Why Kathryn Bigelow’s ‘Zero Dark Thirty’ Is a Terrible Idea

Other than maybe trailer reviews, there’s no lower form of film criticism than pre-judging movies based on their premises. So forgive me for now indulging in that low enterprise for what I think is a fairly extreme case of a misbegotten enterprise.

From what I understand, Kathryn Bigelow has been developing a film about the hunt for Osama bin Laden since well before his actual capture and subsequent execution. Had she completed the film at some point before those events, it’s easy to imagine Zero Dark Thirty (or whatever the movie would have been called) as a Hurt Locker-esque exercise in politically ambivalent military drama, a meticulous detailing of the hunt for an elusive, never-seen ghost. But that prospect is long gone. Now, Zero Dark Thirty will tell the story of how special forces were finally able to nab Public Enemy No. 1, with Bigelow’s typically thorough sense of verisimilitude (already showcased in Hurt) aided by unprecedented levels of access to previously confidential materials.

I have no doubt that Zero Dark Thirty will avoid chest-thumping and flag-waving in much the same way that Hurt stuck doggedly to a grunt’s-eye-view of the Iraq War. But no measure of depoliticization can alter the basic facts of the context of Zero Dark Thirty‘s release. Though the film itself doesn’t go wide until two days after the 2012 US presidential election, its mere existence – as well as its sure-to-be extensive ad campaign, will serve as a constant reminder of Obama’s unambiguous military triumph, the one victory he can claim that Republicans are more or less completely defenseless against.

That alone is not the issue. What’s troubling about the prospect of a bin Laden-themed thriller released in the heat of an election year is that it will serve to obfuscate what should be he genuine narrative of Obama’s military strategy: his use of unmanned drones to seek out and kill targets around the world, even if those targets happen to be American citizens. In a great piece that uses excerpts from Daniel Klaidman’s book Kill or Capture, The Nation‘s Steve Coll argues that the book’s title phrase is actually a misnomer, given

…the evidence in Klaidman’s narrative suggesting that the Obama Administration leans toward killing terrorism suspects because it does not believe it has a politically attractive way to put them on trial. Federal criminal trials of terrorist suspects draw howls of protest from many Republicans, even though the George W. Bush Administration successfully prosecuted a number of high-profile terrorists in federal court. Military commissions, the Obama Administration’s reluctantly endorsed best-of-the-bad alternative to federal trials, are unpopular with civil-rights activists and European allies, for good reason, because of their relatively weak protections for defendants.

That Obama actually has a worse record than Bush on dealing with terror suspects is bad enough. That a natural filmmaker like Bigelow has been aided by the Obama administration in helping to make her government appear tough – but not illegally or unethically so – on known terrorists and enemies of the state is doubly unfortunate. I’d love nothing more than to be wrong; I’d love for Zero Dark Thirty to contain cutting insights into the nature of military decision-making and the undermining of international human rights. But, if anything, Bigelow’s filmography suggests she’ll tell the story as “straight” as possible, and in doing so, I fear she’s been made an unwitting, or maybe even willing, puppet of an administration whose methods of dealing with international terrorism are increasingly unsound, to put it mildly.

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Link Roundup, 07/18/12

I’ve added Breaking Bad to my recapping roster for the first half of its final season. My take on “Live Free Or Die,” the premiere, can be found here.

Louie has been holding up splendidly;  read up on “Telling Jokes/Set Up” and “Miami.”

Lastly, I made another 8tracks mix; this one is themed loosely around ambient music and psychedelia. Take a listen:

Supporting Characters: The 178-minute cut of Kenneth Lonergan’s ‘Margaret’

  

Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you
will weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow’s springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What héart héard of, ghóst guéssed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

In the fall of 2005, writer-director/playwright Kenneth Lonergan shot his second feature, Margaret, a process that took a little less than two months. The cast included Anna Paquin, Mark Ruffalo, Matt Damon, Matthew Broderick, Allison Janney, Kieran Culkin, and Jean Reno, and was produced by the high-powered duo of Scott Rudin and Sydney Pollack (the latter of whom wouldn’t live to see the film released). Lonergan’s previous film, the unusually sharp family-dynamics indie You Can Count on Me, won him accolades and seemed to announce him as one of the more promising upstart filmmakers of the new decade. The film must have seemed perfectly positioned at the time for a sophomore breakthrough, given its cast and pedigree, as well as the vacuum it might have filled as the definitive post-9/11 NYC chronicle.

That wasn’t to be. Margaret spent the next six years suffering a combination of Lonergan’s inability to shape the material into a satisfactory final cut and protracted legal disputes with Fox Searchlight and Camelot Pictures, and when the film did finally (if barely) reach theaters in the fall of 2011, it was in a 150-minute cut that may have compromised Lonergan’s original vision. With the release of the 178-minute “extended cut” of the film, which Lonergan has insisted is still not necessarily the definitive one he’d envisioned, it becomes even clearer that Margaret may be the best American film of the last several years – even if it was intended for release considerably sooner.

On the surface, Margaret would seem to be another iteration of the “everyone is connected” ethos espoused by hacks like Alejandro González Iñárritu: a precocious, difficult teenage girl, Lisa (Paquin), tries to get the attention of a bus driver (Ruffalo) so she can inquire about his cowboy hat, and in the process, a bystander, Monica (Janney), is fatally injured. After lying on her initial statement to the police, Lisa becomes fixated on the incident, ultimately becoming the impetus for legal proceedings that also effect the deceased’s best friend Emily (Jeannie Berlin, 40 years on from The Heartbreak Kid), the driver, and the woman’s money-grubbing relatives. That narrative thread alone would serve as plenty of grist for one film, but Lonergan’s intentions are considerably broader.

We also follow her mother Joan (J. Smith-Cameron). a stage actress. whose latest role as the lead in a workplace farce called Controversy has finally positioned her for serious accolades, as well as the attention of a wealthy Colombian fan/suitor, Ramon (Jean Reno). And then there’s the matter of Lisa’s lovelife, complete with the Nice Guy (John Gallagher Jr.), the Creep (Culkin), and the Teacher (Damon).

And then there’s New York itself. Margaret is less democratic than Iñárritu’s films in terms of its division of attention – this is firmly Paquin’s and, to a lesser extent, Smith-Cameron’s film – but Lonergan frequently takes time between (and sometimes during) important story beats for his camera and/or his sound mix to drift and absorb nearby conversations, movements, events. Planes fly overhead, and we follow their trajectories. Multiple dialogues can be perceived in the midst of a crowded cafe. Joan claims to admire the view from Ramon’s balcony, at which point Lonergan’s camera follows suit, panning slowly along the skyline. This is a “network narrative” in the manner we experience in our own lives, not as some screenwriter’s contrived delusion of how lives intersect and collide.

Margaret is impossible to synopsize because it’s about so much. It’s a portrait of post-9/11 New York, sure. And it’s a study of guilt and complicity, certainly. But it’s also an examination of adolescence as a whole, the process by which we grow into ourselves, which as presented in the film is mostly made up of being wrong – usually by definition. Lisa is constantly misusing words, for instance, claiming that pre-emptively shouting down another classmate isn’t “censorship” because “this class is not the government.” Later, she accuses Emily of being “strident,” without seeming to know what it means. In another scene, one of Lisa’s classmates stubbornly insists on misreading Shakespeare. Lisa is righteously indignant for much of the film, and she’s so frequently erroneous that it makes the few occasions where her misgivings are legitimate all the more affecting.

It’s also about art – its consumption, its creation, its transformative power, its place in a seemingly chaotic universe. Ramon falls in love with Joan almost purely through watching her perform, not knowing that ultimately they share almost no real-life characteristics. The scene in which Broderick reads the Gerard Manley Hopkins poem (quoted above) would seem to spell out the film’s themes, but it’s not nearly so simple. The Margaret of the poem could be interpreted as Lisa, the child who grows older and sees sights colder, but it could just as easily be describing Joan, Emily, or Monica. At the film’s end, Lisa and Joan finally go to the opera together – a form that Lisa previously derided – and share a tearful reconciliation while the performers sing of love. The fact that this is the opening of Act 3 of The Tales of Hoffmann, which concerns the title figure being taken in by a courtesan whose love is a ruse, doesn’t lessen the song’s effect on Lisa and Margaret; there’s something pure in their philistinism. (If they knew a little more about the work, though, they might come to realize that Margaret has a little in common with Stella, the multifaceted bane of Hoffmann’s existence.)

The extended cut of Margaret might not be the Platonic ideal of the film according to Lonergan, but it seems clear now that no single cut will ever completely satisfy him. What matters is that this one feels like a fuller, richer movie. What used to feel like tangents now feel better-integrated into the whole. The more extensive deployment of the “drifting” sound and vision across and over the city helps to reinforce the massive scope. The new cut makes one feel like somewhere there’s a neverending cut of the movie that wilfully generates new avenues to explore and new viewpoints to consider, expanding ever outward. 178 minutes will have to do for now.

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Formants: Hum, “Downward Is Heavenward” [USA, 1998]

An ongoing series on the albums that helped to shape the way I listen to music, and continue to make their way onto my iPod.

1998 should have been Hum’s year. In 1995, the Champaign, Illinois band scored an unlikely hit with “Stars,” a fuzzy-but-romantic slab of nerdy, stop-start alt-rock that doesn’t much resemble any other successful rock music of the period. The dense guitars were too crunchy for straight My Bloody Valentine worship, but Matt Talbott’s reserved, unpretentious vocal style was also miles away from his angst-ridden contemporaries, leaving the song (and its accompanying album, You’d Prefer an Astronaut, which wound up moving a not-inconsiderable quarter of a million copies) as an entity all its own. 1998 should have been the year they managed to capitalize on their unlikely success, demonstrate their true potential, and hit alt-rock paydirt.

Instead, they made Downward Is Heavenward.

The mid-90s was a fantastic time to be a rock band on a major label, some of the time. You got ridiculous budgets to produce music videos, significant advances, and a whole lot of production coin as needed. (On the other hand, of course, labyrinthine contracts often stiffed you out of a truly satisfying payday.) Accordingly, Downward Is Heavenward hasn’t aged a day, sonically speaking. Tim Lash and Talbott’s guitars mesh together in a thick, churning morass, equal parts atmospheric and bruising, often with an acoustic guitar tucked away in one speaker, not to mention the seemingly thousands of pedal effects percolating in and out of the mix. This thing sounds expensive.

Had I been working for RCA’s PR department at the time, I’d have handled Hum with greater care. I would not have placed the band themselves in their videos, for instance; the ever-bespectacled Talbott looks more accountant than rock star, especially when stacked next to the band they most frequently (and incorrectly) drew comparisons to, the Smashing Pumpkins. Despite the major label coin, they were an indie-rock band at heart, and were accordingly – for the period, at least – completely unselfconscious in their image. I’d also have made a different single choice; “Comin’ Home” is short, punchy and by far the most aggressive thing on the record, which might play to certain markets, sure, but it’s also saddled with a 7/4 verse and a paucity of hooks. Sure enough, in the age where music video was still the best way to promote a band, “Comin’ Home” got a particularly silly one:

The album debuted at #150 in the Billboard Top 200 on Valentine’s Day, 1998. Where the “Stars”-led You’d Prefer an Astronaut sold a quarter of a million copies, Downward took a year to barely break 30k. (That number jives almost exactly with the video’s total hits to date on YouTube. Eerie.) Not too much later, an incident of equipment theft doomed the band for good.

This was the thanks they got for eclipsing their breakthrough recording.

Downward Is Heavenward evokes a few records that came before, and a whole lot that have come since, but doesn’t sound precisely like any of them. The contrast between Talbott’s unadorned, unfussy vocals with the meticulous dual-guitar sound is already distinctive, but it’s Talbott’s sci-fi-leaning lyrics that really separate it from the angst-ridden fare that ruled the period. The apocalyptic closer, “The Scientists,” seems to dream up a David Brin-worthy yarn in a little over five minutes, equal parts doomed love story and hypothetical cautionary tale:

She says “keep this benzene ring around your finger
And think of me when everything you wanted starts to end.”
And I saw living lusters form in pools beneath her feet
Invertebrates that only she can see
And I said, “what on earth are all these ampuls for?”
She says “exactly, we’re not gonna wait around here anymore.”
Systems back down slow, watch the dust cloud resend
And I will keep you, I will keep you to the end.

One song earlier, another cosmic love story cuts a very different figure. “Apollo,” recorded live in a music hall rather than in-studio like the rest of the album, is spare, gorgeous, and touching, but never precious. Unlike the typical alt-rock ballad, it doesn’t bother with embellishments like a string section or a climax fit for the rafters. The song even eschews the thick production values of the rest of the album, favoring a live-off-the-floor feel that suits the simple, lovely sentiment that rests in the lyric’s delayed punchline.

What’s really vexing about Downward‘s spectacular commercial failure is that it’s not like the album doesn’t feature anything radio-friendly. There may not be another “Stars” (which is still regularly employed in commercials a decade and a half later, such is its appeal), but at least a few tunes here might have served as serviceable follow-ups. Again placing myself in fantasy-sports RCA PR Guy mode, “If You Are To Bloom” strikes me as the retrospective natural single choice, with its Incubus-inventing intro, massive guitar entrance, insistence verse rhythm, and clever chorus harmony on the hook. Assuming it gained any traction, the mournful “Ms. Lazarus” would make a fine follow-up, with its careful blend of acoustic and electric guitars, and sobering, unusually earthbound lyric (“the way your headstone shines / I only wish that it was mine”).

But of courseDownward is an art-rock record from the late 90s, meaning it is Meant To Be Listened to As An Album. On that score, it’s one of the most meticulously crafted of the era, perfectly sequenced and loaded with sprawling, complex tunes. Four tracks break the six-minute mark, but none overstay their welcome; of these, “The Inuit Promise” is the standout. A careful listen reveals all kinds of elaborate, even virtuosic riffs on the periphery, but it’s the song’s wistful drive that really distinguishes it from the rest of the record, existing in some nebulous space between awestruck and lucid. A spoken lyric, the only one reproduced on the album’s spartan packaging, contain more mystery than the entire Soundgarden discography, though it’s barely audible:

Your solvents frozen here on the petal rung
Is all we have to see
Enlarged inside as we espy
The warming sea.

Downward is a fantastic showcase for emotionally-driven songwriting that’s neither openly plaintive nor obnoxiously self-interested. In that sense, it was never going to find a significant following in its own time. The band has reunited for shows a few times in the last decade, including as recently as 2011, but there are no plans for them to ever return on a full-time basis. Unlike At The Drive-In and Refused, their music doesn’t command enough of a following for them to really cash in on aging gen-Yers eager to dive back into the music of their youth. And so Downward and the rest of the band’s discography continues to linger in between complete obscurity and popular reclamation, held in stasis much like the album’s oddly timeless sound. There are worse fates.

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Link Roundup, 06/29/12

I assess the third-season premiere of Louie. I’ll be handling the season recaps this year, along with the soon-to-premiere Breaking Bad.

The ten best TV episodes of 2012, so far.

On the Sound on Sight podcast, all four hosts converge to talk Moonrise Kingdom and Harold and Maude.

In the latest episode of the Televerse, Kate and I reunite to discussThe Newsroom, Wilfred, and plenty more.

Top 5: Louie (So Far)

I’m generally loath to add to a praise chorus, particularly when there’s critical near-consensus, but I adore Louie. Spending a quarter of a year checking in with Louis CK as he indulges very thematic and aesthetic whim at his disposal has been a total delight, made all the more remarkable by the fact that he’s doing an astounding amount of the work himself. Louie’s first 26 episodes were written, edited, directed by and almost exclusively star CK himself, and while he’d be the first to acknowledge (as he does in S1’s “Cop Movie” segment) that he’s not the most conventionally riveting screen presence, his emotional directness and particular worldview are allowed to color every aspect of the show. It sounds corny, but watching Louie can sometimes feel like making a friend; most TV comedies are content to let us hang out with their protagonists. Louie inhabits one.

The show’s third season premieres on Thursday, June 28. The early word on the five episodes FX has sent to people more important than me is typically positive, and I’m very eager to see what new editor Susan Morse (who handled nearly all of Woody Allen’s best films) brings to the table. To celebrate the new season’s imminent arrive, a hopefully-quick rundown of my five favorite episodes, in descending order. I cheat a bit.

5. “Bully” (1.09)

The early run of Louie is solid, but for my money it’s not until “Bully” that CK really starts to test the limits of his stories in search of deeper, less comfortable truths. Early, oft-discussed sequences like “Heckler” and “Poker” are incisive and funny as hell, but feel downright safe and quaint compared to what’s followed. To put it another way, it would have been well and good for CK to give us the bungled date, topped off with her admission that actually, she does need some bravado in her life, but Louie’s decision to follow his teenaged tormentor home is what sends the episode into that next level, if only because we have no idea how this pans out. There’s no readymade trope to let us know what happens after Louie knocks on that door.

4. “Eddie” (2.09)

Most of the non-Louie characters on Louie who aren’t his kids often feel like they exist onscreen principally as figures for CK to bounce ideas off of, and that’s also sort of true of Eddie (Doug Stanhope), who represents a certain kind of comic living out a certain kind of comic’s career; a sort of alternate-universe Louie. But one of the strengths of Louie’s second season is CK’s generosity towards his guest stars, whether it’s showing the full performance of “Circle of the Cross” in “Duckling,” Dane Cook’s cred-gaining appearance on “Tickets,” or Stanhope as Eddie, who is fleshed out quickly but effectively via flashbacks and Stanhope’s extended rants as not only his own man, but one whose failures deserve Louie’s serious consideration. “Eddie” is a remarkable little character study and industry portrait that’s also one of the most sterling examples of Louie as a platform for CK’s short-form storytelling abilities.

3. “Night Out” (1.13)

Louie’s first season ends with a sequence that acts as a synecdoche of sorts for the entire series: Louie, having failed to follow his (hilariously distraught) babysitter’s advice and get laid, takes his daughters out to an all-night diner just before sunset. In a different context, it might come off corny, but after an episode’s worth of Louie being faced with his dwindling sex appeal, it’s a reminder of CK as a comedian whose material emphasizes our whacked-out priorities. The conclusion he comes to in one of the episode’s stand-up bits: he’s the best in the world at masturbating, and he’s the best in the world at raising his daughters. As “Night Out” argues, that damn well ought to be good enough.

2. “God” (1.11) / “Come On, God” (2.08)

Twice now, Louie has tackled hardline Catholicism, and though both episodes are stellar, they have almost nothing else in common. In Season One’s “God,” a glory hole graced with portentous graffiti leads into an extended flashback to Louie’s childhood, in which a terrifying Tom Noonan (!) scares little Louie into taking Jesus down from the cross – only for a city carpenter to matter-of-factly nail him back up the next morning. To date, it’s still the closest to joke-free Louie gets. “Come On, God,” on the other hand, served as the comparatively light-hearted counterpart to “Eddie,” with which it was originally aired back-to-back. If it’s not Louie’s out-and-out funniest installment, it’s damned close, from Louie’s fake Red Eye appearance as “Comedian/Masturbator,” complete with its absurd cello-scored breakdown in which Louie faces “the darkness” of his existence, to his distressing elevator fantasy, to his final date/showdown with Ellen (Liz Holtan).  Considered together, they show off CK’s surprisingly nuanced take on the subject: yes, the church has been responsible for inspiring heaps of shame and guilt on those undeserving and too young to process those feelings correctly, but it’s also resulted in profounder iterations of happiness and contentment than Louie is willing to commit himself to.

1. “Subway/Pamela” (2.06)

Louie doesn’t feature many actual character throughlines, so its Pamela-centric episodes stand out whenever they pop up. That CK and Pamela Adlon have fantastic onscreen chemistry is no surprise, seeing as she’s the performer he’s shared the most screentime with (see also: Lucky Louie), but “Subway/Pamela” goes for a dramatic and comedic payoff that goes beyond most episodes of the show, and Adlon is crucial to making it work. After the “Subway” portion, a wonderfully surreal bit of NYC worship, the rest of the episode basically consists of Louie and Pamela coming to realize the limits of their friendship. “You think I’m awesome, I think you’re OK, it’s just the way it is – we need to admit that, or just walk away,” she seems to joke early on, but there’s more than a grain of truth to that sentiment. But after he makes her laugh with a cruder-than-usual scatalogical gag, Louie finds the courage to confess his love to her, albeit with the disclaimer that he’s fully aware his feelings aren’t reciprocated. His speech evokes the peculiar sensation of sickly, unrequited love, in which you feel orders beneath the object of affection. Best of all, CK sticks to his creative guns, and honors the characters: Pamela is moved, but not enough to change her mind, and her fleeting offer near the end of the episode to “take a bath” with him serves as just another inadvertent twist of the knife. “Pamela” goes for bigger, broader emotional beats than we’re used to from Louie, but it delivers them with its trademark honesty and panache.

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The Newsroom (No, Not That One)

This Sunday marks the premiere of Aaron Sorkin’s new HBO one-hour, The Newsroom. The early reviews are more or less in line with what I was expecting from the promotional materials: according to sterling types like Mo Ryan and Alan Sepinwall, it’s self-serious, unconvincing, and possibly even a little misogynistic. I’m sure we’ll discuss the pilot on the next edition of The Televerse, but in the meantime, why not check out the probably-far-superior 1996 series of the same name?

A media satire and mock-doc-style sitcom, Ken Finkleman’s series isn’t perfect, but it seems to predict about a dozen series that followed. The shooting style and aloof, casually offensive protagonist (George Findlay, played by Finkleman) presages The Office, the takedown of news-industry self-infatuation connects to The Colbert Report, and the season-ending dive into an elaborate Federico Fellini parody recalls some of Louie‘s flights of stylistic fancy.

Someone took the time to upload the entire first season and post-season special to YouTube; check it out starting below. (Finkleman also produced a second run of episodes in 2004-05, and a film, Escape from the Newsroom, in 2002.) If you need further encouragement, take a listen to the DVD Shelf segment in Televerse 10, where Kate and I discuss the series with Jesse Singer of the Watch It podcast.

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Mixtape: City Sickness(es)

It’s pouring like hell in TO tonight, so now’s as good a time as any to throw this 8tracks mix I cobbled together into the blog…fray. The tracks are left mysteriously tagged on purpose. If you really need a track ID, that’s what the comment box is for.

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Shonda Rhimes, Bunheads, and the Problem of Diversity

It’s not that Shonda Rhimes is wrong, exactly. When she took Bunheads and, by extension, its creator, Amy Sherman-Palladino (Gilmore Girls), to task for not featuring any performers of color (at least in the pilot), she had her own showrunning record to back her up. Rhimes’s heightened ensemble dramas tend to work overtime featuring characters of varying racial backgrounds as well as sexual orientation, so it’s certainly fair that she criticize other showrunners who don’t seem to place the same value on diversity that she does. It’s also true that Sherman-Palladino’s rebuttal – basically, that women in the industry shouldn’t attack each other, as they have it hard enough already – isn’t exactly inspiring. Would it have been preferable for a male counterpart to level the criticism?

On the other hand, something about Rhimes’s remarks feels “off.” First, there’s this idea that Rhimes requires said diversity so that she can “feel good about [her] kid watching this show.” On one level, that checks out; parents should want to feel that their kids’ realities are reflected in the pop culture they consume. On another, Rhimes shortchanges what Sherman-Palladino is up to with Bunheads, and maybe shortchanges her kids in the process. The dancers on Bunheads might all be white, but they’re very different in terms of body type and disposition, and the way the show looks frankly at how one’s biological makeup can affect one’s future, particularly in the context of ballet (and by extension, performing arts in general), is refreshingly frank. The show features young girls grappling with their shapes and abilities in a very real way, moreso even than on the likes of supposedly-adult fare like Smash. As for the race issue, as long as the writing is honest and the characterization is clear, why should Rhimes’s kids not be able to forge connections with the girls of Bunheads? While the lack of racial diversity isn’t ideal, surely the fact that these kids are dealing with very real issues of self-esteem and expectation should resonate with kids of just about any racial or cultural background.

That’s why the diversity issue is so thorny: isolating one show and complaining about its shortcomings on this front seems to miss the point. When similar accusations were thrown at Girls, for example, it seemed to me to be a very odd choice for a target. Why isolate a show that’s going out of its way to depict a certain demographic’s reality in such an unusually upfront fashion? To put it more generally, isn’t it more worth our time and effort to applaud shows that manage to communicate classically television-unfriendly truths than to cut them down over an issue that’s far too great in scope for any one show to properly address?

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Podcast: Televerse 42 – Girls Season One w/ Adam Kempenaar, and more

In the latest episode of The Televerse over at Sound on Sight, my usual cohort Kate Kulzick was sadly absent, but in her stead I got to talk to Adam Kempenaar of the mighty Filmspotting about the just-completed first season of HBO’s Girls. After that, in a pre-recorded segment, Kate and I are joined by Lindsay Wood for a lengthy DVD Shelf on the iconic Twin Peaks. Stream or download it over at Sound on Sight.

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