Everyone who knows I'm a lifelong, die-hard Yankee fan has checked in with me to make sure I'm not suicidal. After all, the dreaded New York Mets, one of my two most-hated sports franchises (the New York Rangers is the other), landed Johan Santana, the best starter in baseball. But the widespread outpouring of compassion is unnecessary. I'm fine. Shouldn't I be angry? Well, sure, but not why you think. I'm fine with the Mets landing Santana.
By the end of the winter meetings, it was pretty clear that only three teams had an interest in swapping top prospects for the right to give Santana a contract roughly equal in value to the gross national product of several third-world countries: The Yankees, Mets and Boston Red Sox. I realized at that point that of the three options, the Mets landing Santana was the best scenario for the Yankees. After all, I didn't want the Red Sox adding the powerful lefty to a stellar rotation that already includes Josh Beckett, Curt Schilling and Disuke Matsuzaka. And I certainly did not want the Yankees to give up Phil Hughes, who showed in the cauldron of a New York post-season against the Indians in the playoffs last year that he had the makings to be a star who can perform in the clutch (unlike, say, the league's most valuable player, who happens to play third base for the Bombers), along with the starting center fielder (Melky Cabrera), a top prospect (Jeff Marquez) and another mid-level prospect to be named. While I wasn't excited about Santana dominating overmatched batters in Queens, I liked the idea of the lefty plying his trade in the other league. The Mets were the least odious option of the three.
But, truth be told, I am pissed about the deal, but not because of where Santana wound up. What kills me is that the Mets got Santana for next to nothing. Where the Yanks were offering a potential number one starter with major league experience, a major league center fielder, a solid prospect, and a mid-level prospect, and the Red Sox had made available either a budding superstar pitcher (Jon Lester) or a budding superstar center fielder (Jacoby Ellsbury), both of whom performed well in the post-season last year, along with another top pitching prospect and a minor league shortstop who was Major League ready, the Mets offered two mid-level pitching prospects, an 18-year-old pitcher with a high ceiling and no guarantees, and a center fielder that, at best, will be an above average starter. At best. We're not talking four potential All-Stars here. The Twins' haul consisted of three possibly functional Major Leaguers and one young kid who could be great, or who could never make it past AA.
I don't care so much that the Mets got Santana, it's that they landed him without it hurting. The Mets held on to their best minor league prospect, outfielder Fernando Martinez, as well as their only young starting pitcher with some major league games under his belt, Mike Pelfrey (even if he was less than successful with the big club last season). Word is that the Red Sox didn't really want Santana, they only wanted to make sure the Yankees paid as much as possible for him if they landed him. Too bad there wasn't a fourth team involved to run up the price for the Mets.
Another thing that bugs me about the trade is the media's reaction to it (or lack thereof). The Twins have a rookie general manager, Bill Smith, and he was clearly fleeced, like a rookie base runner being picked off by a wily starting pitcher. At the time of the winter meetings in December, Smith had on the table the Yankee package centered around Hughes and Cabrera and the Red Sox packages revolving around Lester or Ellsbury. In those heady days for the Twins, word was that they didn't think much of the Mets' prospects, a thought echoed by baseball officials around the league. But Smith decided to wait, gambling that the Red Sox-Yankees rivalry, and the unpredictable nature of the Steinbrenners, would ignite a bidding war that would land him either Ellsbury and Lester, or Ian Kennedy along with Hughes and Cabrera.
It was a colossal error in judgment. Sure, in 2002, 2003 or 2004, you could see George Steinbrenner going mental and offering half the farm system for Santana. Or, you could see the Sox panicking and giving away the store to get the two-time Cy Young Award winner. Unfortunately for Smith, there doesn't appear to be a calendar in the Twins' executive offices. You see, in 2004, and again in 2007, the Red Sox won the World Series. As you might imagine, this kind of takes the edge off of making rash moves when you've proven you can win it all, especially as you glance over at your depth chart and see Beckett, Schilling, Matsuzaka and Lester penciled in. Meanwhile, over in the Bronx, after the 2005 and 2006 off-seasons, general manager Brian Cashman flexed the authority he contractually wrangled from George Steinbrenner and put an end to the rash moves of the earlier part of the decade. Cashman concentrated on building up the farm system and avoided overpaying free agents, limiting his acquisitions to the low risk in years and dollars for Johnny Damon before the 2006 season and bringing back former Yankee Andy Pettitte for two years before the 2007 season. (Of course, the Yankees brought in Clemens in 2007 for a ton of money, but it was only for one year and only after a string of injuries to the pitching staff.)
Even with Hank Steinbrenner taking over after the 2007 season and showing a love of shooting off his mouth, the Yankees did not deviate from their new philosophy. The team splashed out big money contracts, but only for their own players (Abreu, Posada and Rivera, and after a soap opera, Alex Rodriguez). I don't think any serious baseball man thought the Yankees would give up Kennedy, Hughes and Cabrera for Santana.
But Bill Smith did. And what happened? The Yanks pulled Hughes off the table, the Red Sox pulled back, as well, and Smith was left with one crappy suitor for his all-world lefthander, who everyone in North and South America knew he had to move. Pick your analogy. If Smith was a poker player, he folded with a pair of aces and went all-in on an off-suit six-seven. If he was a stock trader, he let the market run to 150 before selling at 25. However you want to look at it, Smith botched the most important decision the Twins had for this year, and maybe for their foreseeable future. Instead of having Phil Hughes or Jon Lester at the front of their rotation, or Jacoby Elllsbury or Melky Cabrera patrolling center field, they'll have a lot of hopes and prayers that a bunch of mediocre prospects surprise some people and have decent Major League careers. Smith was as bad for the Twins as George W. Bush has been for the United States.
But the Twins are beloved by the media, the small-market, low-revenue, low-budget team that has been able to make consistent trips to the post-season despite their financial limitations. It would be blasphemy to say something bad about these lovable overachievers, right? But the Twins' success was built on the smart talent evaluations and market savvy of longtime general manager Terry Ryan. Ryan retired to a life as a super scout towards the end of last season, leaving Smith in the big chair to make the big decisions. Why couldn't the media just say, "The kid blew it." Instead there was a lot of silence, and a lot of excuses.
As a lowly blogger, I'll say what the sports writers for the newspapers and major websites apparently don't have the guts to say: Smith made a colossal miscalculation that, if not worthy of his immediate dismissal, at least should have him lose his authority in the front office until he better learns his craft. If I owned the club, Smith's possessions would be in a box by the curb right now. This was nothing short of a debacle for the Twins, and nobody is talking about it.
So I'm fine with the Mets getting Santana. I just wish it hurt more, and I wish sportswriters took Smith to task for blowing the deal. After all, if the Twins fans can't see Santana pitch anymore, at least they should have the catharsis of joining in a national recognition of how badly the club got screwed. I'm here for you Twins fans. I'll be the first to say it. Smith should be fired! If he does get canned (never happen, but go with me), I hope for his sake, he finds someone else to negotiate his exit package. If he does it himself, he'll probably end up owing the Twins money.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
CNN: The Beauty Network?
This morning, my first day back in the U.S. after spending five nights in Mexico, I turned on CNN's "American Morning" and saw a disturbing image. Violence in Kenya? John McCain winning in Florida? Nope. It was anchor John Roberts's hair.
It seems that between the time I left for my vacation and the time I got back, Roberts decided to dye his steel grey hair. Either that, or he was attacked by an angry shoemaker armed with a bottle of low-grade shoe polish. I'm betting on a trip to a trendy salon. If you want to see a before and after for yourself, here is a photo of Roberts pre-beauty binge (and here is another), and here is a video of him interviewing Mitt Romney this morning. Did Roberts think we wouldn't notice?
Now, right about now you may be saying, "Who cares what a CNN morning anchor does with his hair?" And, normally, you would be right. But Roberts is a blowhard, empty-shirted, looks-over-substance, brainless television personality, and his not-so-extreme makeover is symbolic of everything that's wrong with television news nowadays, especially at CNN. Sure, I know anchors from Murrow to Jennings probably used performance-enhancing hair products, whether it was dye or a toupee (I think the Hair Club for Men preceded Murrow's generation, but maybe not the Jennings-Brokaw-Rather era), but with on-air personalities like Roberts, his appearance is all he has. There is no substance below the perfectly-coiffed veneer.
And, as I've said often, CNN is supposed to be the premier, 24-hour news network. With the station's "American Morning" show finally addressing an actual news issue (the presidential election) instead of concentrating on the latest abducted attractive white woman or celebrity scandal, Roberts is playing the role of an actual newsman, interviewing presidential candidates and pundits on a regular basis. And to prepare for this meaty role, instead of hitting a library or the Internet, he went to a beauty salon.
CNN no longer believes that Americans are up for serious reporting, and, believe it or not, the network agrees with me. How do I know? Because while in Mexico, my English-language television choices were quite limited, so I found myself watching a lot of CNN International, which, not coincidentally, takes very little of its content from the American CNN. We got Wolf Blitzer and his election coverage, but Roberts and his "American Morning" sidekick, the beautiful-but-slight Kiran Chetry, were nowhere to be found. Instead, the CNN International morning featured a straight-up, old-fashioned, content-driven news presentation, anchored by a woman who looked like a drag queen. I'm serious. My wife, who always thinks I'm too harsh, looked at her and said, "Oh, she does look like a drag queen." In fact, she looked remarkably like Carmelita on "Dirty Sexy Money."
Okay, I know I've veered a bit off course, but my point is that when broadcasting to the world, CNN offers a content-heavy news show featuring anchors chosen for their intellect. But for American audiences, the network opts for a beauty queen and Ted Baxter.
With so much riding on the 2008 presidential election after two damaging terms of George W. Bush, it is maddening to me that the few Americans that actually try and inform themselves by watching CNN in the morning are given very little substance to work with.
With John Edwards dropping out of the race, and John McCain taking a frontrunner role on the GOP side, something that seemed impossible six months ago, you can be sure that if you turn on CNN tomorrow morning, you won't have to look at all that grey hair on John Roberts's head. We will be in excellent hands ... if Vidal Sassoon decides to run for president.
It seems that between the time I left for my vacation and the time I got back, Roberts decided to dye his steel grey hair. Either that, or he was attacked by an angry shoemaker armed with a bottle of low-grade shoe polish. I'm betting on a trip to a trendy salon. If you want to see a before and after for yourself, here is a photo of Roberts pre-beauty binge (and here is another), and here is a video of him interviewing Mitt Romney this morning. Did Roberts think we wouldn't notice?
Now, right about now you may be saying, "Who cares what a CNN morning anchor does with his hair?" And, normally, you would be right. But Roberts is a blowhard, empty-shirted, looks-over-substance, brainless television personality, and his not-so-extreme makeover is symbolic of everything that's wrong with television news nowadays, especially at CNN. Sure, I know anchors from Murrow to Jennings probably used performance-enhancing hair products, whether it was dye or a toupee (I think the Hair Club for Men preceded Murrow's generation, but maybe not the Jennings-Brokaw-Rather era), but with on-air personalities like Roberts, his appearance is all he has. There is no substance below the perfectly-coiffed veneer.
And, as I've said often, CNN is supposed to be the premier, 24-hour news network. With the station's "American Morning" show finally addressing an actual news issue (the presidential election) instead of concentrating on the latest abducted attractive white woman or celebrity scandal, Roberts is playing the role of an actual newsman, interviewing presidential candidates and pundits on a regular basis. And to prepare for this meaty role, instead of hitting a library or the Internet, he went to a beauty salon.
CNN no longer believes that Americans are up for serious reporting, and, believe it or not, the network agrees with me. How do I know? Because while in Mexico, my English-language television choices were quite limited, so I found myself watching a lot of CNN International, which, not coincidentally, takes very little of its content from the American CNN. We got Wolf Blitzer and his election coverage, but Roberts and his "American Morning" sidekick, the beautiful-but-slight Kiran Chetry, were nowhere to be found. Instead, the CNN International morning featured a straight-up, old-fashioned, content-driven news presentation, anchored by a woman who looked like a drag queen. I'm serious. My wife, who always thinks I'm too harsh, looked at her and said, "Oh, she does look like a drag queen." In fact, she looked remarkably like Carmelita on "Dirty Sexy Money."
Okay, I know I've veered a bit off course, but my point is that when broadcasting to the world, CNN offers a content-heavy news show featuring anchors chosen for their intellect. But for American audiences, the network opts for a beauty queen and Ted Baxter.
With so much riding on the 2008 presidential election after two damaging terms of George W. Bush, it is maddening to me that the few Americans that actually try and inform themselves by watching CNN in the morning are given very little substance to work with.
With John Edwards dropping out of the race, and John McCain taking a frontrunner role on the GOP side, something that seemed impossible six months ago, you can be sure that if you turn on CNN tomorrow morning, you won't have to look at all that grey hair on John Roberts's head. We will be in excellent hands ... if Vidal Sassoon decides to run for president.
Friday, January 25, 2008
"Breaking Bad" May Not Be "Weeds," But It Breaks Pretty Good
[NOTE: The following article will also appear as my regular television column for WILDsound.]
No matter what you think about "Breaking Bad" (AMC, with new episodes airing for the first time on Sundays at 10 p.m. Eastern), you have to hand it to executive producer Vince Gilligan. He really knows how to get your attention.
The show's pilot begins with Walter White (Bryan Cranston, unrecognizable from his days as the dad on "Malcolm in the Middle"), dressed only in a pair of tighty-whities and a gas mask strapped to his face, wildly driving a Winnebago filled with three lifeless bodies through a barren New Mexico desert. After crashing the vehicle, Walter hears sirens, so he puts on his shirt, points his pistol at the open road, and waits.
Is Gilligan, a former executive producer of "The X Files," who wrote and directed the pilot, trying too hard, or do the first few minutes of "Breaking Bad" suck you in? Well, a little of both. While the opening smacks of "Wouldn't it be cool if?" bravado, I dare anyone to watch Cranston's gonzo performance and not want to see what happens next.
Of course, Gilligan is no fool. You don't see what happens next, but instead are transported to three weeks earlier, where we meet a Walter that can't possibly be the same guy we've just watched. He's a meek, broke chemistry teacher, forced to work a second job at a car wash, and an easy target for his alpha male, Neanderthal brother-in-law, Hank (Dean Norris), a DEA agent who seems to enjoy humiliating Walter for sport. When Hank gets Walter to hold his gun, the timidity Walter displays makes you wonder how he ever gets to be the guy nearly naked and armed in the New Mexico desert.
We soon find out that Walter and his loyal-but-put-upon wife, Skyler (Anna Gunn), are parents to a smart-tongued teenage son, Walter Jr. (RJ Mitte), who suffers from cerebral palsy, leaving him with slurred speech, a need for crutches, and daily challenges, such as an inability to dress himself in the fitting room during a family shopping trip. (Mitte actually has a mild case of the condition.)
Just when you think Walter's life can't get any worse, he passes out at the car wash and is subsequently informed that he has inoperable lung cancer. Rather than freak out, he is more concerned with the mustard stain on the doctor's lab coat. It's as if Walter is freed by his diagnosis, allowing him to assert his masculinity (he later physically confronts a tough guy who is making fun of his son's disability in the clothing store) and, ultimately, to "break bad" and enter a life of crime.
Walter, with his renewed vigor for life, goes for a ride-along on one of Hank's meth lab busts, where he witnesses Jesse (Aaron Paul), an old student of his (that he failed), escaping from a neighbor's window (he was sleeping with her). Walter decides that rather than turn the kid in, to make money for his family, he should use his expertise in chemistry to go into business with the now partnerless Jesse. Eventually, using Walter's last $7000, they buy a Winnebago and drive to the middle of nowhere to cook up their product. Walter strips to his underwear so as not to come home smelling like meth, and we start to see how he found himself in the situation that opens the episode.
While Jesse fancies himself an artist and master meth cooker (calling himself "Capt. Cook," complete with matching vanity license plates), Walter soon proves himself to be even better, developing a batch of the drug that amazes a previously skeptical Jesse.
Every plot point of "Breaking Bad" feels like it has been scripted according to the schematic of a Robert McKee-like formula, with Walter's misfortunes arriving in perfect intervals to compound the desperation of his life. Gilligan even employs the most tired of foreshadowing tactics, having Walter break into coughing spells to portend his imminent diagnosis of a fatal disease.
But the show also rings true in a way that few other television programs would have the guts to be. When Walter tells Jesse that he can't sample the meth, saying, "we sell, we don't use," Jesse is completely unaffected, telling Walter that he has watched too many drug movies. It was a point in most shows where the previously battling odd couple partners would have found "the moment" of bonding, but Gilligan never lets you (or Walter) off the hook for what Walter is doing and who he is doing it with. Jesse may see himself as an artist, but he's a meth manufacturer and user, not exactly a resume that would predict stability and reliability. The point is successfully hammered home when Jesse's miscalculation allows his former partner and the partner's cousin (a dealer with the requisite fighting pit bull) to pounce and threaten Jesse and Walter's lives, leading to Walter's near-naked drive through the desert.
Even though "Breaking Bad" is plotted to within an inch of its life, Gilligan's tough-minded approach to Walter gives the show integrity. He doesn't vilify Walter for his choices, but he doesn't absolve or glorify him, either. It is no coincidence that the pilot ends with Walter coming home from his near-miss with the two thugs, getting into his bed, and forcefully taking a shocked (but, seemingly, very aroused) Skyler from behind.
I'm not sure why so many writers have referred to "Breaking Bad" as a dark comedy. The "dark" part is dead-on. Cranston must be in heaven playing a guy like Michael Douglas's character in "Falling Down" who is busting out after years of keeping all his rage inside. Cranston, after all, has spent years playing lovable buffoons. His commitment is evident, no more so than when he parades around in his underwear, unabashedly exhibiting the flab of a 50-year-old high school teacher. There are moments here and there where you may laugh a bit, usually from shear discomfort (as in the dorkiness and lack of coordination Walter shows when he tries to trash his car wash boss's merchandise upon quitting), but anyone coming to "Breaking Bad" looking for comedy will be sorely disappointed. That's okay, though. As a dark drama about one man's descent into the drug world in a misguided (or maybe not, depending how you look at it) attempt to take care of his family, the show certainly works.
It's hard to believe I've written this much about "Breaking Bad" without addressing the 800-pound gorilla in the room: The Showtime series "Weeds" (currently between seasons). After three years of Nancy Botwin (a radiant and pitch-perfect Mary Louise Parker) dealing marijuana to keep her two kids and flaky brother-in-law living in their Southern California McMansion after the untimely death of her husband, "Breaking Bad" sounds like a knock-off of "Weeds." While, admittedly, the pitches share some basic elements, the shows feel completely different.
"Weeds" is truly a dark comedy, driven mostly by its array of interesting, quirky and original characters. From Kevin Nealon's pot-smoking, crucifix-stealing accountant (yes, he steals a giant cross off of the top of a church and stows it in a marijuana grow house), to Elizabeth Perkins's angry, maternally challenged PTA mom gone bad, to Tonye Patano's pot-growing, tough-as-nails grandmother, when you visit Agrestic and Majestic, the McCommunities featured in the show, you're never too far from a moment of comic brilliance.
And yet, "Weeds," like "Breaking Bad," is situated firmly on the dark side. Sure, Nancy is intelligent and resilient, which makes you root for, at least a little, but she has paid the price for her willingness to deal drugs to keep up her family's lifestyle. She's watched her older son enter the business, her younger son go mad, her second husband die at the hands of drug lords, and herself essentially be sold into slavery to pay off a debt to a ruthless kingpin, blackmailed by a sleazy private investigator, and close to apprehension by the law, leading up to the final moment of last season, when she ignites her McMansion as wild fires burn Agrestic and Majestic to the ground. It's an act of catharsis as much as an effort to destroy evidence.
That "Weeds" can combine first-rate comedy with gut-wrenching, consequence-laden drama, not to mention a large, multidimensional, multicultural, and well-developed ensemble of characters you want to see more of, led by the prodigious talents of Parker, who manages to keep you invested in a character that is, after all, a drug dealer neglecting her kids, is an epic television achievement that sets the bar pretty high for "Breaking Bad." While "Breaking Bad" isn't up to the level of "Weeds," it's fine, because "Breaking Bad" is pretty damn good on its own. Gilligan has said in media interviews that he was developing his show long before "Weeds" hit the air, and it shows, since it's not trying to be anything other than itself. Cranston is the real revelation here. He is a pretty compelling lead, showing a range that, frankly, I didn't think he had in him.
In fact, if you told me six months ago that I could turn on my television and see Cranston driving a meth-lab Winnebago in his underwear through the New Mexico desert, I would have figured that you were making use of Nancy Botwin's services a bit too much. But now that I've seen it, I have to admit it: I am interested in seeing where Cranston's character is going next.
No matter what you think about "Breaking Bad" (AMC, with new episodes airing for the first time on Sundays at 10 p.m. Eastern), you have to hand it to executive producer Vince Gilligan. He really knows how to get your attention.
The show's pilot begins with Walter White (Bryan Cranston, unrecognizable from his days as the dad on "Malcolm in the Middle"), dressed only in a pair of tighty-whities and a gas mask strapped to his face, wildly driving a Winnebago filled with three lifeless bodies through a barren New Mexico desert. After crashing the vehicle, Walter hears sirens, so he puts on his shirt, points his pistol at the open road, and waits.
Is Gilligan, a former executive producer of "The X Files," who wrote and directed the pilot, trying too hard, or do the first few minutes of "Breaking Bad" suck you in? Well, a little of both. While the opening smacks of "Wouldn't it be cool if?" bravado, I dare anyone to watch Cranston's gonzo performance and not want to see what happens next.
Of course, Gilligan is no fool. You don't see what happens next, but instead are transported to three weeks earlier, where we meet a Walter that can't possibly be the same guy we've just watched. He's a meek, broke chemistry teacher, forced to work a second job at a car wash, and an easy target for his alpha male, Neanderthal brother-in-law, Hank (Dean Norris), a DEA agent who seems to enjoy humiliating Walter for sport. When Hank gets Walter to hold his gun, the timidity Walter displays makes you wonder how he ever gets to be the guy nearly naked and armed in the New Mexico desert.
We soon find out that Walter and his loyal-but-put-upon wife, Skyler (Anna Gunn), are parents to a smart-tongued teenage son, Walter Jr. (RJ Mitte), who suffers from cerebral palsy, leaving him with slurred speech, a need for crutches, and daily challenges, such as an inability to dress himself in the fitting room during a family shopping trip. (Mitte actually has a mild case of the condition.)
Just when you think Walter's life can't get any worse, he passes out at the car wash and is subsequently informed that he has inoperable lung cancer. Rather than freak out, he is more concerned with the mustard stain on the doctor's lab coat. It's as if Walter is freed by his diagnosis, allowing him to assert his masculinity (he later physically confronts a tough guy who is making fun of his son's disability in the clothing store) and, ultimately, to "break bad" and enter a life of crime.
Walter, with his renewed vigor for life, goes for a ride-along on one of Hank's meth lab busts, where he witnesses Jesse (Aaron Paul), an old student of his (that he failed), escaping from a neighbor's window (he was sleeping with her). Walter decides that rather than turn the kid in, to make money for his family, he should use his expertise in chemistry to go into business with the now partnerless Jesse. Eventually, using Walter's last $7000, they buy a Winnebago and drive to the middle of nowhere to cook up their product. Walter strips to his underwear so as not to come home smelling like meth, and we start to see how he found himself in the situation that opens the episode.
While Jesse fancies himself an artist and master meth cooker (calling himself "Capt. Cook," complete with matching vanity license plates), Walter soon proves himself to be even better, developing a batch of the drug that amazes a previously skeptical Jesse.
Every plot point of "Breaking Bad" feels like it has been scripted according to the schematic of a Robert McKee-like formula, with Walter's misfortunes arriving in perfect intervals to compound the desperation of his life. Gilligan even employs the most tired of foreshadowing tactics, having Walter break into coughing spells to portend his imminent diagnosis of a fatal disease.
But the show also rings true in a way that few other television programs would have the guts to be. When Walter tells Jesse that he can't sample the meth, saying, "we sell, we don't use," Jesse is completely unaffected, telling Walter that he has watched too many drug movies. It was a point in most shows where the previously battling odd couple partners would have found "the moment" of bonding, but Gilligan never lets you (or Walter) off the hook for what Walter is doing and who he is doing it with. Jesse may see himself as an artist, but he's a meth manufacturer and user, not exactly a resume that would predict stability and reliability. The point is successfully hammered home when Jesse's miscalculation allows his former partner and the partner's cousin (a dealer with the requisite fighting pit bull) to pounce and threaten Jesse and Walter's lives, leading to Walter's near-naked drive through the desert.
Even though "Breaking Bad" is plotted to within an inch of its life, Gilligan's tough-minded approach to Walter gives the show integrity. He doesn't vilify Walter for his choices, but he doesn't absolve or glorify him, either. It is no coincidence that the pilot ends with Walter coming home from his near-miss with the two thugs, getting into his bed, and forcefully taking a shocked (but, seemingly, very aroused) Skyler from behind.
I'm not sure why so many writers have referred to "Breaking Bad" as a dark comedy. The "dark" part is dead-on. Cranston must be in heaven playing a guy like Michael Douglas's character in "Falling Down" who is busting out after years of keeping all his rage inside. Cranston, after all, has spent years playing lovable buffoons. His commitment is evident, no more so than when he parades around in his underwear, unabashedly exhibiting the flab of a 50-year-old high school teacher. There are moments here and there where you may laugh a bit, usually from shear discomfort (as in the dorkiness and lack of coordination Walter shows when he tries to trash his car wash boss's merchandise upon quitting), but anyone coming to "Breaking Bad" looking for comedy will be sorely disappointed. That's okay, though. As a dark drama about one man's descent into the drug world in a misguided (or maybe not, depending how you look at it) attempt to take care of his family, the show certainly works.
It's hard to believe I've written this much about "Breaking Bad" without addressing the 800-pound gorilla in the room: The Showtime series "Weeds" (currently between seasons). After three years of Nancy Botwin (a radiant and pitch-perfect Mary Louise Parker) dealing marijuana to keep her two kids and flaky brother-in-law living in their Southern California McMansion after the untimely death of her husband, "Breaking Bad" sounds like a knock-off of "Weeds." While, admittedly, the pitches share some basic elements, the shows feel completely different.
"Weeds" is truly a dark comedy, driven mostly by its array of interesting, quirky and original characters. From Kevin Nealon's pot-smoking, crucifix-stealing accountant (yes, he steals a giant cross off of the top of a church and stows it in a marijuana grow house), to Elizabeth Perkins's angry, maternally challenged PTA mom gone bad, to Tonye Patano's pot-growing, tough-as-nails grandmother, when you visit Agrestic and Majestic, the McCommunities featured in the show, you're never too far from a moment of comic brilliance.
And yet, "Weeds," like "Breaking Bad," is situated firmly on the dark side. Sure, Nancy is intelligent and resilient, which makes you root for, at least a little, but she has paid the price for her willingness to deal drugs to keep up her family's lifestyle. She's watched her older son enter the business, her younger son go mad, her second husband die at the hands of drug lords, and herself essentially be sold into slavery to pay off a debt to a ruthless kingpin, blackmailed by a sleazy private investigator, and close to apprehension by the law, leading up to the final moment of last season, when she ignites her McMansion as wild fires burn Agrestic and Majestic to the ground. It's an act of catharsis as much as an effort to destroy evidence.
That "Weeds" can combine first-rate comedy with gut-wrenching, consequence-laden drama, not to mention a large, multidimensional, multicultural, and well-developed ensemble of characters you want to see more of, led by the prodigious talents of Parker, who manages to keep you invested in a character that is, after all, a drug dealer neglecting her kids, is an epic television achievement that sets the bar pretty high for "Breaking Bad." While "Breaking Bad" isn't up to the level of "Weeds," it's fine, because "Breaking Bad" is pretty damn good on its own. Gilligan has said in media interviews that he was developing his show long before "Weeds" hit the air, and it shows, since it's not trying to be anything other than itself. Cranston is the real revelation here. He is a pretty compelling lead, showing a range that, frankly, I didn't think he had in him.
In fact, if you told me six months ago that I could turn on my television and see Cranston driving a meth-lab Winnebago in his underwear through the New Mexico desert, I would have figured that you were making use of Nancy Botwin's services a bit too much. But now that I've seen it, I have to admit it: I am interested in seeing where Cranston's character is going next.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
