A show, to me, needs to earn its quality through a variety of things: writing, acting, directing, plot, etc. And it seems to me that the best series are those that truly earn it: the writing is sharp, the acting is nuanced, the directing is innovative, the plot treads new ground. And, if they don’t have these elements, I want to be able to see a series grow into them: something like Friday Night Lights, as an example, started small and built these elements through hard work and dedication.
I say all of this because Californication, the David Duchovny comedy that aired last night on Showtime, is a show that, like its lead character Hank, is in love with itself. It doesn’t appear to earn any of its quality, which is in fact quite present, but rather appears to just assume that its elements come together. I laughed a little, I felt the dramatic gravitas a little, but I never felt overtly compelled. And thus, I leave the pilot with mixed feelings: as much as I want to like the show, I do not feel I can ever like it as much as it likes itself.
The pilot is peppered with attempts to be either witty or provocative: references to film adaptations of novels and theme park rides, “Tom and Katie,” and America’s Next Top Model seem forced, attempting to remain relevant for no reason other than to be relevant. And then, as if they couldn’t do that enough to stand out, they found the secret recipe:
Boobies.
Cultural Learnings 