This is where the race should start to get truly interesting as those who are not dying to win to the core of their souls start to make terrible mistakes and fall away.
So far, front-runner Melinda Doolittle has not made a single misstep this entire season. Can that last?
That question aside, the shape of the race is clear enough shape that I am prepared to pick the winners. Despite the fact that a month ago I said with certainty that it was a Melinda-versus-LaKisha race, I can now say with absolute certainty the final three will be:
No. 1: Melinda Doolittle
No. 2: Blake Lewis
No. 3: Jordin Sparks
And this prediction will absolutely hold up. Unless something changes and it doesn't.
Hugh Laurie is a fine and versatile actor and there are many things I would like to see him do — Shakespeare, say, or Alan Ayckbourn. Dance with the Stars. What I really truly don't want to see him do is sit on the can and give himself a catheter. And yet that is an image that, thanks to last night's "House," I and several million other Americans now share.
Oh, to have been a fly on the wall during that writer's meeting. Or when the pages first went out to the cast. The state of House's health, or addiction, or psychosis, is generally the secondary plot of most episodes, so the fact that he was in a terrible shape because he could not relieve himself seemed, at first, to be just one more subtle warning against Vicodin abuse: Kids, don't try this at home or you won't be able to pee.
Ah, the bloated, soulless, unnecessary results show. What better way is there to exploit the good will your hit reality TV series has built up?
Of course we are referring to the “Dancing With the Stars” recap and results show on ABC on Tuesday, which very cruelly stole two hours from the lives of many Americans who probably could have used them better.
Better like how? Oh, like maybe watching another certain reality television show that’s broadcast on another network at the same time. But by showing a recap, the producers of “DWTS” ensured that few of its viewers would be tuning in to “American Idol”, instead refreshing them with vital information as to what was shown just last week, and the previous night as well. Even the show itself seemed to be aware of its own lack of reason for existence, scrolling hopeful messages like “Live results show in four minutes!” along the bottom.
While it’s still unclear why exactly viewers of “Dancing with the Stars” were treated to an extra bonus week without any elimination, it’s kind of nice to have every star pigeonholed before they all get voted off. It’s sort of like seeded teams in the NCAA tournament: While we all expect certain players to do well, we’ve picked our underdog favorites who might come from behind and stun us.
There isn’t much controversy right now about the skill levels of the dancers, so for those in the lower rankings, this is the time to show off their sparkling personae and the winning chemistry they have with their dance partners. It just so happens however that the best dancers also have a lock on the best personalities and seemingly best relationships with their professional partners.
Tuesday night’s “American Idol” raises so many issues, it is hard to know where to begin, so let’s tackle them from largest to smallest.
To begin, the grinning, rolling on the floor elephant in the arena — the Sanjaya problem — threatens to tear “Idol” nation asunder. There have been joke contestants who live unnaturally long life spans before (Kevin Covais, Scott Savol) but never have they been so openly contemptuous of the show as Sanjaya Malakar. Watching live from the Idoldome, one can see Sanjaya has clearly morphed from establishing a passive aggressive juvenile distance from the competition to the point where he seems to be giving the whole thing the finger.
Starbuck is alive. She could be a Cylon. But wait, there's more! Four other Cylons have awakened aboard "Battlestar Galactica," and the humans look stunned in more ways than one.
Among the now-aware robots, a mechanical race that appears human but is actually set on destroying the species, are presidential aide Tory (Rekha Sharma) and Galactica's second-in-command, Saul Tigh (Michael Hogan). Then again, the four could be the key to peace between the toasters and the humans.
The possibilities are endless. But something tells me the writers for the most part know where the show is heading, a rare reward for followers of any serialized drama.
Between the tantrums, the brawls and the tidal waves of mascara spawned by uncontrolled sobbing, MTV's "The Real World" has rarely been a program that showcases the complexity of humanity. However, the last two episodes — during the show's 18th iteration, this time taking place in Denver — did address the shades of gray in a volatile relationship: What's the line between a couple having a big-time "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" tussle and an outburst that's actually domestic violence?
Here's how it unfolded: In last week's episode, viewers found out that Tyrie, in quick succession, had hooked up with two lovely gals from the local bar, Ashley and Jazalle. A 23-year-old from Omaha, Tyrie is a classic "Real World" stereotype — a reformed gangbanger. Trouble was clearly heading his way.
Toward the end of the episode, Jazalle became profoundly upset upon finding out that Tyrie slept with the other woman. Shouting and crying, she barricaded herself in the bathroom — and Tyrie, screaming, followed her in. Viewers got a glimpse of Jazalle opening the door and trying to leave — and of Tyrie, quite roughly, grabbing her by the arm and yanking her back in the bathroom.
In terms of cultural relevance and advancements in entertainment, "Dancing With the Stars" is sort of like the reality TV show for people who find "American Idol" too edgy. It's a throwback kind of show, back to the days when sequins, glamour and network stars performed in circuses but managed to keep their clothes on. And as of Monday night, it was back for a fourth season on ABC.
Aside from its corniness and lack of depth, "Dancing" is an utterly charming show. Live music! Flashy costumes! Dancing! Even the judges, who follow the two-guys-and-a girl format of "American Idol," are comparatively toothless, graduates of the Paula Abdul "You look great and you have a beautiful soul" school. This is a show so clean and happy that it's honestly trying to convince us that Heather Mills (formerly H.M. McCartney) is a "charity activist," and not a former print porn poseur in the midst of an extremely bitter divorce with a Beatle. (Oh, but wouldn't it be great if she did a pasodoble to "Yesterday"?)
Is it possible you can save the world in a single day only so many times before they all start to seem the same?
Jack Bauer might be able to find ways to stay creatively engaged in his job, but for the at-home viewer, this season of "24" is beginning to suffer from déjà vu.
Once again the United States faces a domestic nuclear threat, and on Monday night it was once again revealed that a traitor was working inside the Counter Terrorist Unit's ranks. After going toe-to-toe with an exploding podium, President Palmer's prognosis is looking bleaker with each passing episode, which could make him the show's fourth sitting or former president to be assassinated (assuming former President Logan did indeed die after last week's stabbing episode). Jack somehow has to keep the United States from launching a potentially disastrous attack on a foreign country, something he halted once already in Season 2. Even CTU chief Bill Buchanan (James Morrison) must have been feeling some fatigue as he wearily reminded Jack of his fourth season diplomatic problem with the Chinese when Jack got into a similar situation at the Russian consulate.
At least he’s got good reason. Wednesday’s episode of “Lost,” flashed back to perhaps his biggest screwing-over yet. When a nearly bald Locke threatens to expose his father as a con to his latest target, Daddie Dearest pushes him out the window of an eight-story building.
What’s more, he and the island have been sort of serious about each other since Day One, when he discovered he had the use of his previously inanimate legs. Unlike recent episodes devoted to Claire and Hurley, this latest hour not only resolved the question of how Locke came to be a wheelchair user but also coughed up relevant information about Ben, the Other-in-chief, and the island.
So, who'd have thought — George O'Malley, surgical tramp. The doe-eyed, baby-faced, stammering intern, "Grey's Anatomy's" answer to Radar O'Reilly, has now bedded not one, not two, but three of the female leads. Nice guys do get lucky. Or maybe not. By having a drunken liaison with Izzie mere weeks after marrying Callie, George has lost a lot of nice-guy cred. Which probably means he'll be making it with Cristina any minute now, since she seems to like mean guys.
See, this is why we love "Grey's." It allows us a guilt-free opportunity to advise, counsel and pass judgment on people who are having way more sex with way more people than the average American. No character on the show has children (except Bailey, and I'd like to see the man who could seduce her), so we don't have to fret about innocent bystander victims of random couplings and uncouplings. All the adult characters have the soap-opera requisite "Eternal Sunshine" mind wipes that allow them to maintain relationships with people who'd basely betrayed them just a few episodes ago.
It's been less than a year, but look how "Betty" has grown.
What began as a simple ugly duckling yarn about a Queens girl who makes good at a fashion magazine has spun into a rich, ensemble comedy — proof that television comedy is anything but dead.
Next to smart network comedies "30 Rock," "The Office" and "Desperate Housewives," "Ugly Betty" is one happy cocktail. Three parts Saturday morning cartoon and one part family drama, the frothy concoction goes down smoothly with a satisfying glug week after week.
Unknown perhaps to viewers but heavy on the minds of "American Idol" contestants were the especially high stakes involved in this week's elimination — that, for whatever reason, only the final 10 contestants, not 12, get to go on the traditional postseason tour. So, for those who survived this week — Sanjaya Malakar made the cut, Stephanie Edwards did not — the party is guaranteed to continue through the summer at least.
Despite the fact that the "Idol" contestants and their friends and family have had the fear of God put into them about the dangers (and Fox restrictions) of speaking to the media, the impression that genuinely comes through, more or less, is that the producers have succeeded this season in actually creating that summer-camp atmosphere the show endeavors to portray.
First things first: Who was the crying girl? After the show, I chatted with Idol’s newest superstar, the crying girl, Ashley Ferl, aged 13, from Riverside. For some long minutes after the show, Ashley remained in a state of inconsolable sobbing, unable to choke out a single word. However, through an interpreter (her mother) we were eventually able to learn some facts about the young superstar.
The family, I was told, obtained tickets on a website to attend a taping of “Smarter Than a 5th Grader” a day passage that included not just the taping of the show itself, but also the dress rehearsal of either “Grader” or “Idol.” The fates were kind, and the mother and daughter found their way to the “Idol” rehearsal, where Ashley’s waterworks began. Her prowess was quickly brought to the attention of “Idol” producers who summoned the clan to a ringside seat of honor at the final taping.
Watching Wednesday night's elimination show live in the Idoldome, one of the most instantly apparent things was the true camaraderie between the members of the extended "Idol" family. I've been to plenty of TV tapings in my time, and tons where the moment the camera stops rolling, the smiles vanish and the stars retreat to separate corners. That is not what happens here, at all. At breaks, the judges act like they are at recess, joshing around with each other and producer Nigel Lythgoe. They joke with their many friends who have come to see the show. Even Ryan Seacrest comes off the stage and lolls on the judging table, laughing with his sparring partner Simon. More touching perhaps is the seeming affection between the contestants (most of them), who during breaks, lean on each other, joke, whisper, wrap arms, dance together and generally behave like a college spirit team out on a weekend road trip. The bond between them is unmistakable. And then one of them must die.
It is a beautifully brutal and poignant process each week -- as this little family, each plucked from obscurity and cast together onto the world stage, draws naturally closer -- their shared experience taking them that much farther together. But at the price that each week, they must sacrifice one of their own. A fuller metaphor for the paradox of man's experience as a social but mortal creature I cannot think of.
To the extent that a phenomenon as rich and complex as "American Idol" can be boiled down to a simple metaphor, the show's appeal can only be compared to gladiatorial combat. Each week, every contestant's entire life boils down to 90 seconds in which—alone on a hostile stage—they either soar or implode. Then at the conclusion of each song, their fate is handed to them and neither all their piety nor all their tears can take it back again.
Watching on television, those moments can seem unbelievably strained and painful. Watching them live in the "Idol" studio, I discovered, the tension is much, much worse. Almost too real, if you will.
On Tuesday night, I was honored to bear witness in the Idoldome at CBS' Television City studios -- to sit before the stage where Clarkson and Aiken, Daughtry and Underwood had begun their public lives. And my major impression was of what a cold place that stage was for these contestants, so small and so vulnerable in the flesh.
There were no tears for the fallen this time. On the third floor of the Pacific Design Center in West Hollywood on Thursday night, a crowd of several hundred partygoers gathered to hail the 12 "American Idol" finalists chosen from the pitchy masses.
TV screens around the room broadcast Thursday's results show, taped three hours earlier for the East Coast. But most attendees seemed to have heard the news already — that the once mighty Head had fallen. Yes, Sundance Head did not make it to the Top 12, but the atonal and whispering Sanjaya Malakar did.
But few even glanced toward the screens to watch Sundance's final moments, or to hear if the Internet soft-core sensation Antonella Barba could find dignity in her goodbye song, or to drink in the sounds of Sabrina Sloan. Prematurely though their journeys may have ended (in Sabrina's case, if not so much in Antonella's and Jared Cotter's), history is written by the victors, and contestants 13 through 24 have now been relegated to footnote status.
Being a "House" fan is a bit like being friends with an addict. You have to put up with ridiculous behavior: a doctor who doesn't ever wear a surgical mask, mile-long tapeworms, a season-ending shooting that is never mentioned again. There are also the inexplicable disappearances — whenever "American Idol" needs a little extra leg-room, "House" goes missing — and all those lies — everyone who thought "House" really had brain cancer this week please stand on their heads.
But you remain an Avid Viewer for the same reason many people hang out with drunks and addicts: because, on top of their game, they are more fun than anyone you know.
This week's "House" will no doubt keep many of us co-dependents hooked for months. When a brain-damaged savant piano player loses the use of a hand, House, played by Hugh Laurie, is not only given license to figure out "where the music comes from," but also to decide what is more important: a small slice of real genius or a whole, but ordinary, life.
Seven weeks! That's how long viewers have to wait for the next chapter of the addictive super-powered serial "Heroes."
When the series returns on April 23, there will be a lot to answer for after Monday night's heavy on setup, low on follow-through episode. The entire ensemble was back in action after last week's "Lost"-esque detour that focused on a handful of characters and made plenty of time for flashbacks. While this didn't allow for a lot of plot development, at least there was no downtime with any of the characters or any "filler" subplots. Everyone was being positioned for (hopefully) bigger moments down the line.
All discussions of "Heroes" must begin with the end, and this week's cliffhanger raises an important question: How many times can the writers place unofficial lead Peter Petrelli (Milo Ventimiglia) in bogus mortal peril? He has exploded, collapsed, fallen off multiple buildings and is now the prisoner of superhero serial killer Sylar (Zachary Quinto), who finished off the episode in style by slicing open Peter's head (and, maybe more important, chopping off a few locks of Peter's floppy hair).
Tuesday night the B team -- the boys of "American Idol" -- made their third desperate charge across no man's land. Thankfully it's their last call as a gender-specific group. The previous failures of these guys to achieve any sort of break-through -- individually or collectively -- inspired horror and outrage. Heard around the nation: "How did these lightweights make it to the Idol stage!" "Is there not a real male singer to be found in all of our glorious nation?!" "Who the hell let him sing a Cyndi Lauper song?"
But by this final week, the anger against this group was largely spent, and an elegiac tone of sadness hung in the air. We watched these poor misguided lads, who never should have been on this front, fighting this war -- low on ammunition, spirits sunk -- make one last desperately brave but hopeless charge at the judges. The feeling was less scorn for a losing team, more like that of the final scene of "Gallipoli," set to an Adagio for strings -- we can scorn the waste but admire the courage.
Thursday night's "Idol" results show summoned the greatest flood of indignant emotions -- sorrow, grief and outrage -- vented on television since Election night 2000. Tears flooded the semi-finals stage as four more contestants were mercilessly cut down before their prime.
The judges seemed stunned by the American peoples' decision to end the journeys of Nick Pedro, A.J. Tabaldo, Leslie Hunt and Alaina Alexander. Actually, they weren't stunned by the elimination of that final name; Alexander, who had phoned in her performances and arrogantly snorted at the judges' admonitions over the past few weeks proved the justice of her dismissal by breaking down during her goodbye song -- an unprecedented failure.
There are few spectacles more noble in our national culture than the way each week heartbroken dismissed contestants, moments after getting the bad news, are forced to re-sing the song that ended their careers, and almost to a contestant rise to the challenge and come alive -- showing us one last time why they were raised above the masses to be on the "Idol" stage in the first place. Failing to rise to that challenge, Alexander proved the singing was always secondary to her.
After a promising rebound episode revealing Juliet’s pitiable past, “Lost” returned to its lazy ways and this week offered up the kind of one-hour filler that has become all too common for the series this season.
In Wednesday’s episode, we get only a little more back story for affable human teddy bear Hurley, whom the writers consider the show’s primary source of comic relief. After a run of episodes at the heavy-on-torture Camp Others, a lighthearted Hurley-centric hour may have seemed appealing. But there’s a big difference between light and pointless, and this veered toward the latter.
On hold were the plots involving the island, the Others and their presumed-dead kidnap victims (briefly revealed to be alive last week). More confounding — almost as much as last week’s episode involving Jack’s past romp through Thailand — was the lack of any new relevant information about Hurley ... except the startling fact that his father is Cheech Marin (in a guest role).
Two weeks into the season proper, the contours of the race seem so firmly set, its hard to imagine that anything could change it. By every available measure (online bookmakers, judges' comments, DialIdol voting information, common sense) Season Six is a two woman race between LaKisha Jones and Melinda Doolittle.
Once again, on Tuesday night, the boys delivered a series of performances woefully inadequate to the fame or obscurity stakes at hand. Once again, the girls were playing in an entirely different universe, with two of them outshining the rest by miles. But lightning could still strike. It has before, sort of. No one believed Taylor Hicks was more than a novelty contestant last year until very late in the game. Despite handicapping that placed him as the enormous favorite, Chris Daughtry was smote by the public and removed from the competition at fourth place.
In retrospect, it was inevitable: Monday night on "24," conspirators working within the White House got close to President Wayne Palmer (D.B. Woodside) and blew him up real good.
Whether Palmer is still alive is something to be discovered next week, but savvy viewers might have wondered about Palmer's continued good health weeks ago when it was revealed that his vice president was being played by a bigger-name actor (Powers Boothe).
Like every other episode of "24," the would-be assassination came as an edge-of-your-seat cliffhanger ending, but subplots occupied much of the show last night, among them the unbelievably lame (CTU computer whiz Morris' struggles with alcoholism on the job) and the mildly diverting (Russian terrorist Gredenko's continued scheming). The best of the lot was, of course, the machinations leading up to the explosion, courtesy of the deputy chief of staff and White House traitor, played by Chad Lowe. Despite making good use of that old thriller standby — the ticking bomb — these scenes also introduced a clever way to get an explosive past security (look for airport security to start confiscating highlighters soon), but it once again revealed one of "24's" greatest weakness: When Jack Bauer (Kiefer Sutherland) is scarce, an hour can seem like an eternity.
Before getting into Tuesday night's March of the Duds on "American Idol," let me take you back to a special time, 10 days ago, when the Final 24 were still shrouded in mystery to most of the world. To a special place -- a department store in Beverly Hills called Neiman Marcus -- a land of enchantments to those who live lives devoted to apparel finery. And thus where, on a Sunday afternoon, I came face to face with that giant of fashion and entertainment alike, Mr. Randy Jackson.
From across the men's department I saw him, the diamonds encircling his watch face beckoning like a thousand points of sunlight dancing on an azure sea.
For a moment, I gaped from afar in awe, but didn't approach, considering the great man wants his peace and solitude while practicing religion here at Neiman's. And then I recalled, "Peace and solitude? This is RANDY JACKSON!" and walked over, and asked, "Why aren't there any rockers on the show this year?"
Here's a shocker — Meredith Grey is not dead. And so ABC will not have to change the name of its hit show to "Yin and Yang" after Cristina or "Bailey's Irish Cream" after Miranda.
From the moment Meredith went into the water in the first part of a three-episode "Grey's Anatomy" special event, we all knew she wasn't going to die — why, many of us had just seen Ellen Pompeo at the Golden Globes, and she did not look even remotely like a woman who'd been canned. So as the Meredith-battles-for-life plot line engulfed the second and third portion of a narrative following what looked to be the worst ferry accident in American history, tension was noticeable only in its absence.
In its place were some of the worst script decisions since, yes, I'll say it, Fonzie jumped the shark.
There is little to renew one’s faith in the wisdom of the American people like the semi-finals of ”Idol.” In politics we’ll seemingly grant any nincompoop in a cheap suit an all-expenses paid ticket to Washington to fiddle with the gears of power for a decade or so. But when it comes to deciding which contestants are fit to advance to the final 12, the our nation speaks with a collective voice to rival King Solomon in its wizened sagacity. Only the best will emerge from the semi-final round, on that we can stand proud.
In this first half of the competition, there is bitter work to be done. At first blush, it is instantly clear that most of these people have no business competing with a straight face for the “Idol” crown. And so for the next three weeks, four at a time, it is our job to toss out that other half of the room. And what is inspiring is how right we get it. (Actually the electorate did put its foot in it this week. Nicole Tranquillo was a superstar and her loss is a travesty.)
It may seem premature to announce this after just one round of performances, but nonetheless it is absolutely, beyond any possible glimmer of a doubt clear that the next American Idol will be female.
Tuesday was the shakiest start in modern memory by the boys; so weak it had me conjuring Doomsday scenarios for the entire franchise. So woeful were the dudes that just hours after rival network head Jeff Zucker called Idol the “most impactful show in the history of television” I lay awake wondering if the show was being set up for a massive fall triggered by one season’s all-dud line-up.
But then the ladies stepped forward and reminded us what Idol is about – that beyond all the freak show auditions and judges backstage drama, the show still produces these moments when an little nobody from nowhere steps forward and sings with the power of the gods and suddenly the Earth stops. Nothing remotely like that occurred on boys night but it happened at least three times on girls night. The Universe as we know it will survive.
Every season’s first episode brings a lurch to the stomach. We see these 24 unformed, rough talents and the question looms heavy in the ether: is there a Kelly Clarkson among this crowd? Can the next Clay Aiken be hanging over that railing before us?
And at first glance, the answer is generally, absolutely not. There is no way that these wild, untamed beasts of the singing jungles can rise in one song, in one episode to the stature of the giants of entertainment. That kind of gravitas only comes after an entire season of trials and setbacks and brilliant breakthroughs.
That said, if I were the Idol producers after last night’s first peek at the guys, I would be very concerned.
It’s not just that the guys in their maiden outing were a little rough or nervous. That is to be expected. But more problematic, both as a group and individually they seemed utterly lightweight, like mildly pleasant members of third string boy bands. Only three looked like potential long range contenders -beat-boxer Blake Lewis, back-up singer Brandon Rogers, and kinda-engagingly weird looking guy Chris Richardson. And none of these really looked like they were ready to go all the way.
In many ancient cultures – I don’t recall exactly which – the greatest curse that can befall a person is to have his or her name wiped out of human memory. For a soul to wander the Universe for all eternity, anonymous and unmourned. That fate awaited 16 contestants on Wednesday’s “American Idol” who gathered at the Pasadena Civic Auditorium to hear their fates.
After whittling down the pool to a mere 40 contestants in the Hollywood round, the show then takes a not-entirely explained pause to reconsider everyone by “reviewing the tapes.” And, presumably, to run background checks to learn who is a wanted drug-runner, who has a secret EMI recording contract and who has abandoned families in every state.
The 40 are then called back to spend an entire day sitting in a waiting room before they are summoned for a lonely elevator ride into a ballroom where they must take the longest walk of their lives across a Mussolini-sized floor to sit before the trinity, lined up with echoes of “Flashdance” to reveal the judgment of Paris.
Oh, these wacky medical shows. They all say they have actual doctors as consultants but don't you think it's more like reps from Ripley's Believe It or Not? Because of its set-up — crack diagnostics team succeeds where everyone else fails —"House" has, by necessity, some of the wildest cases of the lot. Nun allergic to the copper of her forgotten IUD? Check. Guy with nails stuck all over his skull? Check. Child of dwarf who is not really a dwarf but a victim of an off-kilter pituitary? Check, check.
Even by those standards, last night's episode was a pip — girl with a condition I don't even know how to spell (OK, I checked the website, it's CIPA, which stands for congenital insensitivity to pain with anhidrosis). Yes, "Grey's Anatomy" already used this conceit but "House" upped it with a tapeworm. As House would say, what are the odds? The tapeworm allowed a brief and disturbing homage to the John Hurt death scene in "Alien," with House extracting said tapeworm as girl, who, of course, did not require anesthesia, looked on. (I just have to ask, is House so magical he doesn't have to scrub before surgery? Last episode, he stuck his hand in some kid's bowels, without gloves, having just manually maneuvered himself into the operating room in a wheelchair. Could all these sneaky diseases be just post-op infections?)
Halfway through Monday's back-to-back episodes of "24," Jack Bauer (Kiefer Sutherland) stormed an apartment full of terrorists without a helmet, got into a deadly shootout and defused an armed suitcase nuke.
But close-up shots revealed skin that was both nicely tanned and completely dry. Not bad for a guy who got released from a Chinese prison just hours ago.
One of "24's" greatest assets has been its ability to simultaneously keep viewers off-balance with completely unexpected and outlandish plot twists (like detonating a nuclear bomb in Valencia), while at the same time perpetuating the comforting belief that, no matter what, Jack will make things right. The series' creators have been so adept at creating this he-man fantasy that the single implausible moment in last night's episodes came when Jack's sister-in-law Marilyn (Rena Sofer) failed to confide to Jack that his father was threatening to kill her son if she didn't direct Jack away from the terrorist hide-out and toward a bomb-trapped house. Obviously, despite having a some sort of romantic attachment to him far in their past, she doesn't know the real Jack Bauer
So before we begin, let’s just ask: Did anyone else wonder why the opening of last night’s “Grey’s Anatomy,” in which Meredith, overcome by her mother’s condition and the weight of a thousand voice-overs, sinks under water in a wide, white claw foot tub, would go out of its way to invoke the poster for the Harrison Ford/Michelle Pfeiffer thriller “What Lies Beneath,” down to the hand hanging over the edge of the bath?
Last night was the first of a three-part “‘Grey’s’ event” though it began in the traditional way - Meredith moping, Izzie moping (it is so hard to be lovely and rich), Cristina ordering Burke not to tell anyone of their relationship, oh wait, engagement. But it swiftly became “very special.” News of a “multiple casualty” accident was announced (though no one knew what it was ‘til they got there because apparently the city’s leading hospital cannot afford a television and no one bothers with the Internet) and all our favorite interns were dispatched into the field. Sort of like a “Grey’s” field-trip but not really.
The return of "Lost" was something of a renaissance for viewers whose passion for the show has been bogged down by an ever-sprawling mythology and characters so numerous that many have ridden the bench since fall.
For the cult-like followers of its intrigues, Wednesday’s episode dropped clues to several new mysteries - e.g. Alex, the presumed daughter of the Frenchwoman, calls Ben “dad” - and revisited several old ones.
More than anything though, and for the first time this season, "Lost" gave us a back story worth paying attention to. The poignant hour devoted to Juliet (deftly played by Elizabeth Mitchell), the militant but compassionate second-in-command to Others overlord Ben, soared in its slow revelation of a fiercely loyal woman who wants off the island even more than any of the plane crash survivors.
And so the seven-stop, Season 6 audition tour of “American Idol” whimpered to a halt in San Antonio, Texas on Tuesday. (Actually, it’s not quite over; Wednesday night’s episode is a “Best of the Rest”, audition leftovers special.)
The audition tour is not for everyone; not even every hardened “Idol” fan has it in them to sit through ten-some hours of deluded non-talents having their dreams ripped to shreds while a table full of judges struggle to contain their amusement. But the auditions provide a space for a couple of things most of us so rarely encounter in our lives – a (usually) respectful hearing followed by the undiluted truth. And this, is what makes the potentially-tedious tour compelling viewing. OK, that and the weirdoes.
There are several reasons "Grey's Anatomy" is an award-winning hit and if last week's episode did not include any of them, this week more than made up for it. The trademark combination of weird medicine — patient with toxic blood practically kills half the leads — and weird romance — George and Callie got married in Vegas! Addison and Karev make hungry-wolf eyes at each other! — kept the action moving in full scrubs-flapping, one-line snapping form.
But more important was the near surgical display of the show's beating heart — the non-romantic relationship.
In the three weeks between new episodes of "House," Hugh Laurie won a Golden Globe and a SAG Award for his portrayal of sardonic drug addict and master of diagnostic detection Gregory House. And on Tuesday's episode, he certainly earned both the hard way.
Fox's "American Idol" gave this episode its highest ratings ever, and it's too bad this was their introduction since it was the most un-"Housian" "House" to date. (You could practically see the network note: "Never mind that it's a hit; let's shake up the format.") Absent was the signature opening vignette of someone having a medical crisis; gone were the cool graphics of synapses firing/microbes invading/muscles detaching that give the viewer a corpuscle's-eye view; lacking was the diagnostic banter and the endless MRIs that have held this single-personality-driven show together. It was sort of like watching "MASH" without the helicopters. Or the jokes.
As the cloud of radioactive dust dissipated over the Santa Clarita Valley, and Season 6 of "24" headed into the lunch hour on Monday night's episode, one wondered why a nuclear bomb had gone off in a major U.S. city and everyone wasn't acting a little more freaked out. But logic aside, the potential of this season instantly became clear with the appearance of a single guest star: James Cromwell as Jack's dad.
Although the introduction of previously unseen family members usually smacks of desperation, and it's a disappointment that the role isn't being played by Kiefer Sutherland's real-life father, Donald, Cromwell as Père Bauer could bring a nice bit of levity to a series that too often wallows in its clenched-jaw sense of determination. How many episodes will go by before he gives Jack a real scolding? With the sibling rivalry between Jack and Graem (Paul McCrane) flying thick in the few moments of screen time the family had together, any self-respecting parent would feel compelled to weigh in on the issue. Though Cromwell's presence was muted in his first episode, the fact that he's a senior citizen and still has the temerity to assemble a security team to stake out the traitorous Darren McCarthy's office hints that the Bauer siblings' intensity doesn't come from their mother's side.
The problem with having a real-life publicity problem plaguing your hit television show is that it tears down the fourth wall, allowing the viewer to engage in way too much actor-analysis and general sub-texting, which, no matter what Us Weekly may tell you, is never a good thing. Especially for a relationship-driven quasi-soap opera like “Grey’s Anatomy” where the lovability of the characters is key.
Unfortunately, last night’s episode was one of the weakest in a while: runaway Amish girls coped with cervical cancer (allowing Dr. Bailey to give one of her famous operating table lectures—ladies, get those pap smears). George attempted to find solace for his father’s death by having lots of sex (worth it just to hear partner Callie’s heaving I-can’t-take-it monologue—“I’m tired of having my legs bent in ways my legs don’t go”). The Chief of Surgery officially announced his retirement and all the leads at Seattle Grace suddenly began vying to fill his shoes.
As was entirely predictable, the New York City stop of "American Idol" produced a packed-to-the-rafters two hours of trying-too-hard-to-be-crazy drama queens -- a chorus line of borderline personalities with itchy fingers on the hissy fit button. That said, there is something compelling about watching summer stock drop-outs play out the poles of their emotional range. If we didn't enjoy high drama, we probably wouldn't be watching "Idol" in the first place.
The tone was set early on by an 19-year-old Ohioan, who, choking out her words between fits of sobbing, told host Ryan Seacrest how she had lied to her father, claiming that she was staying at her friend Rachel's house, and snuck off to New York to audition (do 19-year-olds have curfews?). She was trying out under the cover of lies because, she explained, her father never supported her and all she wanted to do was make him proud.
Memphis, the third stop on the "American Idol" audition tour, produced the fodder for the perfect mini-episode. Toning back the theater of cruelty to just the right degree of compassionate viciousness, mixed with a couple of diamonds in the rough, a few jaw-dropping human oddities and an aw, shucks ending, the Memphis days restored the heavyweight champion show's balance after a wobbly first week.
Clocking in with remarkable restraint at a single hour of prime-time television rather than the standard two (barely more than the State of the Union address), Tuesday's episode soared. Last week's double-feature of premieres seemed uncertain, largely because of the parade of contenders to the William Hung throne, who were genuinely, impressively freakish, and showed unflinching commitment to their bizarre talents. Memphis' hopefuls were the real deal of the alternate reality showcase. From a dancing queen who threatened to tumble out of her precarious V-neck during a frenzied "Disco Inferno" to a 300-pound lug who planned to become the next American Idol to teach his cheating ex-wife a lesson to a very slow-talking teenager who may have actually been handicapped, the sideshow delivered in Memphis.
Not once, but twice, NBC flashed a URL for Primatech paper.com during episode 12 of "Heroes," which was a continuation of the show's first season after a winter break.
The web address was conspicuously printed on the business card for Mr. Bennet's front operation, a paper supply company. Mr. Bennet, a.k.a. "Horn-Rimmed Glasses, is the possibly evil dude who searches out the super-human "heroes" and employs a mind-wiper and who is the apparently adoptive father of Claire, the highly saveable — yet magically indestructible! — cheerleader.
A quick check of the domain-registrar search service revealled that the registrant of the site is, unsurprisingly, the General Electric Company of Fairfield, CT. It was procured in October, 2006.
(Much like the excellent agent-locating website whoreepresents.com, the URL primatechpaper.com suffers from a confusion of where component words might start and stop. Primate Chpaper dot com? Is Ch'Paper that on which primates write whilst listening to mediocre 80's English rock group T'Pau?)
Three segments into Wednesday night�s episode of American Idol, host Ryan Seacrest asked a young woman who had just flunked her audition, and blamed the failure on nerves, "So you don't normally sound like a goat?" The young woman paused for half an instant before answering: "I hope not. Otherwise people have been lying to me."
If there is one message to take away from the audition episodes of the most powerful show in the history of television, it is this: Do not trust your friends!
The thrill of the audition weeks is piecing together what on Earth these people can possibly be thinking the freaks, the uncoordinated, the tone deaf, the wearers of hot-pink mesh body stockings. Can they actually believe that their screeching is passable singing, even in a neighborhood karaoke bar? Are they that deeply deluded about how they are seen? Or is it just a joke to get on TV? One possible explanation that suggested itself repeatedly Wednesday night was the malevolent influence of friends in a person's life friends who reassure you, who tell you, �No, really, you have an amazing voice.� Friends whose fear of upsetting you leads you to wear that ridiculous suede vest in public � or to audition for �American Idol.� Well, if we didn�t have friends in life, perhaps we wouldn�t need Simon Cowell.
NOT a show to hide its light under a bushel, the reigning heavyweight champion of prime-time television, "American Idol," thundered back to the airwaves Tuesday night, proclaiming the full weight of its showbiz-shaking credentials from the very first moment.
Season 6 began with a slow-motion flashback, set to portentous war drums, to last season's close, the Taylor Hicks coronation. "Together," Ryan Seacrest proclaimed, "we've created a phenomenon. Together, we've changed lives and discovered remarkable talents."
Trumpets flourished as Seacrest incanted the roll call of "Idol" triumphs past: Kelly Clarkson -- the original Idol, potential Oscar contender Jennifer Hudson, country superstar Carrie Underwood, America's sweetheart Katharine McPhee (OK, maybe that's a stretch) and a hundred No. 1 CD's.
This is where the race should start to get truly interesting as those who are not dying to win to the core of their souls start to make terrible mistakes and fall away.
