampire who is the first of his kind to make himself known to humans in his small Louisiana town.  Sookie and Bill remained the show’s primary couple for the first three years before starting to breakdown in season four.  By the start of the final season, it is well established that both characters have moved on, however the writers couldn’t resist the chance for an easy bookend and piled on the nostalgia to create a final story arc where both characters realize that they are Meant To Be or something.  This is particularly remarkable considering that neither character in the novels that serve as the show’s source material ever comes to any similar consideration.  Thanks, Hollywood. 

The final season is slightly mitigated by sheer number of Easter Eggs tossed in to appease long-time viewers.   The return of several fan-favorite characters, as well as the reunification of several others, helped to send the show off properly even if several other major characters, Tara and Alcide being the two most prominent, are given some of the most abrupt write-offs in the history of television.

So Hail and Farewell, True Blood.  I won’t miss your convoluted storylines, but I will miss Eric.  I won’t miss your unfortunate tendency toward saccharine storytelling, but I will most definitely miss Pam.  Actually, thinking on it, Pam is the thing I’m going to miss the most.  Someone get Kristin Bauer van Straten a pilot, STAT.  Meanwhile, I remain confident that television audiences have not lost their taste for WTF programming.  In any case, Salem is going to have some large, bloody shoes to fill.

Oh, Pam.  You can keep sassing me/slitting my throat for another ten seasons. 

Bloated. Just Like Pregnancy!

It’s a familiar story.  Once upon a time, a young princess met a handsome price, got married, and moved into a fantasy castle.  Life was wonderful for the princess, but the handsome prince wanted more, so he arranged for his wife to be clandestinely raped by the devil in order to produce the antichrist.  I’ll grant you, this fairy tale may not have the same familiarity of a Cinderella or a Snow White, but after watching NBC’s remake of the 1968 horror movie Rosemary’s Baby, you’d be forgiven for wondering exactly how many of the tropes are continued from one story’s iteration to another, just like a fairy tale. 

This time around, Rosemary’s Baby is a miniseries starring Zoe Saldana in the title role made famous by Mia Farrow.  The miniseries expands significantly on the original film and Ira Levin’s original novel in an attempt to ratchet up the dread and paranoia that Rosemary feels over the course of her pregnancy.  Unfortunately, like an expectant mother well into her third trimester, the end result is a kind of bloating that makes the entire experience uncomfortable, rather than beautiful.

Demon baby.  Svelte pregnancy figure sold separately. 

The plot is familiar to anyone who remembers the movie or the book: Saldana plays Rosemary, a young woman who moves with her struggling creative husband from her familiar environment into a band new city.  (Originally New York, in this version Paris.  More on that in second.)  Elevated to living in a grand apartment far outside their normal standard of living by an eerily kind and giving older couple that establish themselves as mentors, confidantes, and sort of keepers of the young couple, Rosemary soon finds herself pregnant with the child she’s always wanted.  As her pregnancy progresses, Rosemary begins to sense that something is wrong and that her neighbors are far too invested in her unborn child.  Eventually coming to believe that the building’s residents are actually cultists who are planning to use her child as a sacrifice to the Devil, Rosemary falls into a web of paranoia and suspicion as everyone seems to be against her.  Or are they?  (Spoiler alert: they are.)

This is all a fairly simple story, which makes the decision to stretch that story into double its original length a confusing one. It’s frankly the hallmark of this version of the story: it’s at turns bad and good, boring and thrilling, atmospheric and dull.  Several changes were made, some for better and others for worse.  Fair warning: from here on out there may be spoilers.  I hesitate to say that, since I think the statute of limitations on a story that was filmed in the 1960s has passed, but just in case you’re not the classic horror movie kind and want to keep yourself pure for your eventual Halloween movie marathon, you’ve been warned.

Stop acting shocked, Mia. The movie is 46 years old.  This isn't a Game of Thrones post. 

Whereas the original film depicted Rosemary conceiving her child fairly early on, that event doesn’t happen here until the end of the first episode of the two-part series, effectively almost two hours into the action.  That split generates a bloated first half that attempts to establish the creepiness and dread that the second half will need to capitalize on, but more frequently feels boring and resorts to mini storylines that are added and dropped in order to keep the viewers waiting for the conception scene.  Zoe Saldana does an admirable job carrying the first boring half, but there’s only so many times she can have a sickly sweet conversation with her new benefactors, Margaux and Roman Castevet, as they pour her another special herbal shake that they insist will help her get pregnant before the audience is like, “they’re clearly evil – get a new apartment.”   The conception scene comes as a relief, mostly because so much has been built up about the Castavets that we no longer have any doubt that they’re Satanists and just want to get to the demon lovemaking already.  Thankfully, the second half proves to be a fairly tense and nerve-wracking 90 plus minutes, once Rosemary is actually pregnant and we can return to the original plot.

In that same vein, Roman Castevet’s characterization is given far too much weight.  Despite the fact that he’s played by Jason Isaacs, a man who I will watch be a villain in anything you care to put him in, the time and attention paid to his backstory is needless.  We certainly learn more about him here than we did in the original story; In this version, Rosemary discovers a series of murders of young women in the apartment, all of whom shared a connection to wealthy resident of the apartment luxury apartment building and whom the police pursued in connection to the murders before he died 30 years ago.  Surprising no one, the original suspect and Roman Castavet are the same person.  Because he’s the Devil.  Like, literally the Devil.  And he’s the one who had sex with Rosemary, not to raise a child to sacrifice to himself, but to have a son here on Earth.  While this gives some great opportunities for Isaacs be menacing, merging the character with the demon, a change from the original, feels too small.  One of the failings of modern suspense stories, likely the result of an audience grown far savvier over time, is that no character can just be himself – any villain must also really be someone else in disguise.  The irony is that attempt to hide the villain’s true nature has the opposite effect here.  Instead of wondering who’s behind it all, we instantly suspect the worst of Roman.

Wealthy, powerful, and handsome?  Yup, clearly evil.  

There are welcome changes to this version as well.  In the film, Rosemary and her husband are a small town couple moving to New York City.  The miniseries updates this, having the couple move from New York City following a miscarriage to Paris.  I could be cynical and say this change was made in an attempt to appear new and fresh, New York having lost some of its shine as an unconquerable city coupled with every young wannabe sophisticate in the United States insisting upon proving their bone fides by having lived abroad, but to be honest I liked the change.  The writers understood that viewers are no longer sympathetic to Mia Farrow’s willow-y, weepy heroine, so the modern day Rosemary has to appear competent and capable.  She may not be like other modern day heroines in a horror movie who will get into a fistfight with a monster, but we need to at least believe that she has some of the vim and vigor that she’ll need to have us on her side.  

Putting Rosemary into a setting where she knows no one and barely even knows the language is also a nice way of further isolating her.  The social constraints against a wife in the 1960s go a long way to explaining why Mia Farrow’s Rosemary doesn’t just leave the evil apartment building and go stay with her mom for a few months or something.  Given that this modern Rosemary would almost certainly have a Facebook page in addition to probably Twitter, Instagram and any other form social networking, it would be a harder sell to put in her New York and ask us to believe that she has no way of communicating with anyone.  Putting her in a place where she literally doesn’t speak the language and is separated by an ocean from her family back home is an example of how to properly update a story.

"Voulez-vou coucher avec moi et mon démon bébé-papa?"

The change of venue has an aesthetic appeal as well.  Paris is beautiful on film and has the benefit of undercutting all that beauty with a slice of darkness.  New York worked as a setting in the film because of the city’s stained and gritty feel in the 1960s.  It was all texture and shadow, like a dirty Baroque painting.  Watching Rosemary navigate her way through Paris’s gothic streets while getting steadily weaker as her pregnancy gets more and more frightening is a really fascinating image.  Likewise the final images of a suave and sophisticated looking Rosemary walking her infant demon baby in a pram down the banks of the Seine look utterly glamorous, even if Rosemary's sudden and uncharacteristic decision to go all evil at the last minute because WOMAN MUST DO EVERYTHING FOR THEIR BABIES is, at best, falsely nostalgic writing.  

Rosemary’s Babyworks as a miniseries suitable for summer watching when there isn’t a lot of new content on TV and you don’t have much else to get invested in.  And while it is overstuffed, I’ll credit the miniseries for at least attempting to bring something new to the story rather than just release it in the theatres as a bankable property with new faces but old ideas.

Strictly Melodrama

So, a while ago, I wrote a post about The Paradise, in which I referenced Mr. Selfridge and stated that I really didn't like Selfridge all that much. Well, I do have a couple main qualms with the show, but the first SERIES (because it's British and they call it a SERIES) recently re-aired on PBS at like 3 a.m. and it ended up on my DVR and I decided to give it another go. I ended up actually... liking it. Okay, it's a pretty typical melodrama with touches of bodice ripping, but who doesn't want to listen to me yell, "Giiirrl! Giirrrlll! Ohhhh, giiiirrrrl he is a dawwwgggg, girl!" at my TV? AS I SUSPECTED.

Downton Abbey what?

Since Downton Abbey has completely jumped the rails, I have been seeking my costumed aggression elsewhere. However, I know I am putting off the inevitable, because like an unhealthy relationship, I'm sure I'll eventually be going right back to DA so it can let me down again. Then my friends will be all like, "Girl, why you going back to that? You know it's just gonna let you down" and I'll be like, "I knooowww. But I was wondering what happened and I thought maybe it would be better this time." And then my friends would be all

Since I need my dose of people sobbing in corsets, I have decided to give Mr. Selfridge another shot. Like Downton Abbey, Mr. Selfridge is an ensemble show. The protagonist is Harry Selfridge, the Brash American Who Defies English Stuffiness.

The drama is based on the real-life Selfridge & Co, and which opened on March 15, 1909. So there are big hats. And these newfangled automobiles. 

The show is based off the book Shopping, Seduction and & Mr Selfridge, by Lindy Woodhead, available at Barnes & Noble, Amazon and other fine retailers. Although I disagree with this book's tagline, "If you lived at Downton Abbey, you shopped at Selfridge's." Upon my word, ladies do not do their own shopping. That's servants' work. Heavens!

Jeremy Piven leads the cast as Harry Gordon Selfridge, the Chicago businessman who comes to London to open a department store in direct competition to the storied Harrod's. 

And I'm here to organize the River City Boys' Band.

Harry's brash style rubs the British press and many potential well-heeled investors the wrong way, and quite honestly, it's kind of easy to see why. I mentioned before I didn't like this show at first, and that's because I didn't really care for Jeremy Piven in the first three or four episodes. I'm kind of used to him at this point, but the show has done such a good job of creating an interesting ensemble piece that they've created a situation where the supporting cast is more interesting than the main lead. I don't know if this comes down to writing, directing, or personal taste, but I can't really say I am a fan of Piven's take on the role. I understand that his character is supposed to be the consummate salesman, but in every scene, and in every situation -- including many that are emotionally taxing -- he delivers every line in the same tone of voice while sporting the same shit-eating grin.

This is my concerned face. And my excited face. And my thinking face. And also my concerned face.

I just feel like an actor of Piven's caliber would be able to do more with this role than what I have been seeing thus far in the production, and I'd like to see Piven bring more dimensions and nuances to his character. I don't think he's miscast in the role at all, but I feel like he is trying too hard all of the time to put on a show and if that's deliberate it's coming across to me more as scenery-chewing than ironic emosadz.  I haven't read the book yet (but I made it Goodreads official by adding it to my to-reads) so I don't know if Harry Selfridge was as much of an ass to everyone in real life as he is portrayed to be on the show, but the production has created a lead role that isn't terribly likable or sympathetic. Don Draper he ain't.

Early character sketch.

Fortunately for us, the writers have provided us with a really fun and interesting supporting cast featuring characters whom we can root for and throw rotten produce at. The most likable and interesting character is our prosh ingenue, Agnes Towler. Agnes is a working-class gal trying to make a life for herself and her brother, since their mum died and their dad is a no-good drunkard. 

In the pilot, Agnes had a job at a swank store in London, until she was fired because someone named Harry Selfridge came into the store and encouraged her to try on a pair of gloves. Harry gives Agnes a chance to get hired at Selfridge's, if only his store was actually open. Harry is finally able to procure backing from Lady Locksley, and Agnes is one of his first hires. She starts off working at the accessories counter with Kitty and Doris, who develop plot lines and characterizations in their own right throughout the course of the first SERIES. 

Thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd.

Agnes also has a romance (with a small r) with the Romantic (with a large R) Henri Leclair, ZEE FRENCH ARTEEST who Harry hires to create window displays for the store. This puts a damper on her budding romance (with a small r) with Victor Coleano, who works at the Palm Court restaurant in Selfridge's and has a thing with Agnes until his head is turned by Lady Locksley, who is kind of a ho. Lady Locksley's husband is apparently 100 years old and so she spends her time being a suffragette, backing odd business deals, and being the moral ruin of earnest young men. Just some full on Alexis Carrington realness. 

Yes, but dahhhling. It's good to be a gangsta.

Oh, and did I mention the part about Harry being kind of a philandering slut? Harry is a philandering manwhore. He is constantly cheating on his wife, the long-suffering Rose (exquisitely played by my girl Frances O'Connor). Harry's most significant affair is with Ellen Love, a London burlesque star (and Dr. Who companion reject) WHO WANTS TO BE A REAL ACTRESS SOMEDAY. 

Just no, girl. Just no. 

That's not to say that MRS. Selfridge isn't getting some somethin somethin. She meets an ARTIST FELLOW who paints her portraits and they fall in the lovez. Then Rose tells him she can't see him anymore. Then he starts paying attention to 17-year-old daughter Rosalee and all manner of unmentionable substances hit various electric cooling devices.

Hands off the artist, beyotch. 

So, despite the leading man's drawbacks, there are still a lot of plot lines that the show has going for it. The other major qualm I have with the production is the historical stunt casting. During almost every episode, the store is visited by some notable and inoffensive historical figure in actor form. During the first few episodes, it felt like the show was relying too much on the historical figures to keep the show interesting because none of the non-Harry plot lines had been fully developed. A couple of the later celebrities were more interesting, like polar explorer Ernest Shackleton and ballerina Anna Pavlova, but even they outshone the lead -- and Anna Pavlova didn't even speak any English. I'm a huge geek about Anna Pavlova. I read a biography about her in sixth grade for my English class and after we finished our book reports I checked it out about five more times afterward. Whenever I got to the part where she died of pleurisy I cried buckets. I also looked up pleurisy in the encyclopedia and learned its path of infection. There is nothing wrong with me. Not a damn thing. So I enjoyed seeing a couple of the historical figures, but most of the rest of the guests were mostly filler for me. But I am surprised Harry didn't try to get into her knickers. Or I guess it would be her tutu.

Pro tip: Say: "я не гаварю по-англаийски" when creepy guys approach you on the street. 

One final quibble is about the casting. Every actress on this show in a "serious" part (with the possible exception of Rosalee) is a brunette, and at first all the female characters look the same. I find this brunettist. Or anti-blonde. Anyway, most of the blonde or redheaded actresses are relegated to bit parts and, as a blonde, I find this to be a trigger warning about dumb blonde jokes. That is all.

Aren't sold yet???!! But wait! There's more! For only $19.95 you can watch the new SERIES of Mr. Selfridge on PBS starting March 30. Actually, it's free and everyone gets PBS. You get a PBS! And you get a PBS. AND YOU GET A PBS.

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!