I'm staying up way past my bedtime because I can't stop perusing the Complete New Yorker, which arrived this morning. Right now I'm pretty much in browsing mode--other than a couple of brief Talks, I haven't really read anything, I've just been wowed by all the amazing stuff I could stop and read--but I have noticed some odd little quirks.
For instance, I was just flipping through Janet Malcolm's fabulous piece about Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes in the Aug. 23 & 30, 1993, issue, when I noticed some scribbles on Page 87--alongside a cartoon showing a woman taking an odd phone call while her lumpish husband sits next to the phone (she says, "I'd love to, Barbara, but I'll have to check with the Bundesbank"), someone has scribbled the words, "Invitations," "Husbands," and "Bundesbank. Then on Page 88, underneath a cartoon of a bunch of seals on a rock (one says to his neighbor, "In a former life, I used to go to Palm Beach"), the words "Reincarnation," "Palm Beach," "Seals," and "Walruses" in the same hand. It carries on throughout. No prizes for guessing that it's the indexers' work--but it doesn't strike me as annoyance, more of a charming feature of the collection.
Wow, William Shatner and Frederica von Stade performing the Star Trek theme was really something, eh? I can’t believe I blew my vote on Kristin Bell (though really I was voting for Veronica Mars, which was cruelly underappreciated). Flicka did look disturbingly like a tribble, however, and is it just me, or did she miss her cue after Bill’s big oration?
Best miniseries was won by another show that went completely under my radar—I didn’t even know if the show was The Last Prince or The Lost Prince (turns out it’s the latter), but I liked the woman who accepted the award because she looked like a friend of mine. (Hi, Moira.)
What did Alan Alda have on his lapel? It looked like the iron cross.
Although I fundamentally disagree with the notion of Desperate Housewives being a comedy, I was glad Felicity Huffman was the winner of the Best Actress award—she really has skills, but her speech was a little spiky. It was almost as if she’d be in her children’s ADD medicine. Patricia Arquette was very appealing, and I loved that her words about the hurricane devastation and the soldiers in Iraq seemed very heart-felt and moving.
I do watch Monk (though I’m not sure I’d admit that if the show didn’t win awards), but it’s a very peculiar show—a throwback to the mystery movies of the 1970s. The lieutenant is straight out of (if you’ll forgive the term) Macmillan and Wife, and Monk is Columbo with actual psychoses. Like Columbo, the show is padded with a lot of business for the lead actor, but in both cases, without the business it’d be a short and not terribly fascinating mystery.
James Spader’s victory came as a big surprise to me, since that felt like a strong category, but it must be extra-sweet since the end of Boston Legal’s season was essentially shelved in favor of non-winning Grey’s Anatomy. Spader has a very peculiar affect—as I said last year he’s creepily similar to Arthur in Six Feet Under—but he gave a sweet speech.
The boy from Everybody Hates Chris and his “new friend” were adorable. Charles, from New Orleans, was apparently being directed not to smile, but you could tell that he just couldn’t help myself, and Tyler James Williams came across as a very mature and warm young man.
Ellen glitched at the end, ironically forgetting to introduce her comrades-in-presenting, Hugh Jackman and Whoopi Goldberg. It was definitely an awkward moment, but Ellen had been so chronically underused all night, it’s hardly surprising. (And although she wasn’t given much to do, she does have an understated charm that works very well, and I was very glad that, unlike last year when Garry Shandling chewed up precious speech time with very bad material, she kept things moving. The telecast finished right on time, which is pretty amazing.)
Lost seemed like a good choice for Best Drama—it’s obviously had a big effect on this season’s lineup with lots of puzzle shows on the schedule—but I was shocked by the comedy choice where Everybody Loves Raymond beat Desperate Housewives. For all its flaws and for all the mysteries of its nomination categories, Desperate Housewives is a solid show with some fine actors, and I don’t know anyone who can even stand Raymond. Ah, well, at least its long, befuddling reign is now OVAH!
And so now are the Emmys! (For a full list of winners, click here.)
Oh, man, we’re in the bit where there aren’t many surprises and you’re sitting there waiting for Ellen to walk in on someone in the women’s room. Jon Stewart’s tribute to David Letterman was sweet if rather unconvincingly delivered; Macy Gray seemed to be fighting with Gary Durdain over whether he could hold her hand rather than enjoying his grip; and why so many cuts to Naveen Andrews? (Is it possible they don’t know he isn’t really Iraqi?)
I was SO relieved that Quentin Tarantino didn’t win for his direction of last season’s CSI finale—I know some people whose judgment I respect enjoyed it, but I’m of the belief that you cannot, well, should not change all the characters and motivations in the last episode of the season. Plus I just don’t like him. I was not happy that The Wire didn't win the Drama Series Writing category—I don’t understand why that show doesn’t get respect. It’s by far the smartest, best-written show on television and has been every year it’s been on.
Oy, then we got to the miniseries or movie categories. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again—TOO MANY AWARDS! How is it fair that you can run up a whole slew of statue-ettes for something that lasts two hours when many of the best shows on television are consistently overlooked (to name just three: The Wire, Veronica Mars, and CSI). Geoffrey Rush’s words about his wife were lovely, but the movie just wasn’t that good—for it to take three consecutive awards shows how lame that whole category of categories is.
But I’ll relax my disdain for the category thanks to the loveliness and charm of S. Epatha Merkerson’s acceptance speech for Lackawanna Blues (though I miss her dreads). That was one of those classic nervous but sincerely moved victory reactions that you just can’t get enough of. (And I’m so glad that in the age of breast-less supermodels, an actress who’s big and bomb was the one to lose her acceptance speech in her cleavage.)
For the second year in a row, Arrested Development’s Mitchell Hurwitz came across as one of the smartest, wittiest guys in the crowd, and his observation that “the Academy has twice rewarded us for something that you people won’t watch” pretty much says it all for that show. (Let’s face it, the TV sitcom is dead.)
The Blue Man Group did a very cool presentation of the Best Reality Show category—and doubtless drummed up some business for their Vegas show—but I don’t really like presentations by men-machines or animals or puppets or cartoons—it doesn’t feel truly live. What’s more, I couldn’t really tell what other shows The Amazing Race had bested.
I like Blythe Danner as an actress, but having tried to watch Huff and having given up in depressed disgust, I can’t get behind that choice. And did she mean to embarrass Keifer Sutherland by telling the world (or the bit of it that’s watching the Emmy-cast, anyway) that he used to baby-sit Gwyneth (but not her lesser-known son?). Ah, but she provides the first bit of political speechifying of the night, paying tribute to "our kids in Iraq. Let’s get the heck out of there." But she had the smarts to do something I’ve tried on conference calls—if you’ve been a bit abrasive, you end by saying, "Love you all." She might play the therapist’s mom, but she knows a thing or two about psychology.
I don’t think Blythe name-checked Apple, but she started a run of publicly proud grannies. The next award went to Jane Alexander for her role in Warm Springs (which either ran while I was out of the country or few right under my radar—and I would say that "what’s on TV" is one of my areas of greatest erudition), who gave a shout-out to her “six grandkids,” and then two awards later came Doris Roberts who loves her two grandsons so much she brought them up on stage.
I cannot believe the Olympic Games Opening Ceremonies won an award—Katie and Bob’s inane commentary alone should’ve made that impossible (I don’t leave the country during Olympiads for nothing), and Jon Stewart’s going to have to come up with a new line—he only slightly reworked last year’s acceptance when he said that when they started the show people said you couldn’t have a late-night comedy show with a staff that was only 80-percent Ivy League-educated Jewish men. Oh, and I’m pretty sure I’m not a prude, but Da Ali G Show went too far in the tape that accompanied their writing-award-nomination.
I was surprised by the massive hand for David Letterman, who came across as a mean, Sean Pennishly humorless mouth-mangler in his buildup to the Johnny Carson video tribute. I’m guessing a lot of the applause was really intended for Johnny. The tribute itself was fantastic—moving and hilarious. I don’t remember ever really watching the show (it was before my American TV days), but now I wish I had.
I have to blog the Emmys “live,” because the standards are so much lower that way. Just as award-show producers get graded on the "live/" curve rather than on "in the can" standards, if you blog while the show’s still running, you don’t have to worry about big themes and grand arcs.
The opening tapes—John Travolta reminding us of his once-famous love for older women (less palatable as he gets older himself, I guess); Candice Bergen re-living the Murphy Brown/Dan Quayle flap; Charles S. Dutton outing himself as a convict, and Billy Crystal conjuring his 700 award telecasts—were a little strange, the sentiment slightly misjudged for the opening moments, but the Earth Wind and Fire/Black Eyed Peas musical number was energetic and fun. (It would’ve been even more fun if I could’ve made out more of the words; I hate to sound like an old fart, but I could’ve used subtitles.) Going out and dancing in the aisles seems like a better way of establishing that the "stars" are good sports than mocking them in the Billy Crystal Oscar-cast fashion. I must admit my negative attitude to Doris Roberts was softened by watching her get down with a Pea; and Marg Helgenberger strutted the stuff that makes it so easy to believe that her CSI character is a former exotic dancer.
Ellen’s opening monologue was a little iffy, but as she said, "It’s an icebreaker, don’t judge me yet." Getting all five Housewives (yes, they included Nicolette Sheridan) to announce the first award set a good tone, though I do tend to think that it’s time for the DH folks to wean joke-writers off the feuding cast meme (though the Eva Longoria bit after the first commercial break was nicely pitched). And as much as I groaned when Brad Garrett got his last Everybody Loves Raymond Emmy, I have to give him credit for getting a topical joke (Britney’s baby) and an impromptu joke (riffing off Charles S. Dutton’s tape) in a short speech.
William Shatner’s win for Best Supporting Actor in a Drama didn’t displease me—though Alan Alda’s apparently embittered expression as he ripped up his acceptance speech was rather too convincing for comfort.
The Donald Trump/"Karen Walker" duet on the theme from Green Acres was mind-blowing—and given Megan Mullally’s chops as a cabaret queen, it was a little odd that the Don was the musical anchor of the number. Was it supposed to be so short?
Hugh Jackman’s win in the Variety or Music Program category was very odd—his performance in the Tony Award telecast beat the televised version of Whoopi Goldberg’s Broadway show, Tracey Ullman Live & Exposed, Jon Stewart for the Daily Show, and Jay Leno’s Tonight Show turn. I imagine more people watch any single episode of the Tonight Show than have seen every Tony telecast in the history of televization. I never thought I’d see Jon Stewart not win an award (and for him not to win for last year’s election coverage!). I guess people really like the Boy From Oz, and television people really feel guilty about upstaging Broadway actors.
Thanks to the Diva's fantastic instructions, I now have a podcast feed URL [http://del.icio.us/rss/tag/system:filetype:mp3+juniocast]. Now I have no excuse not to provide more podcasts!
Astonishingly, I just spent two hours (two and a half hours if you count the time spent trying to get on an available stream) watching a grainy Webcast—in prime all-new-episodes TV premier season—of the Christopher Hitchens v. George Galloway debate.
It was riveting stuff, although I’m afraid it wasn’t a good idea for Galloway to share his views with America—the more Americans hear notions like "our two countries are the biggest two rogue states in the world today" or praise for the Islamist insurgents nihilistically murdering in Iraq or hear that American support for Israel drew the planes into the World Trade Center, the less likely they are to jump onto the Galloway-palooza barnstorming tour.
Galloway got off some good lines—personal insults that were well-delivered—but saying that Hitch represents the first ever metamorphosis from a butterfly into a slug isn’t really an answer to Hitch pointing out that if Gorgeous George is opposed to imperialism, he should at least acknowledge that the side he is on is in itself imperialist since it is determined to bring about the return of the caliphate and with it a society that has no room for drinking, music, women’s right, homos, or just about anything I hold dear.
I voted for the first time in New York this morning. Actually, it was my first American in-person voting, because in Washington I always took the preferred Northwest route and voted absentee. I much prefer the quiet contemplation of absentee voting—sitting on the sofa while the television provides some background entertainment, carefully making choices about the political future (i.e., slavishly copying out the Stranger’s voting recommendations), and then making sure the envelope gets into the mail stream in time.
The polling station was a bit of a zoo. A mere block from our house, the school was surrounded by glad-handers and literature distributors. I was handed no less than 12 leaflets (in the space of approximately two seconds), nine of which were glossy print jobs. I also shook the hand of a candidate’s wife (I voted for her husband) and met a candidate’s niece (I voted for her uncle).
Inside, it was very un-zooy. It was 8 o'clock, so the place wasn’t very crowded, even though there was only one booth for my "district." (I’m not quite sure what that equates to, but I’d guess it’s just a block or two.) Since I had never gone behind curtains to do my democratic duty before, I asked for a primer from the skeletal guy who was taking the signatures and so on, but the machine was so otherworldly, I reckon I’d still have needed a helping hand even if I was a Chicagoan who had been voting since my fifth birthday.
It was more like a Rube Goldberg device than a reliable-seeming voting mechanism. After I’d made my choices (and I still feel a bit ashamed about voting for both the candidates whose relatives had looked me in the eye and asked for my vote—it seems so retail), I shifted the giant lever, and pulled back the curtains, but I confess I felt rather unsure. I needed the reassurance of a piece of paper to go put in a box or something—now I know why the anti-voting-machine people are positively Nicholson Baker-ish in the paper fetishism.
"Will my vote really count?" I asked the gaunt guy, and he assured me it would. You'd think I'd've learned that lesson from last year's Washington gubernatorial race.
