Well, for most people another three day weekend has passed. If you were fortunate, that meant you spent the past few days drinking, sleeping, drinking, eating, and drinking again. But even in the midst of good ole weekend fun, there was TV to be had, and unfortunately, not much of it was spectacular. We had the frenetic, migraine-inducing Jonny Zero, some old fashioned “Dead Person’s Remains In Your Face” on Desperate Housewives, a snooze-tastic Golden Globes show, and oh yeah, two missed field goals by the Jets (but we won’t talk about that). Where to begin?Jonny Zero: Here’s a question. How can you tell something is urban on Fox? If you answered “shaky cameras”, “jump cuts”, or “grainy filters”, you are correct! Such were the lessons learned on Fox’s latest attempt to catch the gritty world of Da Streetz. Yes, “Jonny Zero” finally made its muscle-clad arrival Friday night, and after a brief bout of nausea brought on by an assault of edits, I was able to settle in and kind of enjoy this determinedly OK show. Unfortunately, the first episode seemed to borrow heavily from the Stephen Soderbergh school of obvious camera filters, but at least there weren’t a bunch of pretentious, hyper kinetic camera movements to distract me from the action. Oh wait. There were. Sort of surprising, considering the director of the episode was none other than Mimi Leder, whose previous foray into gritty drama was Ã¼ber-schmaltzfest, “Pay It Forward.” No word yet if Haley Joel Osment has any plans to pop up as a troubled youth ready to take on Jonny Zero (or is his name Calvo? I don’t know. Nay, I don’t care). Speaking of actors, the cast seems to have cornered the market on “G” celebrities as it stars Frankie G and some guy named GQ (I think he was the white guy in “Drumline”). I’m hopeful that Warren G., McG, or G. Gordon Liddy will join the cast in the imminent future, but I’m not holding my breath. Impressively enough, the show did feature a pleasant level of blood and violence, but if there’s anything The OC has taught us, any edginess will soon be replaced with banter and Cotillions. I wouldn’t be surprised to see Frankie G babbling about comic books and Death Cab for Cutie next week.
Desperate Housewives: Looks like the women of Wisteria Lane are back up to their shenanigans. You know, the typical ones that so many suburban mothers deal with: shooting a guy in the foot, getting your neighbor’s ashen remains thrown in your face, toying with your husband on house arrest, pretending your kid has cancer so you can get into yoga. I mean, watching this show is like watching a biography of my mom and her friends. Of course, the world of “Desperate Housewives” is its own bizarro place. We learned that Mike the Plumber/ Sketchy Kitchen Man may or may not have killed a mysterious Diedre, who may or may not be Mary Alice Whats-Her-Name. We also learned that Bree is erotically drawn to pistols, even when presented by non-erotic figures, like her new pharmacist friend/casual stalker. You see, after a botched date resulted in Bree shooting friendly George Williams in the foot, the freshly toe-less wonder slunk back to his house where he found consolation in old security footage of Bree talking to him in the pharmacy. You know, the more creepy lurkers the merrier. Now we have George, Zach, Zach’s dad, Mike, and the occasional menace of Richard Roundtree. Eventually this show will just turn into lots of people peering mischievously at each other from behind draperies and trees.
As for Susan, life as a closeted arsonist finally caught up with her as she found herself needing to tell Edie about that whole pesky home-burning experience. Edie took the news relatively well, although she did empty an urn’s worth of Mrs. Huber’s ashes on Susan’s face. Amazingly, Edie opted not to narc on her pyromaniac friend but instead requested to be simply invited to the Tuesday poker game. Most awkward poker game EVER. Elsewhere on Wisteria Lane, Lynette shaved her kid’s head to get gum out of his hair, but when the local biatches at the health club thought her boy was suffering from cancer, she was treated to complimentary access to yoga classes. Of course this very “Curb Your Enthusiasm” plot line ended in public humiliation as a cancer survivor attempted to lionize Lynette’s kid. And so another week passed with the excellent Felicity Huffman relegated to the sidelines of the Wisteria Lane scandals.
In the dependably uninteresting department, Gabrielle’s ongoing battle with her possessive husband reached finger lickin’ levels as she tortured the grumpy douchebag with a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken – or “Fried Chicken” as its apparently known on sponsor-free Wisteria Lane. The problems began when Carlos, freshly on house arrest, demanded a baby. Unfortunately, this plan was at odds with Gabrielle’s plan of doing… something (possibly another yard boy). To show that she was wearing the pants in the house now, Gabrielle deprived her husband of the fried chicken he so desperately wanted and chowed down in the street, safely outside of his ankle bracelet radius. She was then driven over by Bree’s son. Oh wait, that was a different episode. Would have been a nice touch though.
The Golden Globes: Here’s the truth. One of us was going to do some sort of live blogging of these awards, but honestly, the show was so damn bad we couldn’t bring ourselves to do anything but wallow in the plodding production. For once, this really isn’t NBC’s fault. The show is the same year in and year out. There’s no host, no musical numbers, and barely any badinage. It’s all up to the winners to entertain us with their speeches and drunken reaction shots. But this year, not even Robin Williams could get it done. Nearly every speech started with faux-modesty and then immediately descended into uninspired name dropping of agents, producers, and accountants. Glenn Close and Annette Benning prattled on like two crazy old bats while Jason Bateman acted like he had no idea he would win â€” and then busted out his speech thanking around 40 people, including the cleaning lady, the guy at the gas station, and a few checkout people at Gelson’s.
There were a few highlights. Jamie Foxx executed his wonderfully rehearsed speech perfectly. He even peppered it with a few Ray Charles impersonations, just in case we forgot what he’d won for. Hilary Swank spiced up her laundry list of “thank you’s” with occasional film criticism (she said Clint Eastwood’s role in “Million Dollar Baby” was the performance of his career – and then went back to thanking people). Robin Williams managed to spew out ten unique voices during his generally nonsensical acceptance speech. Mick Jagger managed to dis all the Paramount blokes who’ve recently been laid off. Mischa Barton was dependably awkward and talentless as she read the teleprompter. And Mariska Hargitay not only made her dad cry on national television, but she proved to us just how cold it was in that ballroom…
Possibly the most amusing portion of the night came when Diane Keaton dazzled the audience with her tight tweed blazer and billowy chiffon dress combination. I suppose it was all part of the Scamp Couture fashion trend she’s been trying to pioneer these days.
I’m sure there were other highlights and lowlights, but at this point, most of the show has been blocked out of my memory.