Results tagged “TV” from Out There

And Other Crucial Parts of the Culture Puzzle

I've never been a fan of purely reactive writing. Most of it banishes those errant ideas and images that have no obvious connection to the fake trend or genuine outrage of the moment, but are nonetheless a writer's best reason to write.

It's a puzzle, then, to find novel ways to react "new" to the daily cultural-political flood. Maybe the task can be accomplished in pieces.

Jigsaw Part 1: Bloodsuckers

I'm afraid that our favorite TV "crossover" shows are withering. You know, crossovers, the programs that appeal to all shapes and sizes, the ones that full professors pretend to feel guilty about watching. Every season has 'em, but in television as in life, nothing good remains firm. Everything droops.

There's not even a Dorian Gray attic to imagine on the inevitably jowly Desperate Housewives premiere. Ellen on Idol? So You Still Think You Can Dance? As one of my outraged Facebook friends said when I moaned about the early dismissal of Project Runway's two most creative contestants, "Please, they're being asked to choose from Macy's Wall of Accessories."

So what's wrong with Macy's? My late mother sold makeup in the Herald Square store, once to Joan Crawford -- shades of The Women.

It's a plug. The whole show has been a multipronged plug, but now that all the compensatory elements of surprise and conflict and joy of looking have evaporated, there's no hiding it. Didn't someone know that you can't move a sewing circus out of New York, New York and expect it to retain even faux credibility? Plus, that pathetic model "competition" appended to the main hour is like throwing a sweater set onto the runway after the wedding-dress finale. So I have moved to that favorite-show middle ground where I won't lose sleep if I miss an episode -- which every studio knows is the beginning of the end.

Yes, Project Runway has jumped the sharkskin.

Faithful readers may be able to guess which crossover shows I look forward to on Sunday nights. Yes, they're both about bloodsuckers. True Blood is first-class progressive trash, and you needn't even remember its axiomatic trope that Fangs = Fags to find the bloody soap simultaneously comforting and refreshing. I'm about to grill a New York steak, bleu, to prepare for the season finale. Maybe I'll shed a red tear afterward.

To introduce Mad Men's third season, the promotion machinery fastened on its period wall-ovens and stovetops, ignoring utterly the show's -- paradoxically faulty -- critique of advertising's hold on culture. Why faulty? The luscious vintage sets and outfits ignite the very hunger for product that the storylines half-heartedly propose is merely a symptom of mass manipulation.

How else would I have noticed that the white Eva Zeisel dinnerware used in some Midcentury Manse looked not like the designer's vintage Tomorrow's Classic (genuine article below), but instead were newly bought examples of the smart hybrid sold by Crate & Barrel?

I ate that steak, by the way, on sleek plates designed in the early '50s by Glidden Parker. The same dishes were used by Lucy and Rickey during their first year as America's escape valve -- probably not my own particular plates, but you never can really know where aged objects have been.

Next Piece of the Puzzle: Why Bill Viola Is Mah Hero

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Rarely has this writer, even in the guise of critic, thought it wise to promote a product without immersing the recommendation in a cleansing bath of context. A pleasing exhibition? Look at the history, the economy that produced the work. A fine restaurant? Look at the economy, the history that ... . 

Yes, I know. But the result need not be hortatory or didactic, and may be at least a bit more defensible than writing long-form blurbs.

Except in this case. I want you to watch a new HBO series, period. It's rich with detail, tells charming stories -- and has all the context anyone would require. Jill Scott stars as Botswana's Mma Precious Ramotswe, founder of the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (she beat Oprah Winfrey, Whoopi Goldberg, Queen Latifah and many others for the role).

The first two episodes match the easy pace, heightened sense of place -- filmed entirely in Botswana -- and deceptive simplicity of the books upon which they are based, an immensely popular series by Alexander McCall Smith. Here's what I wrote for the Philadelphia Inquirer when one of those books came out, and so far, the new version confirms my praise:

ladydetective.doc

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...Yesterday's court-tossed wedding bouquet was caught by me and thousands of others who will visit City Halls all over California in a state of "finally" and make it legal. Of course, the decision to allow queer marriage can be reversed by referendumb as soon as November. In the meantime, here's a quasi-update to my very last, coincidental post, "Gay Rice":

So, ladies and gents and everyone in between, why has it taken so long to have a pissy little gay wedding on network television? Yes, we're in California, not Massachusetts, so no wedding, just wedding simulacrum. Maybe, soon, they'll wake me in the nursing home: "Hey, Jeff, they're about to have a real gay wedding, and each and every parent is actually in the mosque."  No idea, but I'm relieved the justice system finally caught up with ABC-TV. I've always depended upon what William Blake once wrote: "What is now proved was once only imagin'd" -- even if imagin'd on Brothers and Sisters.

When that happens, I'll take Guess it's time to take a piece of my piece of chocolate donut out of the freezer.

Down the Aisle, Slowly

It took the supposedly liberal New York City mayor David Dinkins ages to come to his political and humanistic senses and order City Hall to issue domestic partnership certificates. That was January, 1993, more than 15 years ago, and it seemed late in coming even then. No money for city employee health benefits, previously promised, came with the mingy declaration; Dinkins was and will forever be an accountant. (Sample certificate is above. I don't know who the fine gents on this particular document are, although one is named Jeffrey.)

So, on March 1, the moment we were allowed, my eternally patient partner and I registered. In spite of my constitutional inclination to be first, we let two ladies in Teamster jackets precede us, so our certificate says number 2. We used off-brand chocolate donuts from a cart for our wedding cake.

I wrote about this before it happened for the Village Voice, where I worked, but for the life of me I can't find a copy of the piece anywhere to post and show you. It did include a stock wedding-shot with my very own face pasted over those of both the lacy bride and tuxedoed groom -- nutty, but it attracted attention. I was a restaurant critic at the time and genuinely anonymous, but I couldn't imagine a maitre d' who would rip out that queer item and tape it to his station: a restaurant critic could never be anything but a restaurant critic.

My article mildly scorned the idea of gay marriage. Why duplicate the broken-down, female-as-chattel cornerstone of bourgeois stability? Let my (sorry, our) registration be remonstrance to ...

Well, the piece advertised the political festivities of March 1, and that was that.

Why TV Counts

It's Sunday, Mother's Day, 11 p.m., and I have just watched the season finale of Brothers and Sisters, an ABC series I don't usually sample because my no longer eternally patient partner can't stomach the maudlin Sally Fields (me, I will always see her on a table screaming to organize a downtrodden shop) and wonders how the tremulous Ally McVeal can still make a living.

The episode was constructed around a gay-male wedding. Yes, it's a wedding; no, it's a ceremony; the sympathetic script goes blah blah blah. The main family is all wry and gooey with acceptance and love, while the other dad and mom, in an Arizona tract home, won't be bothered to come. "Try to understand we're not bad people," the distant father says to his son's groom-to-be, before secretly passing to him the Family Wedding Cuff-Links to give to his errant boy. It's a sniffle-evoking gesture, an absent parent's love in the form of two cold pieces of metal.

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So, ladies and gents and everyone in between, why has it taken so long to have a pissy little gay wedding on network television? Yes, we're in California, not Massachusetts, so no wedding, just wedding simulacrum. Maybe, soon, they'll wake me in the nursing home: "Hey, Jeff, they're about to have a real gay wedding, and each and every parent is actually in the mosque."

When that happens, I'll take my piece of chocolate donut out of the freezer.

Oh, don't think I didn't pump out real tears when the brothers and sisters toasted and hugged the two gray-suited fellows in love. Those tears aren't frivolous, not at all. They run down my cheeks to mark and anoint every scenario of hope that popular culture offers to my potential sons and grandsons, daughters and granddaughters. The minor generosity of this workaday script may have earth-shaking results when taken in by just that boy or girl. It will award brave and curious children with the pride of permission.

Even in its twilight, television has spectacular power to free our younger selves. What our parents do or don't do shouldn't concern us at all.

A Gay Marriage Reprint

Although I can't find my 1993 Voice piece, here's something I wrote (published May 23, 2004) for the Op-Ed page of the Philadelphia Inquirer the day after gay weddings began in Massachusetts. Again, TV is central:

Justices of the peace across Massachusetts opened for unusual business Monday at 12:01 a.m., and as is his wont, The Tonight Show's Jay Leno found a joke in it. A government office actually working when you need one, he wondered. Maybe we should all say we're gay.

The startling photos filled the covers of most newspapers the next day: the very first female couples and male couples being married, officially wed, in these United States.

Yes, civil marriages of gay citizens have taken place recently in San Francisco and elsewhere, but these are in legal limbo. There were even the reported half-dozen marriage licenses issued to same-sex couples by Boulder County, Colo., in 1975. But Monday (which also marked the 50th anniversary of Brown v. Board of Education) made history. Now, under law, these Bay State knots are truly tied.

I happen to be a gay man in my 50s. I came out just after Stonewall -- that's June 1969, in case you've forgotten, when furious gay men, drag queens and lesbians told abusive and corrupt police that they wouldn't take it anymore and stormed Greenwich Village streets. For many years I wrote, spoke and marched for what was then called gay liberation and is now called, more quietly, gay rights. My partner and I have been together for 27 years; we were, in fact, the second couple to register in New York's city hall as domestic partners, a concept I may claim some credit for originating.

Yet, when I saw these love-besotted folks and their friends and families grinning, hugging and crying on the network news, I was wonderstruck. The next day, at the newsstand, I was still incredulous. It may sound odd, but in spite of decades of wearing my gay heart and mind on my sleeve, the achievement of legal marriage for the likes of me is something that, until Monday, was literally unimaginable. It was as if I had been jogging along on some interminable gay-rights road and suddenly a bus with thousands of shoes tied to the bumper sped by. Just married. Just amazing.

It seems I am not alone among my gay-pride contemporaries in feeling this way about the reality of same-sex marriage. "It's beyond anything we saw as possible," Peg, from New York, told me. "We were just barely becoming legitimate, and then this... . It's like instead of renting your house, you own it."

My old friend and marching buddy Melvyn, in San Diego, agrees completely: Marriage was never in the cards. That domestic-partnership registration, so long-sought and hard-fought, is now the fallback position for those who previously wouldn't give gay rights the time of day is miraculous. We each recall the many times one or the other of us addressed hostile or queasy groups of students, librarians, police officers, trying to explain the ultimately ordinary facts of gay life, but actually serving as initial real-world exposures to a species our audiences knew only as artistic, pathetic, deviant, criminal.

Yes, weddings aside, much has changed. AIDS decimated the gay body politic and continues to ravage us as well as so many more. (Did the potent cocktail of ACT-UP activism and unavoidable compassion somehow make this marriage moment possible?) Gelded but successful Wills and Graces have opened the mass market to ever-queerer exemplars, finally normalizing - even if into burnished cliches - those previously demonized.

Opinions, apparently, have followed suit. If polls are true, most Americans 25 and under think gay marriage is cool, leading to the astounding conclusion that optioning this most basic family value to all is inevitable.

But a few of those benign teens will, in the next year or two or four, be tossed from their homes for declaring that they can't ignore the same-sex guy or girl next door. Some of them will be beaten or even slain; some will kill themselves. Schools will continue to isolate them, places of worship will exclude them, the military will use them and lose them.

Mr. Leno's writers, as usual, got it backward. Monday was the first time city hall opened to me. When, Sir, does saying I'm gay keep it from closing?

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