“The Old Gods and the New”

May 8th, 2012

As I had noted on Twitter, and as many of you seem to have discovered after visiting the site yesterday, this weekend didn’t provide enough time to do a full review of “The Old Gods and the New” justice. However, David Chen at /Film and his podcasting partner Joanna Robinson were kind enough to have me on “A Cast of Kings,” their Game of Thrones podcast, for a discussion about the episode.

A Cast of Kings S2E06: The Old Gods and the New – /Film

A Cast of Kings is a podcast featuring recaps and reviews of each week’s episode of HBO’s Game of Thrones. This week, Joanna and Dave discuss the second season’s sixth episode, The Old Gods and the New. Special guest Myles McNutt joins us from Cultural Learnings.

It’s a lengthy and diverse discussion, ranging from more serious considerations of how the show has changed from the books to equally serious conversations about Ygritte’s strategic body movements. It’s quite a fun show, I thought, so if you want to know more of my thoughts on the episode it’s a fine way to spend roughly an hour of your time.

If there are any other issues you’d like to discuss about the episode, feel free to leave a comment below and I’ll hope to chime in. In the meantime, you could also head back to listen to past “A Cast of Kings” episodes.

“The Ghosts of Harrenhal”

April 29th, 2012

“I still can’t believe that you’re real.”

Perhaps it’s my relatively unromantic disposition, but I’ve never really considered love in the context of Game of Thrones. It’s obviously part of Martin’s books, but it’s so often quashed, or forbidden, or broken, that it’s hard to identify it as one of the key themes (or even as a theme in some instances). However, as I noted in last week’s review, the introduction of Robb’s love interest reminded us that romance and desire are not entirely foreign concepts within the framework of this story.

However, as “The Ghosts of Harrenhal” observes (and as we’ll see continue into next week’s episode as well), that love is rarely consummated. Sam speaks of Gilly in hypotheticals, in love with a memory more than a real person, while Jorah’s love for Dany (captured in the quote above) makes both of them uncomfortable, an unspoken reality they dare not bring to the surface lest it shatter their existing relationship. In other words, their love remains unromantic out of fear of what romantic love would look like, relying instead on the love you have for a brother or a sister or for your King. It’s this love that ultimately threads through “The Ghosts of Harrenhal,” and the season at large, and it’s a love that may be equally tenuous depending on its object.

After last week’s shadow baby cliffhanger, Benioff and Weiss waste no time: within minutes, Renly Baratheon is dead at the hands of a shadow bearing a striking resemblance to his brother Stannis, Brienne and Catelyn are being blamed for his death, and Ser Loras and Margaery are mourning over the loss of their King. Or, rather, Ser Loras is mourning the loss of his lover, while Margaery mourns the loss of her title as Queen. While I’ve been generally pleased to see Margaery’s character expanded, I do wish the show could hit a different note: her ambitions are made almost too clear in her little conversation with Littlefinger, devoid of any affection or sense of loss for Renly. While she obviously didn’t love Renly as her brother did, just as Renly didn’t love her as he loved her brother, there is a cold pragmatism to Margaery that I’m not sure I like.

It does make sense, of course: Margaery, given her position as the daughter of a wealthy family, is very well aware of her duty. She was to marry Renly because that is her destiny, a role that Sansa (unseen in this episode, but returning next week) once viewed as a romantic one. While Joffrey’s terror has shown her otherwise, it seems Margaery has never had any romantic notions about what her role is in these circumstances. While the fact that Renly was gay precluded any ability to truly fall in love with her King, that was not a barrier for her provided she gain the position she desires.

What’s missing in Margaery is the love that Renly’s people apparently felt for him, like the love Brienne demonstrated as she wept over his body. However, part of the show’s point (which Margaery is being used to symbolize) is that such love is fleeting. The binary between Renly and Stannis was always positioned as one of likeability, of their ability to rally people around them, but Renly’s likeability didn’t do him any favors once he was dead. His people might have loved him, but in his absence everyone but Loras is quick to bend the knee to the invading Stannis. While they might be more likely to choose Renly if given the choice, their loyalty depends on the state of affairs more broadly, which means that even the King in the North (who is equally beloved by his people) is vulnerable should he lose any kind of favor. It’s actually the same strategy that the undermanned Night’s Watch raiding party is using North of the Wall: by killing Mance Rayder, they seek to disband those wildlings who have come together around his cult of personality.

I raise these comparisons because it’s a question that’s affecting just about every character. We discover that Bran is doing well at Winterfell, coming into his own as its “little lord” and understanding the potential ramifications of not responding to an attack so far into their territory (just as Robb was forced to respond to Ned’s imprisonment lest he appear weak). Similarly, the person leading that attack is trying to stake his own claim: after seeing his sister’s rapport with the Iron Men who man their ships, Theon takes the sea bitch on an uncharted path with eyes on a bigger prize, all in order to earn the respect of those men (and the father they symbolize). Dany, meanwhile, is trying to discover just what it will take to cross the narrow sea, forced to curry favor from rich men who all desire something from her in return. We could even attach the theme to Davos and Stannis, as the former laments the latter’s decision to sell his shadow to the red priestess, and wondering at what point the King’s victories will become Melisandre’s in the eyes of his men.

These characters are all negotiating the minefield that is winning the love of their subjects, something that the actual King has no interest in. Tyrion’s walk through the streets of King’s Landing reveals that Joffrey is as despised in the streets as he is in the Red Keep, although we also learn that it’s Tyrion (the demon monkey) who is often blamed for pulling the strings. While Jorah is perhaps right to express skepticism over what would happen if Dany returned to Westeros amidst this political turmoil, there is no question that the people of King’s Landing would be open to a change in leadership. The show largely makes this concern over unrest in shorthand, but it’s nicely integrated throughout “The Ghosts of Harrenhal,” popping up in Tywin’s meetings in addition to this thematic line between characters.

Those meetings are part of the narrative that provides the episode its title, really transitioning Arya into a key figure in this story. While the introduction of Tywin Lannister brings another recognizable character into the fray, Arya provides our viewpoint within the walls of Harrenhal. We only sit at Tywin’s table when she is present, we only meet the people she meets, and every one of those people is defined based on their relationship with her. It’s one of the purest evocations of the book’s isolated point-of-view structure that the show has done to date, and it’s kind of fantastic. Charles Dance and Maisie Williams are great at playing off of one another (with the former’s expanded role a much-appreciated bit of adaptation), the introduction of Jaqen H’qhar and his three wishes (read: three murders) is well-handled, and the show has found a far more interesting way to handle exposition. By filtering it through Arya, information about the Lannister troop movements or the state of Robb’s campaign become tension-filled and borderline suspenseful, Williams’ eyes keeping our attention while the information is delivered. It’s a new dynamic I’ve very much enjoyed, and one which remains equally strong in next week’s episode.

Similarly, the introduction of Qarth proper has provided momentum to Dany’s (purposeful) non-starter of a storyline, albeit one that relies more on cheap symbols of exoticism (like the mysterious woman’s metal mask) than on any sort of cultural specificity. The shorthand is likely necessitated in a shorter season, but I enjoyed the way the show used the tools at their disposal to navigate it. While Irri and Doreah have to this point been largely marginalized within the narrative, we know enough about them to know that the former is Dany’s link to the Dothraki while the latter provides her link to the common folk (and the sexual pleasures associated with it). As a result, pitting the two characters against one another is a great way to capture the difficult situation Dany finds herself in, wanting to stay attached to her past while being prompted by the Qartheen culture to engage in a more typical cultural dance of beauty and elegance. Irri’s irritation, if you’ll forgive the pun, is easily recognizable, while Doreah’s eyes grow wide at the thought of gowns and being asked to schmooze with the male denizens (although we never know if she actually prostitutes herself out in the process, something one feels Dany would disapprove of and which would fall into problematic patterns for the show at large).

There is a lot of plot and exposition to be dealt with in “The Ghosts of Harrenhal,” with the introduction of many elements that will be important later. However, despite this, there is a pleasant rhythm with the episode, the sense that these scenes speak to not only those plot points but also continually evolving relationships. The episode ends on the death of “The Tickler” at the hands of Jaqen, but that scene begins with Arya teasing Gendry over his poor practicing technique, a glimpse into the dynamic we saw develop briefly in earlier episodes this season. We don’t get to spend as much time with it as we might like, time being of the essence and all, but that one moment suggests the existence of others, a suggestion that holds great value. Similarly, while we only drop in on the Night’s Watch as they reach the Fist of the First Men, Grenn and Delorous Edd’s annoyance with Sam’s book knowledge being thrown around suggests it’s been a far longer walk for them than it has been for us, referring to an ongoing joke in the books by creating a sequence that suggests its duration without actually showing it all to the audience.

Game of Thrones lives and dies based on those sequences, largely because it depends on our relationships with these characters. While plot will be a dominating force, and will become more dominating with time, we won’t care about it if the people involved aren’t well-drawn. In other words, to bring everything full circle, the show is forced to win our love before it’s able to successfully disrupt that relationship. I saw some rumblings last week about people upset about the introduction of outright fantasy into a world that, to this point, was largely devoid of shadow babies and the like. However, I’d argue the show has built up more than enough goodwill for a measure of trust, the same trust that soldiers put into Kings or Queens in times of struggle. Sometimes that trust derives from religious doctrine, as in the case of Melisandre’s God of Light, but sometimes it is something more intangible. Catelyn Stark has no title, and makes no claim to any title, and yet Brienne chooses to pledge her sword to her based on the bravery she has displayed. While we might associate power with military might or the knowledge that drives it, loyalty and the love it suggests needs only a connection driven by belief and feeling.

It’s a connection that “The Ghosts of Harrenhal” did a fine job of making with this particular viewer, and a connection that really comes into its own in next week’s episode.

Cultural Observations

• I was disappointed to see that we get only an offhand, almost sarcastic reference to Daisy’s fate after Joffrey’s torture in last week’s episode. Without repeating my entire case, it felt off for us not to see Tyrion’s response to her condition, and her absence beyond that mention here confirms that she was more an object to demonstrate Joffrey’s cruelty than an actual character experiencing part of her narrative.
• Point of note: This is the first episode of the season to feature no nudity beyond perhaps a bare breast or two in the streets of King’s Landing or the parties of Qarth (I wasn’t scanning looking for them).
• The show is getting good use out of Bronn, bringing him into situations like Tyrion’s walk through King’s Landing or his meeting with the Pyromancer as a comic foil. It livens up the exposition of it all, and the more we see of Bronn the better in my eyes.
• Our first glimpse of the dragons continues to show us only one dragon at a time, and for only a brief sequence at that – they’re definitely playing it safe with the budget in this instance, and I’ll be interested to see if that means they’re saving the money for a larger sequence later, or had no money to begin with.
• For the non-readers, this is going to be an important episode for where the season goes from this point, so I’d suggest a rewatch and perhaps even some notetaking if you want to be advantageous about it.

April 22nd, 2012

Given that I still have a half dozen things to finish before my evening comes to an end, I am risking falling into a deep hole responding to this episode of Mad Men immediately after it airs, but there was a point I wanted to make that I decided wouldn’t fit comfortably into even a shorter series of tweets.

Accordingly, presenting this as a “review” of the trippy “Far Away Places” is perhaps a bit disingenuous, but I hope that a few thoughts about the structure of tonight’s episode will be worth your time despite not being surrounded by another two thousand words.

There is a great narrative power in that moment when you realize Roger squatting in Don’s office is taking place on the same morning during which “Far Away Places” began. It’s a subtle revelation – the show doesn’t come right out and announce it, allowing the viewer to come to those terms itself. Once you do, your mind goes to what Don was doing on the other end of that phone call and what had him in such a panic, but the episode purposefully halts your progress. Roger’s storyline is a diversion, an LSD-fueled journey into a marriage that the show has largely ignored since it began and which comes to an end with the help of the psychadelics in question, but it puts off the narrative reconciliation promised by the device it introduces. It builds suspense for the inevitably glimpse at Don and Megan’s trip to Howard Johnson’s, a journey that needed only orange sherbet to devolve into a tense deconstruction of a marriage that seems built to explode like Linguo, the grammar-correcting robot.

However, this was one of those cases where AMC’s incessant commercials felt like a point of distraction. The commercials kept interrupting stories before they could truly get a rhythm going, disrupting the sense that these were three stories. While all dramas would have this problem, with no network on television airing dramas in “three acts” in the traditional sense, there’s something about AMC’s commercials that seem more common than the traditional program, perhaps in part based on the decision to run the episode in 64 minutes instead of 60. It’s normally not so much of an issue, but here the unnatural act breaks felt more unnatural than ever.

While this might lead some to make the argument that the show would be better if there were no commercial breaks at all, as if the show were on HBO or watched on DVD, I’d actually disagree. To me, the commercial breaks are a valuable break from the different timelines in the episode – in fact, I almost wish I had been watching in real time (I was catching up with my DVR recording) so that I could have had at least a few moments to reflect in the middle of the episode. Even when I’m not sitting down to write 2000 words about these episodes based on time commitments, there’s something valuable about being forced to sit down and think about what you’ve watched, and commercials build that into the episode.

It would just have been nice if, in the case of this episode in particular, they could have built them into the moments where they would be most useful, rather than scattered throughout the episode at seemingly (if not actually) random intervals. There’s a logic to including more smaller commercial breaks, forcing the viewer to stay glued to their seats in case it comes back quickly, but I wish we lived in a world where the show could have at least bundled commercials into longer blocks at two points over the course of the episode to better reflect the content therein.

I need to restrain myself from discussing that content, but I did want to make one observation. While I quite liked Bert stepping back from his benevolent observer role to chide Don on his careless lack of attention to the actual business, I almost would have liked the various threads not to be linked together. That scene at the end felt a bit too cute, having all of the characters walk by Don in the conference room like that. Peggy’s storyline was in part so interesting because she never really rationalized her behavior, with no scene that “summed up” her experience: she imploded in a pitch, she went to the movies, she gave a dude a hand job, she fell asleep, she found out Ginsberg was from Mars (or a concentration camp), and then she called up her boyfriend to reference the Holocaust during a booty call. That’s a lot to process, and the show really leaves it to the viewer – while we see Peggy the next morning in that final scene, her perspective is still the sum of these parts crammed into a suitably screwy equation. Something about the ending seemed to try to do the math for Don more than the show did with Peggy (and more than it would have to with Roger, where the LSD did the math for him), and it felt like it worked against the narrative device more than it helped it.

However, I’ll leave the larger thoughts to those who have deadlines and commitments, and look forward to seeing how others parse out the episode (and how some of you might parse it out in the comments below).

Cultural Observations

• I’m curious whether the implied handjob was what drew the show the Sexual content disclaimer, or whether it was Jane in her robe the morning after the LSD trip. And yes, this is what I think about when I see one of those disclaimers.
• The close focus of this episode obviously allows for the show to save some money by not featuring certain actors, but it’s interesting that we do see Pete, who briefly informs Peggy that her frustration with Heinz has her off the account. That might be part of Kartheiser’s contract (note that he’s third-billed behind Hamm and Moss), but it also reflects his prominence within the day-to-day of the business.
• While I won’t be able to drop in every week, I hope to be able to at least return to the game later in the season once the semester is over in a month or so.

“Garden of Bones”

April 22nd, 2012

“Too much pain will spoil the pleasure.”

One of my general criticisms for “Garden of Bones,” which is Vanessa Taylor’s first script credit on Game of Thrones after joining as a co-executive producer this season, it’s that choosing a pull quote was a bit too difficult. It was an episode filled with lines that felt like they were aiming too much towards broader thematic ideas, pulling me out of the moment and placing me into the head of the writer.

It doesn’t mean that the episode isn’t filled with a lot of great sequences, or that those lines aren’t evocative of key themes that are valuable to the series’ future. However, there’s something about the episode’s exposition that calls attention to itself: a rarely seen character emerges with new confidence early on so that his comeuppance later has relevance, a single character out of a larger group is awkwardly signaled out by his full name for no reason other than informing the viewer who he is, and another name is conveniently used in a conversation just as another character needs to learn it.

It’s not enough, as noted, to entirely derail the larger function of “Garden of Bones,” but there does come a point where an episode that begins with a Westerossi Meet Cute begins to flow less naturally, a point that this episode reached as the exposition burden of the early parts of the season seems to come to a head.

That introduction came out harsher than what I expected when I sat down to write it, but it’s something that became far clearer watching the episode through the second time. Part of it comes from knowing the books, and thus mentally categorizing information into “Things From the Books” and “Things Not From the Books” – for better or for worse, that categorization makes exposition far more apparent than it would to a non-reader, who is actually learning all information at the same time. While my Mother might be more confused watching the show than I am, for example, she might be less distracted by the way information is imparted, which could be a blessing.

To clarify, I do think that the show has done a good job expanding the story in general, and I am not suggesting the show should have followed the books slavishly. However, the aforementioned Westerossi Meet Cute between Robb and Oona Chaplin’s mysterious Volantis-born field medic fell flat on second viewing especially, so clearly serving a particular function that I’m wondering if even non-readers could tell it was an expansion of the book’s narrative. While Robb’s story is told through the actions of other characters in the books, his absence used as a narrative device my Martin, the show is smart to ignore this and actually give Richard Madden something to do given that “out of sight, out of mind” is a major problem in ensemble dramas like this one – my Mother, if she’ll excuse me using her as an example, was confused about who Renly was last week because we hadn’t seen him in so long.

The option of Robb sitting out much of this season was not a viable one, but this felt too contrived. This wasn’t a seed being planted so much as a plant being moved into place, fully formed in our brains based on the romantic tropes being played with. In truth, the show actually hasn’t dealt much with actual romance to this point, so this is the first time they’ve had to deal with a more traditional romantic pairing that wasn’t caught up in some sort of arrangement (Sansa and Joffrey, Renly and Margaery) or already established as a couple (Ned and Catelyn, Cersei and Jaime). The problem is that I’m pretty sure any viewer who watched this would know immediately that she is intended as Robb’s love interest, and there’s a simplicity to that which I object to. Oona Chaplin is fine as the character, and I actually feel the relationship will help the show in the long run, but for the moment it lacked the fluidity of the show’s more compelling narrative moves.

This discussion of romantic relationships does raise one more point that I wanted to address, based around Joffrey’s less-than-romantic interaction with Ros and one of her companions. In a great interview with Alyssa Rosenberg, Bryan Cogman discusses the now ubiquitous “sexposition,” rightfully objecting (as I did a few weeks ago) to the term’s use to describe nudity more generally. However, he also makes a more general statement about the term that I want to address briefly in connection with this scene (which is not sexposition, to be clear, but shares something in common):

“Of course, there were plenty of exposition scenes that did feature sex (hence the term) but I also take exception with the idea that the sex is unrelated to what’s being discussed… but that’s a whole other conversation.“

Without perhaps getting into the whole conversation, I do agree that sexposition often says something about sex. However, I’d also argue it says something very problematic about sex, at least in its most common manifestation. There is a logic to using sex as a space for exposition, as it’s an environment which takes place in private and shows people often at their most vulnerable, thus making them more likely to open up. The sequences also often reveal something about the sexual politics of Westeros, which are a key part of Martin’s books even if he explores them through language more often than through the carnal act in and of itself.

The problem is where that lesson about sexual politics actually lands. Scenes between characters who are both tied into the story, like Renly or Loras, end up developing those characters in relation to those sexual politics. By comparison, scenes in which Ros or another prostitute are effectively tools to be used to reveal information doesn’t allow for that lesson (about the power dynamics of Westeros as they relate to gender and sexuality) to develop within the female party. Ros was featured in countless exposition sequences, but we never really learned anything more about her character even through her cumulative – oh jeez, that unintentional pun is too terrible to delete – appearances would create that potential. Ros was being positioned as an object within this world, but the fact that she was simultaneously functioning as a narrative object seemed to devalue any larger political statement that could be made here.

I raise this point in part because Cogman’s statement (which I’d love to see him expand on) pushed me to think about more carefully about sexposition in these terms, but also because tonight’s scene with Joffrey and Ros reminded me of this. This isn’t sexposition, eschewing sex entirely for a brutal torture sequences that truly cements Joffrey as television’s worst villain, but it has the same issue in that the prostitutes are underserved by the narrative. The show even suggests narrative that it doesn’t explore – Joffrey tells Ros to deliver the brutalized girl to Tyrion after she’s done under threat of torturing her as well, and yet we never see Tyrion receive that delivery, and he seems no worse for wear when we see him interacting with Lancel later in the episode. The scene is incredibly evocative, with the time-consuming process of loading a crossbow used in a particularly effective fashion to create tension – sorry for all of these terrible puns – in that moment, but the fact that we never pick up on the scene after the fact does create certain narrative and thematic limitations the show would be better off exploring.

Of course, the show doesn’t have time to explore them – it’s a sad reality of a ten-episode season, and I do wonder if that scene of Ros delivering her companion to Tyrion’s chambers was in an early draft of the script. In a way, though, it reveals the tension where exposition is involved: by telling or showing us some things so explicitly, it calls attention to what we don’t know. Sometimes this is valuable, raising questions that we are supposed to be asking, but other times it makes it entirely unclear (as I was discussing with Rowan Kaiser, who’s doing a bangup job covering the show at Press Play) as to what’s going on. Where, for example, was Melisandre birthing that shadow baby at the end of the episode – while “What’s the Shadow Baby going to do?” is a good question, “Where the heck are they?” is one that damages the clarity experienced by the audience for both readers (who are reconciling the scene with one in the novels) and non-readers (who just don’t know what’s going on). It’s a mistake the show has generally done a good job of avoiding since the early parts of the first season, and one that feels like a misstep at this stage in the season.

The sense of place is clearer in the two new locations introduced to this week’s credit sequence. There was a noted thrill during the credits when the move across the narrow sea seemed to be taking a different direction, and the appearance of Qarth likely caught the attention of even those who aren’t eagle-eyed and scouring the credits each week. Going back to James Poniewozik’s pre-season wariness about how the racial dynamics of Qarth would be handled, it’s interesting that Xaro Xhoan Daxos is introduced as a refugee himself (from the Summer Isles), a characterization that helps reconcile the casting with the way the Qartheen are described in Martin’s books and creates an immediate connection with Dany. As a single scene of introduction, outside of the aforementioned awkwardness by which Xaro’s name is mentioned in its entirety, it did its job well: strong material for Emilia Clarke, nice establishment of the uneasy welcome greeting her, and the first scene of real progress in a storyline that doesn’t progress at the same pace as some of the season’s other storylines.

As for Arya, Gendry, and Hot Pie’s arrival at Harrenhal, there’s an economy of space – while Qarth is all about the vista Dany sees as she walks through the gates with her dwindling khalasar, the expanse of the city being opened to her, Harrenhal is about that small corral tucked in a little corner. It’s a cost-saving measure, but it’s also a nice metaphor for their captivity, and the little set does some good work in establishing Polliver’s cruelty and eventually their rescue at the hands of Tywin Lannister (which is one of those book to screen changes that I doubt many non-readers would pick up on). Arya adding to her list of names has become a valuable trope (even if their way of getting Polliver’s name into the open was a bit too well-timed), and the momentum from last week remains in place for Arya’s journey.

Of course, much of the momentum lies in the larger plot, which you know is about to get started with a fire priestess is birthing a shadow the night of an ultimatum between two warring brothers. While I may have my quibbles with this episode, that storyline is still largely in interesting shape, and I don’t feel like this has actually derailed anything beyond my personal thoughts on this episode. The storylines that were working will keep working, and the foundations being laid are (for the most part) likely to work well for where the story goes from this point. I expect this will prove a divisive episode among the fan community given how many current changes it reveals (and how many future changes it portends), but I’m less concerned about the impact of those changes and more worried about the awkward impact their forced introduction had on my engagement with this episode. “The Garden of Bones” is not a bad episode of television, but it brought to the surface reservations that the season has to this point avoided.

Cultural Observations

• I’m not sure how I feel about Littlefinger so easily waltzing into Renly’s camp (and his on-the-nose conversation with Margaery, which just seemed like an excuse to have the character deliver more barely-veiled subtext we already went over last week), but the scenes with Catelyn showcased some great work from Michelle Fairley, who hasn’t had much to do this season.
• I didn’t get to Tyrion above, but his interrogation of Lancel and his rescue of Sansa were both really great sequences. With no Cersei this week, the character’s connection to larger plots was somewhat more abstract, but that didn’t stop Peter Dinklage from doing a fine job with those scenes. One thing I did want to put in a pin in for future weeks is the idea discussed in previous weeks: given how he saves Sansa, is Tyrion a hero in this story? The show seems to be coding that way more than the books, albeit subtly, and I’m finding it quite interesting.
• Charles Dance’s reading of “This one’s a girl, you idiot” was truly delightful – while it’s a departure from the books, using Arya as his cupbearer makes a lot of sense in terms of taking advantage of the great actors playing these smaller roles.
• Speaking of smaller roles, is the show playing coy with the fact they recast the Mountain that Rides? Perhaps it was just the poor quality of the screener, but the decision to obscure his face seemed purposeful, and the fundamental lack of personality seemed at odds with the anger we saw back in the first season.
• As of today, HBO hasn’t sent out any episodes beyond tonight’s, so I have no knowledge of where the show heads from here – very curious to see, though, given the changed laid out here.

How Smash Could Become a Different Show

April 17th, 2012

On the one hand, my opinion of Smash remains unchanged since the last time I dropped in on it: this is still a show that does not have a clear grasp on what it wants to accomplish, unable to move beyond the bounds of the musical with any confidence. While Uma Thurman’s arrival as Rebecca DuVall has helped flesh out the musical narrative, building on the detente between Ivy and Karen which makes them both more viable as characters, the show doesn’t know when to quit when it’s ahead: just as Julia’s personal life finishes imploding, Karen’s boyfriend Dev is elevated to a full-blown liability for both Karen and the narrative as a whole.

And yet I continue to watch. Part of me is simply riveted by the tone deafness of the series to its own creative struggles, and wonders how they believe this story should be resolved at the end of the season. However, more prominently, I am legitimately fascinated to see what this show looks like in a second season. Rarely has there been a case where that much hype has turned into this much vitriol, the squandered potential almost overbearing in our reception of the season’s final act (perhaps unfairly, even). And yet, despite all of this, the show has earned a second season since the last time I checked in on it, and so I find myself watching every episode wondering how much of this show, this near-complete mess of a show, will actually remain when it returns next season – the show, as the title suggests, survives on my DVR through its creative rough patches because it is sheltered by this anticipation for what might be to come.

Without entirely jumping the gun, given that the season isn’t yet over, I did want to offer a few thoughts on how the current model might need adjustment in the future, and why I’d argue this puts the show in a far more compelling place moving forward than its narrative alone would suggest.

With Theresa Rebeck stepping down, Smash is going to have a new showrunner next year, which in and of itself could create some level of change. However, more important than that, the show is going to be find itself in an awkward position. Pitched as NBC’s chance at a huge hit, Smash has done average numbers that still place it as NBC’s most successful drama series, but are those numbers enough to sustain the level of production values the show is aiming for with its musical numbers? Or with its guest stars? And if it is truly NBC’s most successful returning drama series heading into next season, is this a show that can be stretched to 22 episodes to air over the course of an entire season?

Say what we will about the creative fruits of Rebeck and Co.’s insulated labor, but you can see the show they were commissioned to make: a serialized 13-episode season featuring musical numbers that could be leveraged as money-making iTunes downloads. The problem is that the show hasn’t picked up any of the serialized buzz of cable dramas (based on its poor reception), and the iTunes downloads don’t seem to be lighting the world on fire either. While I don’t exactly have much sales data, I can’t seem to find any evidence of the show’s singles charting on the Billboard Hot 100, and the one piece of data I can find suggests that “History is Made At Night” garnered a grand total of 9700 sales in its first week on the market, charting at 197 on the “Hot Digital Tracks” list. The singles have also stopped appearing on Spotify, after being uploaded more consistently earlier in the show’s run.

Smash‘s ratings, at least for NBC, mean it earned a second season regardless, but its focus on big-budget musical numbers is predicated on the ancillary markets available to them. While I’m sure NBC is waiting to see how sales of the soundtrack album (coming out in early May) are before they make any broader judgments, I’m sure the bottom line has to play a role here. Simply put, Smash can’t continue to be the show it is without living up to NBC’s expectations for the show it could have been – it was a gamble for them to invest in it so heavily, and that gamble didn’t pay off in the way they hoped. Instead of becoming a Glee for adults, Smash became evidence that adults and Broadway fans will not buy digital downloads in enough volume to use music sales as either a profit engine or a substantial promotional tool.

The musical numbers have been more effective narratively, although they remain quite inconsistent – while the alt-reality glimpses of how the musical might look staged are generally evocative (including in tonight’s episode), the musical numbers motivated exclusively by characters and their emotions have fallen flat by comparison. While the former seem integral to the show’s future success, the latter seem like a forced effort to render the show into a musical for the sake of future commodification. While the show would lose its identity if it were to cease being about a musical, perhaps it could find its identity if budgetary restrictions forced it to stick to musical numbers justified by the show-within-a-show.While a survey of my Twitter followers is far from representative, I did think this response from Jessica Johnson (@witchyflickchic) supported the gap between these two separate strategies:

The problem with this strategy, of course, is that they’re going to run out of songs from Bombshell sooner rather than later. At the point where they’ve released every song from Bombshell in some form or another, what’s their next step if they’re stepping away from pop songs? In terms of longevity, despite the low sales, it was the pop covers that gave them some semblance of stability moving into future seasons, which may make them less expendable than their narrative success would indicate. It’s possible, of course, that the show will step away from downloads entirely should they run out of Bombshell numbers, another alternative that could drastically impact the way the show approaches its musical numbers…or not.

Indeed, this is all just speculation, so it’s difficult to say what Smash may or may not do in its second season. However, to be blunt, it’s far more interesting than what’s currently happening in the narrative. Yes, Thurman’s entrance has created some new dynamics, but they’re just that: new. Without any momentum from characters like Karen and Ivy (who feel as though they’ve been reset), and with every other characters heading down a cliched path, the show is effectively starting from scratch with a new creative challenge that will be their last chance to go out on a high note. At this stage, though, the quality of that final note might not matter: if the ratings don’t justify a show like the one Smash currently wants to be, they might be forced into changes for reasons beyond the creative struggles that have defined the first season.

Cultural Observations

• For a show like USA Network’s Suits that is faking New York City in Toronto, the use of green screen is a necessary trick – even if they had the money to shoot in real offices above New York City, they’re filming in Canada at the end of the day. By comparison, Smash performs its NYC locations on a regular basis (although less here than usual, tellingly), which made the green screen in Eileen’s office that much more jarring. I’m fascinated by the choice to shoot the windows open with a green screen instead of using blinds to obscure it: if I could speculate, it seems that the producers believenotshowing the city would be more disruptive than the clearly fake backdrop, which seems incredibly backwards to me.
• Uma Thurman has to show a lot of range here, and I thought she was appropriately flighty when necessary and cunning when required. In a world where Smash wasn’t flailing around half the time, she’d be a contender for a Guest Actress Emmy nomination.
• Full disclosure: I fast-forwarded through most of last week’s episode, and anything dealing with Leo or Ellis in tonight’s episode – I might be fascinated to see where the show heads in its second season, but I have my limits.

“What Is Dead May Never Die”

April 15^th, 2012

“They are the knights of summer, and winter is coming.”

This central idea has been at the heart of Game of Thrones from the very beginning: the children we’ve come to know, and the younger characters who jostle for power, do not know the true struggles of both the actual winter (starvation, struggle) and the metaphorical winter (war, bloodshed) that await them in the future.

Unfortunately, almost all of these characters have been faced with this reality sooner than they anticipated, pushing characters like Sansa and Arya Stark, Theon Greyjoy, and Renly Baratheon into positions where they must reconcile their fears and insecurities with a path they might not have chosen if not for the circumstances. Their struggles, however, must remain largely personal: while Theon Greyjoy might struggle to decide between his two families, for example, he has no one on the Iron Islands to talk to but a single flame and a piece of parchment. When he chooses to burn what he’s written, he makes his decision by isolating himself and accepting that this is his burden to bear as his father’s son.

“What Is Dead May Never Die” is about exploring these kinds of relationships, and exploring really is the right word: although partnerships both begin and end in the episode, other scenes are more about the complicated politics of those partnerships as winter approaches. While the show is still at the point where plot remains on the backburner, the pieces moving into place no longer seem motivated by the whims of the script; characters are taking greater agency in this environment, and the result is a strong thematic piece which lays some important groundwork for characters both new and old.

Alyssa Rosenberg wrote about the prominence of female characters before the season began, and “What Is Dead May Never Die” is perhaps most notable for its introduction of two female characters who become part of Renly Baratheon’s makeshift court. Brienne of Tarth is a warrior, defined by her brute strength in the arena as she bests Loras Tyrell; Margaery Tyrell, Renly’s queen, is first shown cheering on her brother with gusto as she sits by his side above the arena. However, perhaps dovetailing with Tyrion and Varys’ conversation about power later in the episode, Brienne’s sword wins her a place on Renly’s Kingsguard, but it is Margaery who most upholds Renly’s claim to the throne.

This is, of course, in part based on pure politics: the Tyrell family has gold and allegiances, allowing Renly to amass the most impressive army in sheer size (hence prompting Robb to suggest an alliance, knowing his force could never overcome Renly’s). However, Margaery also represents legitimacy to a would-be King whose personal affairs are considered less than Kingly by those around him. Although rumors continue to spread about Renly and Loras’ relationship, the marriage with Margaery provides at least the appearance that he is a King like every other.

While the character of Renly Baratheon was expanded on in the first season of Game of Thrones compared to George R.R. Martin’s novels, this expansion was limited. Although his sexual relationship with Loras was elevated from subtext to text through a key sequence in the season’s fifth episode, “The Wolf and the Lion,” Renly’s agency in later parts of the season remained limited. When he fled King’s Landing in the wake of Robert’s death, leaving Ned Stark alone to face Cersei and the deception awaiting him in the Throne Room, his storyline dropped out of view, and although he has been positioned as a would-be King in the early parts of the show’s second season he has to this point remained off-screen.

What we do know places Margaery in the position of Renly’s “beard,” but the show backs away from that characterization (which is effectively the characterization from Martin’s books). There is no doubt that Renly is struggling to live his double life, best symbolized by Loras rebuffing his advances out of jealousy over his elevation of Brienne, and this becomes even more clear as he tries to drink enough wine to force his body into bedding his wife for the first time. However, rather than an obstacle, Margaery turns out to be a partner: she knows she is a part of a larger strategy, and she’s more than willing to invite Loras into the bedroom if it means that she can produce the heir necessary to secure his place (and thus her place) on the Iron Throne.

I’m not totally sold on every element of Natalie Dormer’s performance (the initial “Loras! Highgarden!” was particularly flat), and there’s one phrase – “baby in my belly” – that badly needed a rewrite, but the increased agency works wonders. Although Brienne makes a strong impact, and Gwendolyn Christie looks and acts perfect for the role, it’s Margaery who is positioned as the most pivotal figure in Renly’s claim to the throne, and a key confidante in managing his double life in a world of whisperers.

That world has always been a key part of the show’s adaptation of Martin’s novels, best captured in the increased prominence of the recipients of those whispers in King’s Landing, Littlefinger and Varys. The season has thus far offered plenty of reminders of their “little birds” and “spiders” strewn throughout the capitol, whether it’s the girl washing the floor after Littlefinger’s confrontation with Cersei or Varys’ casual discovery of Shae, but it is never more clear than Tyrion’s grand deception. After last week’s banishment of Janos Slynt, Tyrion turns his attention to curtailing Cersei’s power within the Small Council, devising a clever scheme to unearth those loyal to her. By telling Pycelle, Varys, and Littlefinger different plans for young Myrcella’s stewardship, Tyrion knows exactly who is leaking information to his sister, resulting in Pycelle finding himself in a black cell.

What’s interesting here is that Tyrion, unlike other characters, does not need his motivations to be secret. Struggling to wrestle power away from Cersei, and fighting against those who would underestimate him based on his stature, it is in Tyrion’s best interest to perform his authority. Tyrion’s plan isn’t about knowledge, and I’d actually argue he knew it was Pycelle when the plan was originally conceived. What his strategy provided was evidence to use as leverage, definitive proof that he could use to eliminate one of Cersei’s sources and consolidate his own power.

It’s a brilliantly designed sequence, beautifully capturing both the deception and the specificity of the various characters, but it’s all foreplay for the moment where Tyrion sits in Pycelle’s chambers, orders his dick fed to the goats, and tells them to make do when he discovers goats aren’t available. Not only is the sequence funny, but it’s also public: this is Tyrion saying, with authority, that he is the one running the show, and it’s the first time where he seems to have gained the upper-hand over his sister in particular.

Of course, not every character in a difficult situation has the authority to make the moves Tyrion makes. Sansa Stark doesn’t have the ability to do much of anything: she has to sit at dinner listening to her would-be siblings-in-law disparage her family. Sophie Turner is technically aging too fast given how much time has elapsed, but it’s beautifully captured Sansa’s forced maturity. There’s always a pause, ever so slight, before it comes, but Sansa has learned her role: she is to renounce her brother’s claim to the throne, disparage her father’s honor, and pledge her undying love for King Joffrey and wish that their wedding were on the morrow. Turner’s performance is really one of the strongest pieces in the puzzle this season: while she doesn’t get big flashy scenes, she nails the level of performance found within Sansa’s role in this story beautifully.

The show is aiming to deconsruct this at least a bit, though, by introducing Shae into her service. The series’ Shae is a bit more of a handful than the one in the books, but the tension brings out the toll being taken on Sansa as a result of living in fear. While we get only a tension-filled introduction here, the introduction of someone who sees Sansa when she’s not in the presence of the queen is important for the character’s development: in truth, Shae remains a fairly flimsy character, but as a tool to move towards a more complex image of Sansa’s personal struggle, she could prove quite useful in her first role beyond pulling exposition out of Tyrion.

The episode ends, however, with the other Stark child, who loses her confidante. Yoren was the one person who knew who Arya was, who had seen her when she was a young girl with a father and a future. Although Gendry might know her secret, Yoren knew her on a level that was invaluable. Their final conversation by firelight is a thing of beauty, a rumination on the kind of fear and terror that you face after you’ve been these ordeals. It’s a quiet scene, the first the two characters share in the episode, which is perhaps why it’s immediately disrupted by the cold reality of war.

It’s not a coincidence, I feel, that the sequence bears a marked resemblance with the final moments of Syrio Forel in the first season. Arya’s larger journey within this story is marked by people who see in her something different from her sister, and from other girls in general. Jon gives her needle as a gift before she goes South, Syrio teaches her how to use it, and now Yoren gives her the confidence necessary to survive without it now that it has been taken from her. While Yoren was technically protecting Gendry specifically, who is now free and clear with Lommy having been identified as Robert’s heir thanks to a conveniently stolen helmet, it’s Arya who feels his sacrifice most directly, and will bear it with her as she moves forward.

Only time will tell if these experiences have properly prepared Arya, or Sansa, or Tyrion, or Renly, or Theon for war; similarly, although his thread disappears quickly, it’s also unclear if Jon Snow is fully prepared for what waits for him beyond the wall, where crueler gods hold power. While Mormont tells Jon that “we have other wars to fight,” Jon’s desire to hold Craster accountable for his offerings of young boys to the White Walkers reflects the prominence of the wars we fight within. Jon has yet to learn that to be a soldier of winter, you need to be willing to check your morality at the door, accepting one gruesome fate to ensure you don’t meet a gruesome fate of your own. It’s a lesson, as well as a theme, that we’ll see continuing to run through the season as a whole, and a key contribution for “What Is Dead May Never Die” to make at this point in time.

Cultural Observations

• I’m really curious to watch the HD feed of this episode (which didn’t happen tonight, but will sometime this week); based on the screener, it was incredibly dark, and I’m wondering how that read in HD. Certain scenes like Theon burning the letter were evocatively dark, but others just seemed tough to follow.
• Speaking of Theon, I thought Alfie Allen leaned a bit too heavily onto “yelling” as an acting choice tonight, but that does capture the character’s petulance, so I think it’s a choice more than a limitation.
• While I appreciate the lush scenery in general at Renly’s camp, the green screen behind Renly and Margaery was driving me nuts a bit.
• A lovely moment for Sam and Gilly as the Night’s Watch prepares to leave – it’s a simple scene, but an effective one, and with very little screentime they’re turned Gilly into someone we’ll remember.
• The show can occasionally become less than subtle when it starts pontificating about power, but when it’s Conleth Hill and Peter Dinklage doing the pontificating, it’s fun to just sit back and watch the mind games play out. There’s a reason that scene was so central to early trailers – very well built.
• Bold of the show to just throw in a reference to Dorne like this – curious to know how non-readers responded to that one.

At a point in the first episode of HBO’s Girls (which debuts tomorrow night at 10:30/9:30c), Lena Dunham’s Hannah suggests that she might be “the voice of [her] generation.”

It’s a clichéd statement, albeit one that Lena Dunham’s age and rapid rise to success within the entertainment industry have foregrounded within the discourse surrounding Girls. However, it’s also a statement that the show itself treats as a cliché, given the fact that Hannah is under the influence of drugs when she says it (and immediately realizes how pretentious it sounds even in her altered state). If her dream of being a writer is anything within the world of Girls, it’s a pipe dream, an idea that sustains her psychologically even as it does nothing for her financially.

I wouldn’t say that the show is about this, however. In fact, I’m not sure I’m comfortable saying what the show is about. While the show’s title suggests a broad investigation of young women, the universality it implies is undercut by the show’s reluctance to draw larger conclusions from these stories. It’s possible for cultural commentators to suggest this stands in for the experience of twenty-something white women living in New York City, but I’m not sure that the show itself ever makes the argument this is the experience for all of those women (or for all women in general).

In other words, Girls is a show about pretentious people, but I don’t find it particularly pretentious. Granted, HBO’s (successful) efforts to promote the show as a cultural touchstone have an air of pretension, but there is something very natural about the show itself that I found disarmed those larger expectations. Girls is a show based around situations more than “issues,” an incredibly isolated portrait of four young women at a very specific time, in a very specific place, and within a compelling televisual framework. Lena Dunham may not be the voice of a generation, but she’s a capable writer and director who has crafted a nuanced comic portrait of the drama of, if not everyday life, than a set of everyday lives, well worth watching.

While there is no question that Girls contains serialized elements, I’m having a tough time calling it serial. While each of the four main characters is given something approaching an arc, the way those arcs form feels cumulative without necessarily feeling like a complete narrative. At the beginning of each episode, it’s never entirely clear how much time has passed since the events of the previous episode, and the show isn’t particularly invested in exposition. There are clear narrative threads to follow, but they’re far from exhaustive, and some fairly big moments within those threads take place off-screen between episodes.

It creates the effect of snapshots highlighting particular moments or situations, with each episode telling one story that is derived from previous stories without being beholden to them. For example, while the results of the STD test in the show’s second episode are a part of the third, the consequential structure of the narrative doesn’t feel like the storyline is going to carry over into the next episode and become a recurring thread. It’s almost like an ephemeral seriality, drawing on previous events without necessarily building towards a larger narrative. While I became more attached to the characters over the course of the three episodes I watched, to the point where I enjoyed the episodes considerably more when rewatching them, the basic premise of the show remains entirely unchanged as though this were a more traditional sitcom.

It reveals a tension between the status quo and the episodic progression of the series, something that is equally tied to the show’s themes. The premiere introduces a number of complications that suggest the world we are first introduced to could soon disintegrate, but that world is more than willing to fight back. In one scene, Hannah’s roommate Marnie complains about how her boyfriend is smothering her with his kindness to the point that it repulses her, but in the next scene she corrects Hannah when the latter presumes it means they’re breaking up. While Hannah pleads with her parents to continue to give her the money necessary to allow her to maintain her lifestyle, the show at large reveals the sheer power of inertia in the hands of twenty-somethings still deciding what they intend to do with their lives.

In that sense, the show’s snapshots become a chance to observe these characters’ patterns of behavior more readily. Hannah’s friend Jessa’s approach has been to live a nomadic existence, constantly moving around the world to keep from feeling tethered to one location, while her virginal cousin Shoshanna reads self-help books and watches Sex and the City. Hannah continues to spend time with an abusive sex buddy, while Marnie continues to string along the aforementioned puppy dog boyfriend. While the show’s comedy often comes from how these situations unfold, the show’s “point” is in why they’re unfolding, larger questions that nonetheless feel very tied to these characters as opposed to a “generation” – while these stories are inevitably tied to broader concerns of age and gender, they quickly branch out – or, rather, branch in – to something more personal as the show progresses.

This is driven largely by some very strong execution. Dunham’s scripts are tightly written but loosely constructed, allowing scenes that are clearly serving a particular purpose to not seem purely functional in the moment. Dunham’s own performance is (as many other critics have noted) free of any vanity, and while the show gets a lot of mileage out of images like Dunham naked in a bathtub eating a cupcake there are also some more subtle moments that she captures equally well. The rest of the cast is equally compelling, although they are given somewhat less to do: this is Hannah’s show much as it is Dunham’s, and that means Allison Williams, Jemima Kirke, and Zosia Mamet are given slightly less to do (although all acquit themselves well).

None of this is to say that everyone will like this show. Enough of the pretension surrounding the show’s cultural cache is evident in the text that some might not be able to take it at face value, while the show’s comic sensibility is almost always working towards dramatic goals that might not appeal to those looking for a broader comedy. However, what reservations I had about particular characters (like Kirke’s floaty Jessa, or Mamet’s bubbly Shoshanna) faded away the more time I spent in their world – they hadn’t changed, exactly, but I knew more about them, information the show brought to the surface without it ever feeling like contrived character building. While it may be hard to consider a show with this much critical commentary leading up to its premiere stealthy, there is a subtlety to the show’s larger aims that snuck up on me.

This is not to say that the show is always subtle. In the very first scene of the pilot, Hannah says something that’s clearly meant to be profound, intonating that she’s busy “trying to become who I am.” That statement stuck with me as I watched the following episodes, clearly an overarching thematic concern that we could trace through each of the characters. However, while Girls will occasionally drop an unsubtle reminder of this theme and others, the actual exploration of those themes rarely feels contrived. While a basic recounting of the plot might occasionally feel like a cliché-ridden exercise in the problems of privileged young women in New York City, the actual execution of those sequences transcends that larger framework through shrewd observational humor rather than broad cultural commentary.

Cultural Observations

• You’re going to be hearing a lot about the sex scenes on this show, and they really are something different from what I’ve seen in the past – while a show like Tell Me You Love Me was built around showing “real sex,” it treated that as an opportunity for exploring the dark recesses of hedonism more than the awkward dynamics of human beings. There are some complex issues related to sex in the show, but there’s also a lot of humor, and the combination is incredibly compelling to witness (a word I’d use over watch, given the intimacy).
• I enjoy the dissonance of Becky Ann Baker playing two such similar character type on such different shows, repeating the “Mother questioning her daughter’s life choice to live in New York City and try to be an artist” trope that she already played earlier this year in Smash. She’s much stronger here, primarily because the character is given an actual personality.
• Guest stars don’t play a huge role in the show, but Kathryn Hahn shows up in the third episode alongside Tony nominee Andrew Rannells (Book of Mormon), who is particularly great as Hannah’s college boyfriend.

“Slaughterhouse”

April 10th, 2012

While I haven’t exactly had the chance to write about Justified this season, I haven’t exactly been silent on the subject: my good friend David Chen at /Film has been hosting the JustifiedCast all season, and I had the pleasure of joining him a few times over the course of the season, including in a mid-season interview with Graham Yost.

However, those conversations tended to be fairly episodic, and my general line in terms of broader thematic work was a “Wait and see” attitude that there isn’t enough time to expand on within a podcast setting. Now that we’ve reached the end of the season, however, I want to return to those larger questions I put off in earlier editions of the JustifiedCast, in part because I feel like “Slaughterhouse” rewarded my patience by embracing the tensions that had been creating some degree of dissonance throughout the season itself. This was not a cohesive season, but that did not keep it from coming to a meaningful conclusion, a fact that says something quite profound about the value of narrative play in the face of audience expectation and anticipation.

I have always been a strong proponent of Justified’s interest in procedural storytelling, in part because it establishes a status quo: on a normal day, Raylan would be hunting down a random fugitive, which is why the occasional presence of standalone storylines are important to maintaining the meaning of Raylan’s connection to Harlan.

It also meant that the third season’s decision to focus on Harlan more extensively was a meaningful departure. This season has been far more concerned with Harlan than previous seasons, sketching out broader conflicts with the introduction of Limehouse, the insurrection of Quarles, and the ascension of Boyd to the status as “King of Harlan” (with Ava, his Queen, at his side). It’s meant that, while Raylan has occasionally (although less often) been a part of traditional investigations, the show has continued to have a serialized throughline with Boyd as a secondary lead, a shift that has taken some time to settle in.

What I found so compelling about “Slaughterhouse” is the way it distilled these broader conflicts into something incredibly meaningful to the characters, if not necessarily to the audience. I would argue that the second season told a story for the sake of the audience, a carefully contained and tightly plotted story of one family’s defense of their way of life against corporate interests and the limits of the law. By comparison, the narrative of the third season was far less contained, with larger-than-life characters who rarely fit into such typical serialized expectations. Robert Quarles was a loose cannon with nothing to lose, while Ellstin Limehouse has everything to lose and no intention of doing so after holding onto it for so long. While one floats through Harlan untethered, the other is fully embedded into the Harlan eco-system, leaving characters like Boyd, Ava, and even Raylan to float somewhere in between.

In the comments on the most recent episode of the JustifiedCast, user “Richard Caveman” argues that this focus on the interplay between these various forces in Harlan has actually resulted in the show losing track of Raylan and Boyd’s narratives:

“The show is having the same problem several of the Batman movies have; it’s more interested in it’s rogue gallery than it’s [sic] protagonist.  And what about the Joker to Raylan’s Batman, Boyd Crowder? Besides the business with Devil and the lackluster election storyline, we have no sense of Boyd’s criminal enterprise, nor what he is doing at all.  It feels like we have been just grinding it out until the point in the season where a stand-off will occur because it MUST occur.”

Here’s the thing: that’s exactly what he was doing, and that’s very much part of the point. I’m not going to argue it was as singularly compelling as Mags’ storyline, but watching Boyd prove unable to establish the criminal enterprise he imagined is key to the season’s purpose. Boyd spends the season fighting off Quarles’ insurrection without actually having a foothold of his own, to the point where he nearly finds himself losing everything in “Slaughterhouse.” It is only then that the pieces for Boyd’s control fall into place, whether it’s Ava displaying her power over Ellen Mae (who she saved from a similar fate earlier in the season) or Arlo taking the fall for Devil’s murder.

Those are acts of family. While Boyd still has an actual family member within his midst who means to see him fall from his perch, the idea of family is a key thread in “Slaughterhouse.” When Limehouse dismisses Errol for his mishandling of the entire situation with Quarrels (and Dickie Bennett, and Boyd), he does so by telling a story about how he used to butcher alongside his father. While characterization for Limehouse has been too thin this season, this glimpse of history suggests someone who does good by those who are part of his extended family, a rootedness that takes time to cultivate and was necessary based on the segregation of the community and the need to stick together. It was the same need that the Bennetts had it until it all fell apart thanks to outside pressures, and it’s the same need that Boyd and Ava develop in responding to the circumstances that come to a head in “Slaughterhouse.”

It’s worth noting, too, that the big showdown doesn’t happen the way one might expect it to. The episode picks up where “Measures” leaves off, the showdown between Boyd and Quarrels, but Boyd Crowder is off in a jail cell when Quarrels meets his untimely end, a viciously satisfying death which ends up being more about Raylan than it does about Boyd. While previous seasons have seen Raylan asserting himself into the business of Harlan, as though he was incapable of staying away even as he claimed it was all he wanted to do, this season has seen other characters asserting themselves into his world, whether it’s by drugging him and nearly killing him, literally driving away with him, or taking him hostage as we see here. As war breaks out in Harlan, Raylan becomes part of it whether he wants to or not, helping accelerate the end of his relationship with Winona and shatter whatever opportunity for a family there might have been there. The season very purposefully shifted Raylan’s agency, to the point where an outside observer – Stephen Tobolowsky’s FBI agent – presumed he was actually Boyd’s puppet based on the nature of his involvement with his former home.

I’m not convinced this shift was wholly successful, and I do think the narrative in Harlan lacked the subtlety the show worked with in the second season. As terrifying and brilliant as Neal McDonough was throughout, the character’s ability to act out his plans with aggressive (and psychotic) violence makes for a very different kind of villain than Mags (who mostly stuck to threats), and Limehouse’s motivations have often seemed too moustache-twirly for their own good. However, much as Boyd’s lack of clear agency forced a character like Ava to take aggressive action (clearing the path for greater agency in the future), Raylan’s struggle to avoid getting wrapped up in the ever-escalating tension between the man from Detroit and the men from his past forced Raylan to consider that relationship more carefully than even last season’s gunshot.

Although he largely flitted in and out of the season itself, Arlo became incredibly important here, and his was a story where the pieces really fell into place. Haunted by one dead wife and imagining a world where the other was still alive, Arlo Givens was a man losing grip with his own reality as his past and present converged. Raymond Barry did a great job capturing the subtlety of mental illness within the general irascibility of the character, but more importantly he offered Raylan a glimpse into his own future. That sonogram remained on his bathroom mirror for a reason, and the return to Winona’s sister at the end (and the idea of Raylan telling her a story, almost as if it were a bedtime story to his child) reminds us that we are seeing a cycle playing out, a cycle that characters like Boyd, Raylan, and Ava are fated to be a part of.

Yes, at the end of the day Quarles was a narrative device who brought that cycle to the surface, yet another carpetbagger who comes to Harlan, causes a ruckus, and leaves a bit lighter than when he arrived (give or take a left arm). And yes, because the character’s history was so plainly sketched out through exposition as opposed to being rooted within this world and its characters, his death ends a finite narrative with minimal resonance beyond the simple satisfaction of a fittingly badass death (with that gun arm, so proficient in life, proving the cause of his death). And yes, when we isolated Justified villains in the future, Robert Quarles does not measure up to Mags Bennett.

However, he was never meant to. While both Mags and Quarles’ storylines were isolated to one season, the trails of those storylines move in two very different directions: while Mags’ storyline fleshed out the history of life in Harlan, Quarrels’ storyline fleshed out the future. The second season of Justified proved that they could tell a compelling and cohesive story, but the third season abandons that idea to test the status quo in ways which may not have been as consistently brilliant but have a much greater potential to resonate amongst the show’s characters. It played with the formula in ways that didn’t always take full advantage of the show’s potential, but I’d argue they were never unproductive, always dislocating something or someone in ways that proved resonant when we reached tonight’s finale.

While I’ve seen some people – including the aforementioned Robert Caveman – refer to Quarles as a Dexter villain, we need to take a step back for a moment. Dexter’s problem with its cyclical villains is that the show and its characters never seemed to see that there was a cycle, a lack of self-awareness that has sent the show into a creative dead zone where no real change can be made so long as that central conflict exists. By comparison, Justified felt extremely self-aware this season, no more so than in “Slaughterhouse.” While this finale solidifies the cyclical nature of figures like Quarles, it also becomes a commentary on the power of cycles within this environment, and the position of our central characters within that cycle. Quarles wasn’t a neatly packaged parallel for Raylan or Boyd: he was a messy, unpredictable character whose impact was both destructive and constructive, symbolic of past threats but also meaningful for future ones.

In my view, Quarles was a sign of the writers’ willingness to play with this universe. The tone of the character felt experimental, the impact of the character seemed forceful, and the pace of the narrative was willing to go with the flow of the creative forces at work. I don’t think all of this “play” worked, but the worst thing that can happen to a show as it becomes a success is for it to lose the desire to try new things. It would have been very easy, and likely still quite compelling, if the show had simply built another legacy Harlan character (like Limehouse) into the season’s central antagonist, but I’m not convinced it would have been in the show’s best interest.

While that scenario might have been something we could more cleanly identify as a carefully plotted season of television, I feel it would have struggled to provide the dynamism necessary to move the show as a whole to the next level – in other words, I’d much rather be complaining about some uneven episodes than a complacency from which the show might never recover. That the show remained brilliantly acted, and continued to deliver tremendous setpieces, even amidst this experimentation and play is a sign of a show that knows what it’s doing and yet is also willing to expand into the space where it doesn’t have the same level of confidence, delivering a season of television that bodes well for the future while still proving incredibly fulfilling on its own merits.

Cultural Observations

• Given that Limehouse remains very much a part of the Harlan infrastructure, and that Mykelti Williamson seems likely to return in the future, curious if we get some more insight into the character. We got a bit of it in that conversation with Errol, and I’m wondering if the show might not have more plans given his central role in Quarles’ death.
• I love how the show captured the terror of Quarles’ kidnapping of that poor family, and the disconnect between their terror (of this man who has a gun pointed at them) and our terror (which expands beyond that to include his penchant for abusing and murdering young boys). The show never actually raises the final point directly, but his elimination of the Mother from the equation was particularly chilling to me.
• Given that I haven’t been writing about it, I’ve missed out on hearing what any of you might have had to say about the finale – not sure how many of you still have thoughts you haven’t said elsewhere, but I’d be particularly curious on how the season came together for you.

“The Night Lands” and Sexposition

April 8th, 2012

People who coin new terms are very rarely trying to coin new terms. When I used the term “sexposition” to describe a particular kind of scene in Game of Thrones, I wasn’t staking a claim to a corner of the cultural lexicon so much as I was trying to be clever. In fact, for a while – and still, really – I refused to believe it was possible to “invent” such a simple portmanteau – all I did was add an “s” at the end of the day. However, the word has caught on, leading to a bizarre couple of weeks in which Esquire magazine and The Guardian were contacting me on the subject, I was listening to Nikolaj Coster-Waldau and writer Bryan Cogman talking about it on the DVD commentaries, and now it even has a Wikipedia page not to be confused with “sex position.”

What I realized in chatting with these journalists, though, is that we (as a larger Game of Thrones-viewing community) had never come to a clear understanding of what sexposition even was. The first thing the Esquire journalist did was run a definition by me, and I realized that I didn’t really have any corrections because I had never actually thought much about it. While I had a number of scenes connected to the term in my mind, expanding it beyond Game of Thrones would require a more rigorous set of criteria, something that became clear when Michael Hann at the Guardian began talking about sexposition in the context of Showtime’s Homeland.

While Hann’s article captured the overall issue quite well, asking broader questions that speak to why the word is useful in considering the implications of this particular narrative device, I was confused by the evocation of Homeland, a show I would not associate with the term (which is a larger conversation that would require spoilers, so if you really want me to expand on that let me know). Also, in following fan discussion around Game of Thrones, I’ve seen sexposition become more of a catch-all term for the overuse of sex and nudity in general, something that obscures the specific implications of the neologism.

“The Night Lands” features what I’d consider the season’s first explicit use of sexposition as a narrative strategy, but it also features other sequences that feature similar amounts of nudity but which I would not associate with the term. Before delving a bit more into the rest of the episode, which features some of my favorite moments in the early parts of the second season, I want to tease out this distinction in an effort to consider what this sex is accomplishing, and what we make of the show effectively doubling down on the practice.

To be clear, sexposition is discursive – while I am now officially on the record as having popularized the use of the term, I’m well-aware that its meaning is out of my hands, and will in fact mean something different to every viewer. This is true of many words, of course, but it’s particularly true when we’re dealing with something related to sex, as there is certainly a degree of morality to contend with here.

I’d also argue that sexposition is measured on a spectrum – if we most basically define sexposition as “the use of nudity or sexual acts in conjunction with the communication of information related to character, plot, or mythology,” the degree of sexposition depends on the degree of nudity or sex on display as well as the volume of exposition. A Vulture slideshow from the end of the first season classifies the infamous “Littlefinger and the Lesbian Sex” sequence from “You Win or You Die” as sexposition, but it also cites a random scene held in Littlefinger’s brothel which featured topless women. The two scenes might both relate to sexposition, but I would contend they are two very different narrative strategies.

Personally, sexposition suggests a purposeful use of sex and nudity in conjunction with a specific piece (or pieces) of information. It’s a solution to a problem: the writers need both a reason for the scene to exist (with the intimacy of sex, taking place behind closed doors, offering an easy justification) and a reason for the audience to pay attention during what is otherwise a pretty basic info dump. The scene from “You Win or You Die” pretty clearly fits into this formula, but I’m not convinced that the decision to set an earlier conversation between Ned and Littlefinger – or the scene in tonight’s episode with Littlefinger and Ros – in the brothel necessarily qualifies. While we can connect it to the apparent importance of including nudity within premium cable programming, and it may not be exclusively necessary, its purpose seems disconnected from the information being imparted, a more casual deployment of nudity that Maureen Ryan refers to as “Hey! Boobs!” in her recent review of Starz’s Magic City.

I’d also exclude (or at least distinguish) sequences in which the point of the scene is related to sex itself. When Melisandre seduces Stannis towards the end of “The Night Lands,” it is technically a scene in which sex is used in conjunction with specific information, but that information is about the sexual energy of Melisandre as a character. The character, both as written on the page and as captured on the screen, is all about sexual magnetism, and so to see her actually using sex is solidifying that character trait. The end result may share a relationship with sexposition, but I wouldn’t associate it with the term directly. I’d place the scene between Renly and Loras in the first season in the same category: while the intimacy of sex is being used to impart information, it’s information about the fact they are intimate with one another. I’d agree with some who argue the sound department got a bit carried away at the end of the Renly and Loras sequence, but not showing the sex would have been a greater injustice to the characters than showing it in my view, and the same goes for Melisandre here.

Ultimately, then, the only sequence in “The Night Lands” I’d consider true sexposition is Theon’s rendezvous with the captain’s daughter aboard the ship transporting him to Pyke. It’s the one scene where you could extrapolate key takeaways Benioff and Weiss had in mind regarding the culture of the iron-born, and where the actual sex act was largely unrelated to those concerns (unless we really think that explaining saltwives couldn’t have been handled without the simultaneous thrusting). The scene also lingers on the sex longer than it has to, suggesting that the purpose of the sequence has shifted at some point from imparting information to reveling in the unbridled and unimportant passion of it all.

[Edit: As noted in the comments (and as I forgot to mention here), this sequence is pulled directly from the books, so it's not something that one would lay solely at the feet of Benioff and Weiss. It raises a different question, though: is it worse to replicate sexposition within the environment of overuse created in the first season, or would it be even more controversial to change the nature of Theon's introduction from how it was handled in the books? Curious to know what people think.]

Again, I expect others might feel differently on the subject, but I’m resistant to wholesale dismissals of the show’s use of nudity as a result of its occasional misuse. While the persistent use of sexposition has turned into a problematic trend that places additional uses of nudity in a bad light, sex remains important to exploring the politics of this world. Sexposition has perhaps shifted the discussion away from the politics of Westeros to the politics of premium cable, but I think the former discussion is equally important, and something I hope we can still achieve amidst the broader discussions of this trend.

Similarly, I don’t want my focus on sexposition here to take away from the rest of “The Night Lands,” which I quite enjoyed. It’s not a particularly eventful episode, with a large number of characters (Robb, Catelyn, Joffrey, Sansa, Jaime) sitting out and everyone else moving just a few steps closer to the next plot development, but it has scenes that stuck with me after watching through the first four episodes.

Specifically, the scene between Arya and Gendry as they work out their respective true identities is one of my favorites in the series. The show isn’t going to have the same amount of time to map out the dynamic between these characters as the books did, but this single long scene sells a lot of what I found so charming about that dynamic. There’s the tinges of tragedy in Arya realizing Gendry’s connection to her father, or Gendry being forced to revisit his childhood, but there’s also something hilarious about the way Arya says “fill yer pants,” and her final attack on Gendry is one of those brief moments of levity that made Samwell such a strong presence at The Wall last season. Maisie Williams is as great as ever, but Joe Dempsie is equally strong in Gendry’s expanded role, and while their path may be headed in the opposite direction of levity this was a beautiful introduction to that side of their relationship.

Also, it speaks to another complicated male/female relationship in the episode. Say what we might about Theon’s penchant for monologuing about his identity while making whoopee, but Alfie Allen has quite nicely stepped into a more prominent role as Theon finds himself trapped between his two families. As much as the switch from Asha to Yara is still messing with my head, I thought the show did a fine job of using both Yara’s deception and Balon’s chastising to threaten Theon’s identity, the visual of Balon relieving Theon of his gold-price cloak a particularly evocative image. I’m not sure that we get a particularly complex image of Balon, but it’s a strong introduction even if it’s more purposeful as a building block for Theon’s character than for the larger conflict at hand.

That’s in part because the show isn’t really in a position to show much of the conflict. To be fair, that reflects Martin’s novels, but it does mean that things are very much in transition here: Catelyn hasn’t reached Renly’s camp, Stannis remains tied to Dragonstone, and the Night’s Watch continues to linger at Craster’s keep. Holding patterns allow for us to linger with particular characters, though, and so we get to learn a bit more about Davos Seaworth through his meeting with Salladohr Saan, and Samwell gets to save Gilly from Ghost and hear her pleas for assistance. While these storylines have plot implications, they’re also a chance to let characters be characters, something that the show needs to maintain even as the plot becomes more gargantuan – there’s still only ten episodes, and it means we get less of those small moments than might be ideal.

It helps, of course, that the line between small and large can blur so nicely, as it seems to be doing in King’s Landing with Tyrion. While acknowledging there’s a terrible pun in that statement, Dinklage is a tremendous asset to the writers in the capitol, able to pull out the nuance within sequences that otherwise feel like exposition. Whether he’s being confronted by Varys or banishing Janos Slynt, Tyrion walks that fine line between scheming manipulator and shrewd tactician – he takes pleasure in it, don’t get me wrong, but his distrust in others and his willing to betray the trust of those who would betray his is about as close to honorable as can survive in King’s Landing. He’s something of an audience surrogate: we find out it was Joffrey who ordered Robert’s bastards dead when he does, and his has become the dominant perspective in King’s Landing to the point where our knowledge is directly tied to his own (which will solidify in a sequence next week). As I noted last week, Dinklage is bringing out the best in his co-stars, and the scene with Cersei was particularly great for Lena Headey (who was strong in the first season, to my mind, but is better served with this material).

I would agree with Elio and Linda at Westeros, though, in that “The Night Lands” is probably the least cohesive of the first four episodes. It’s stuck balancing progression and introduction without the connective tissue offered in the premiere, a task that makes the episode seem more baldly functional without the same on-screen justifications. When the episode ends on the cliffhanger of Jon Snow officially asserting himself in Craster’s personal business, albeit his personal business of offering baby boys as an offering to the White Walkers, it doesn’t feel like we’ve progressed to that moment so much as it got dropped in to build suspense for next week’s episode.

That episode is very strong, and “The Night Lands” is fairly solid itself, but this definitely wasn’t the most elegant hour at the end of the day, although that’s less important now than it will be as the season goes on.

Cultural Observations

• As Alan Sepinwall pointed out to me this week, the placement of the voyeuristic lead-in to the Littlefinger/Ros sequence directly after Theon’s sexposition seems very purposeful – curious to know if that was scripted, or if it was an editing bay creation.
• I’m wondering how non-readers are responding to the lack of movement in Dany’s storyline. She gets only a single scene here, as Rakharo’s horse arrives back with Rakharo’s head in a sack, and that isn’t going to change dramatically next week – it gets across the point of this being a struggle to survive, but spending so little time there means we don’t get to see those effects play out over time within a single episode.
• While the kids have technically been aged up, the age gap between Arya and Gendry seems to remain fairly large, even more than I had perceived when reading the books. That’s a logical choice, I suppose, but there was at least some romantic undercurrent in the books, which seems to be entirely absent here (where Gendry is positioned more as a surrogate brother, similar to Arya’s relationship with Jon in the early episodes).
• Speaking of that scene, which I’m apparently obsessed with, I’m enjoying how Arya’s unladylike behavior once discouraged proves so helpful in passing as Arry. It’s in the books too, but Maisie Williams sells it beautifully – in many ways, she gets to be more herself when she’s Arry than when she was doing her stitching with the late Septa Mordane, which contributes to the aforementioned levity.

One Direction’s SNL Invasion

April 8th, 2012

One of the (many) perks about being an academic studying elements of popular culture is the ability to turn any obsessive tendencies into “research.” I’ve spent the better part of the last month and a half obsessing over Justin Bieber’s “discovery” of former Canadian Idol contestant Carly Rae Jepsen and her subsequent rise to fame in America, and that became “research” when I wrote about the challenges of transnational stardom (and the awkwardness of an 18-year old mentoring a 26-year-old who has been in the music business longer than he has) for Antenna.

However, I don’t mean to suggest that I felt I needed to “justify” my interest in Jepsen’s rise to sudden fame by writing about it – the people who are following Jepsen as a fan, the Beliebers jumping on the bandwagon at the behest of their master, are just as justified as I am. That being said, though, there is a point where I want to be able to turn my interest into something more productive: while for fans this might mean writing fan fiction or creating a fan page, for me it means writing a scholarly blog post on the subject.

This brings me to the subject of this post, which is another pop culture obsession of sorts. I did not know British boy band One Direction even existed until I turned on my TV one morning to discover the band was performing on The Today Show. It was an unseasonably warm day in New York City for mid-March, but that wasn’t enough to explain the screaming throngs of teenage girls watching the performance. Even if Matt Lauer and Ann Curry weren’t pushing the comparison, it certainly evoked the aesthetics of Beatlemania (complete with the floppy hair), and the performances raised what was (to me) an intriguing question: what exactly does a boy band look and sound like in 2012?

In an internet age, the answer was only a few clicks away: Wikipedia offered some background on the band’s creation (formed as part of the British X Factor, finishing in third place), YouTube offered some clips of previous performances (including a preview of their performance on last night’s episode of iCarly), and Spotify allowed me to listen to their album, Up All Night, in its entirety over the course of the past three weeks. Pop culture curiosities are dangerous in this environment, as it’s all too easy to fall down the rabbit hole and come out the other side knowing most of the lyrics to an album of frothy bubblegum pop.

What I’ve been waiting for is an excuse to discuss the whole situation, which for me often means some sort of connection with television. Last night was therefore a golden opportunity, given both the aforementioned appearance on iCarly (which I’d consider highly logical given the band’s target audience) and their slot as the musical guest on Saturday Night Live (which I’d consider much less logical). And given that Ryan McGee has jokingly identified One Direction as my favorite band in his recap of last night’s SNL, I figure the least I can do is spend a bit of time discussing how this performance fits into my “more expansive than I initially intended” knowledge of their oeuvre, as well as ongoing controversies surrounding the show’s musical guest bookings this season.

I have no pretensions regarding music criticism, leaving that to the elder McNutt (my brother Ryan), so this isn’t about whether One Direction is good or bad. Up All Night is the requisite combination of upbeat pop songs and sappy ballads, all with lyrics that are suitably saccharine for a teenage audience. While Mark Blankenship is right to note that the larger invasion of new boy bands comes with a certain degree of decidedly post-adolescent sexuality, citing the frank discussion of One Direction member Harry Styles’ dating life, One Direction certainly sits on the tame end of that spectrum, which is reflected in the hetero-normative, squeaky-clean romance omnipresent within their album. There’s a few nice pop/dance hooks in there, and the Kelly Clarkson-penned “Tell Me a Lie” shows a (still low) level of lyrical sophistication most of the other songs don’t match, but this is not music aimed at a broader audience.

Of course, it doesn’t need to be. One Direction may have had the number one record in the country in the first week of Up All Night‘s release, but that means far less now than it did in 2000 when *N’SYNC was setting records with No Strings Attached. Niche audiences are now capable of elevating artists outside of the mainstream into this position, and in many ways One Direction was positioned as a niche artist: with a grassroots campaign amongst predominantly teen girls based on their success in the U.K. and videos uploaded on sites like YouTube, One Direction arrived to the Today Show with a devoted fan base who knew all of the lyrics despite the fact that the album had only gone on sale that morning (because, of course, it had been released back in 2011 in the U.K.).

The question, though, is whether there’s any chance of them expanding beyond that niche, which would seem to be the function of appearances like the one on the Today Show and last night’s Saturday Night Live. While iCarly viewers are predisposed to teen pop stars (given both Miranda Cosgrove’s music career and the brand connection with Nickelodeon’s Big Time Rush, another factor in the recent boy band revival), tapping into a pre-existing niche for this genre of music, I’m not sure that the average viewer who turns on The Today Show or Saturday Night Live are necessarily part of the band’s demographic. While it’s possible that the increased awareness will lead to more purchases made for daughters and sons, nieces and nephews, there is a certain disconnect operating within the space of Saturday Night Live in particular.

Now, this isn’t the first musical guest this season to create some cognitive dissonance: Steven Hyden has a great piece at The A.V. Club where he breaks down the recent controversies over mediocre (or downright terrible) SNL performances like those from Lana Del Rey or Karmin (a piece I’ll return to in a bit). However, while those performers felt out of their element performing in front of live audiences, I’d argue that One Direction is entirely ready for “the limelight” generically speaking (given that they were built for it from scratch during X Factor, and have been playing it out in the U.K. for half a year), but are ill-suited to this particular stage. When they’re not surrounded by screaming throngs of teenagers annoyingly holding their cell phones in the air, it just doesn’t feel like they’re truly in their element.

From my experience (and with absolutely no real authority on this issue), the band’s basic stage move is rhythmically bouncing around, a technique that implies some kind of audience to interact with. On the Today Show, that audience is present, making the performance dynamic if not exactly what one might call “choreographed” in the traditional sense. On Saturday Night Live, it honestly just feels weird: the lack of any visible audience means that the camera becomes the audience, but given SNL’s traditional demographics the people on the other side of the screen are the people turning to Twitter wondering who the “Bieber tribute band” is, not the fans to whom the onstage antics (including some mid-performance tomfoolery) are another opportunity to connect with their favorite band members, or the fans watching the diegetic iCarly webcast they appear on in their cameo appearance on that series.

That’s really the story, at the end of the day: One Direction are not interested in delivering cohesive musical performances. If they were, they would have replaced one of the two up-tempo songs with a ballad and sprung for some stools to sit on – it’s a cliche, but it works. However, their live performances are purely driven by a connection with the audience, a chance to see them “live and in the flesh.” They’re more human when they’re air drumming along with the song, or poking a fellow band member in the face while he’s singing, which means that the singing is mostly beside the point. They weren’t lipsynching (although the choruses were pretty clearly pumped in), but if they were would any of their fans actually care? Is there any injustice to sweetened choruses when the actual singing has been already established as a secondary function of the performance? Without any actual choreography to go along with the singing, it’s just a bunch of kids bopping around on the stage in what seems like a random pattern, and yet that might be all their audience is looking for.

The question then turns to where they’re looking for it, which seems to be Saturday Night Live’s angle here. This is where I would somewhat contest Hyden’s binary between SNL and the online video culture more influential in launching artists. To be clear, I agree with the basic hierarchy that Hyden sets up in this passage:

“What SNL represents is legitimacy for musicians that the Internet, no matter how ubiquitous a presence it has in (some of) our lives, decidedly does not. The hostility that Del Rey’s appearance inspired speaks to this; sure, she was big online—and signed to a major label—but what was she doing here? How did she earn this?”

While I completely agree that SNL represents a step to legitimacy, and the dissonance I mentioned is certainly prefaced on this hierarchy, SNL is also itself a part of that internet culture. The musical performances have their own featured space on the NBC website in addition to being excerpted on Hulu. It’s very likely that a large selection of One Direction’s fanbase will see these performances in this setting, and not as part of the live broadcast last night, which is perhaps the logic from SNL’s perspective: One Direction’s “What Makes You Beautiful” has been liked over a thousand times in about twelve hours, and it hasn’t even been posted to the official Saturday Night Live page yet.

In other words, Saturday Night Live’s goal is not necessarily to draw viewers to the 11:30pm broadcast on Saturday night so much as they’re interested in generating traffic to their websites, and to Hulu. The ability for the musical performances to be extracted from the show means that the NBC website can become one of what Hyden identifies as “the myriad of musical video options online, where you can play what you want when you want, and always with a new set of choices once the video is over.” While the SNL rabbit hole isn’t quite as deep as YouTube, you can still go from One Direction to The Shins, or from Robyn to The Black Keys, and lose an hour of your day being exposed to NBC’s online branding (and the advertising attached to it).

In other words, One Direction decidedly didn’t fit into Saturday Night Live, but they don’t necessarily have to given that many people will see them outside of the context of the rest of the show. The band’s hammy appearance at the end of the Manuel Ortiz sketch might have drawn eye rolls from viewers outside of the One Direction demographic, but it’ll draw in hundreds of thousands of viewers excerpted online, making its potential dissonance within the broadcast a calculated decision. SNL’s desire to tap into the zeitgeist is an attempt to seem like they’re on the cutting edge of popular music, but it’s also a direct effort to leverage the online success of particular artists (like Karmin or next week’s musical guest, Gotye) into gaining a foothold into that online market.

While I’d argue this was present with Lana Del Rey or Karmin, its merger with the manufacturing central to the boy band as musical genre made it seem that much more apparent. One Direction’s presence meant that their promos were broken down and reported on by entertainment blogs and fan sites, reflecting the band’s marketing strategy driven by saturation. Instead of feeling like SNL taking a stab at the popular, it felt like SNL was willing to be invaded by the popular, opening itself up to become another engine for the One Direction machine.

I’m not necessarily arguing that this is “wrong” or below SNL: after all, both the Backstreet Boys and N’Sync appeared on the show back in the day. However, it seems like the cultural place of boy bands has shifted such that the invasion seems more hostile to the mainstream: while their cameo on iCarly is acceptable synergy, their presence on Saturday Night Live is an affront to the standards of the program even as the program’s standards willfully shift to tap into the online video market they desire to be a part of.

Cultural Observations

• A fun user comment from The A.V. Club writeup of the episode: “I expected One Direction to dance for my amusement. And they did not. WHAT KIND OF BOY BAND ARE THEY?!”
• It’s odd to note that Karmin’s performances of “Brokenhearted” and “I Told You So” are not available on the NBC.com website – instead, they’re on Karmin’s Vevo page, which means that any ad revenue is filtered entirely through the band (and that it’s located connected to the band’s own YouTube identity, which is where their fame lies). I wonder if they actually bought out the exclusive rights to performances, which are also unavailable on Hulu. Meanwhile, my brother has more on Karmin and the “Uncanny Valley of Pop” that’s worth reading.
• The plot to the iCarly episode, by the way, involves one of the members contracting jungle worms from Carly’s water bottle (not making this up), and then faking being sick to avoid giving up being taken care of by a guilty Carly. It’s perfectly harmless, and fit in fairly well with the show’s broad sitcom sensibilities.