Thursday, June 8, 2017

The Trial(s) of Bill Cosby...Through the Eyes of a Saddened Fan

The event some people thought would never happen is taking place this week: the sexual assault trial of Bill Cosby is unfolding inside the Montgomery County Courthouse near Philadelphia.

If you're a child of the Cosby Era, as I am, the past three years have been like an aching pain in your heart that won't go away. From "America's Dad" to "America's Cad" in an instant, as more and more decades-old revelations spilled out in the media. 

When the scandal first erupted, I wrote the following post. Now that the trial is reality, I wanted to republish it. It originally appeared Nov. 29, 2014, during the second wave of civil disturbances in Ferguson, Mo., brought on by the acquittal of the police officer who shot and killed Michael Brown.


I waited a while to write this until the media feeding frenzy and "Me, too! Me, too!" piling on blew over.

Boy, did it ever.

Black Friday? Forget that. This has been Black Week in America. And if he hasn't already, Bill Cosby should hit his creaky knees and thank God for the blessings of timing and the 24-hour news cycle. "America's Dad" may be the only man in the country to benefit from the senseless destruction and idiocy of Ferguson, since it literally blasted him off the front pages.

Not for long, though, I'm guessing. When you've got women taking numbers to stand in line so they can hurl rape allegations at you, there's an excellent chance you'll regain the title of Public Celebrity Enemy No. 1 sooner than later. I walked through the grocery store the other day: Cosby is on this week's cover of People, Us...and the National Enquirer. Nobody wants to be that popular.

Suddenly, everybody has a Bill Cosby story. Here are a few of mine.

Out of respect, a photo Cosby approved.
There is absolutely no doubt in my head that my sense of humor, whatever it may be, was completely formed, shaped and polished by William Henry Cosby Jr. – or more specifically, by the string of 10 classic, tear-inducing comedy albums he recorded between 1963 and 1969, a span roughly corresponding to my junior high and high school years.

Here was a young, inventive comedian the same color as I, which, believe me, was not an everyday occurrence in the '60s. And, unlike Redd Foxx (who was the only other African American comic I knew of at the time), you didn't have to wait until your parents were gone to pull his albums out of their hiding place. Cosby always worked "clean," never stooped to vulgarity or innuendo, never took advantage of his comedic birthright to use his race for easy punchlines.

Why Is There Air? Wonderfulness. "I Started Out as a Child." It felt like they were coming out every other month. I would race to the record store in the little town next to the little town where I grew up, snatch up the latest LP on the date of its release, then dash home breathlessly to begin absorbing every groove. By the tenth hearing or so I had every routine committed to memory.

Meanwhile, in the other small town, my friend, Chris DeBlaey, was going through the exact same ritual. We were Cos-obsessed. Chris and I attended the same small (of course) Methodist church, and by Sunday our mental guns were loaded. You know how kids are in church to begin with...and we came armed with material.

We would sit next to each other in the service, alternating lines of Cosby's monologues, trying our utmost to break each other up. I vividly remember one Sunday night worship where our persistent snickers and stifled snorts escalated to such a volume that our pastor, Ron Smeenge, actually halted the service in mid-sermon.

"YOU TWO!" he bellowed, sounding like the voice of God Himself.  "Just what exactly is so funny?"

I wanted to shout out, "Noah!" or "What's a cubit?" using an example I figured he would understand. Instead, Chris and looked down at the floor, feigning remorse, then cut knowing glances at each other, our eyes dancing with mischief.

I learned comedic timing from Bill Cosby's albums. I studied the art of the pause, how to deliver the punch line, how bending a word or simply choosing one word over another could make a joke funnier. And since I ultimately spent a portion of my life working as a professional standup comic, I would say I tried to put those lessons to good use.
The Cosby image the media shows today, now that he is Satan.

But there's more. Maybe you have to be a young boy in his formative years with a media fixation and an identity crisis to understand how thrilling it was to have a black man starring in a dramatic television series. Bill Cosby broke TV's color barrier in 1968 with I Spy: before Sheldon Leonard made the daring decision to cast him as Alexander Scott, blacks were allowed to make America laugh but never permitted to make us think. And it was significant to me that Scott was the smart one, the thinking man's character, and Robert Culp was the athlete. That's a contrast that rarely happens even today.
*          *          *
Fast forward to the mid-80s. I'm the entertainment writer for The Detroit News and the long-gone Premier Center in suburban Sterling Heights is booking an impressive lineup of national acts. Two legends of the industry, Bill Cosby and Sammy Davis Jr., are touring together for the first time. I am, as you might expect, giddy with anticipation. But first, some background.

Several weeks earlier, Eddie Murphy made his first standup appearance in Detroit at the Masonic Temple. I was reviewing the show, sitting in a back row, and was very familiar with Murphy's outrageously blue comedic style. I was in the minority. The audience that night was largely white, people who knew Murphy only from his small body of work on Saturday Night Live. They expected to see live versions of his Buckwheat and Mr. Robinson characters; some even brought their children! I could see disaster on the horizon, and unfortunately I was right. The first time Murphy dropped an F-bomb you literally could hear jaws dropping.

Ultimately Eddie had to cut his performance short and was booed offstage. Someone actually threw a shoe at him as he stalked to the wings. He stopped, picked up the shoe and threw it back at the crowd! Besides writing my local review, I was a stringer for People magazine and wrote a blurb that appeared nationally on the magazine's back page.

Back to the Premier Center. Davis and Cosby put on a sparkling performance, and when it was over a VIP reception was thrown for them backstage. Elizabeth Roach, the venue's publicist and a good friend, asked, "Would you like to go back and meet Mr. Cosby?" I had a deadline to meet, but – are you kidding? Heck yeah, I'll go!

We were milling around backstage, waiting for an opening, and at the appropriate moment Roach walked me up to Cosby and introduced us. He looked at me and narrowed his eyes, apparently putting two and two together. "Are you the one who wrote that piece in People magazine?" he asked.

"Y-y-yes," I stammered.

"Come here."

Cosby took me by the arm, walked me over to a small table near the back of the room and proceeded to give me a 20-minute master class on his theories of comedy and why blue humor is its own worst enemy. Was I mesmerized? What do you think? In the midst of a throng of people who merely wanted to shake his hand, I was sitting face-to-face with my comedy idol who was giving me an animated lecture on Comedy 101. He was warm and passionate, the Ph.D. side of his nature clearly gushing forth. I was euphoric, living a highlight-reel life moment, one which I shall never forget.
*          *          *
As we'd prefer to remember him: Cosby Show papa Cliff Huxtable.
The last time I talked to Cosby was about three years ago, for an advance feature in HOUR Detroit magazine prior to one of his Detroit appearances. Again, he gave more than expected: a scheduled 15-minute interview turned into a 45-minute conversation, and this time he was dropping the F-bombs, trying to give me an object lesson about how blue humor was the lazy way to a cheap laugh. Mostly, though we talked about the African American community in general and Detroit in particular. 

For my money, most of his recurring themes about society today make complete sense. Young black men should pull up their pants and stop acting like inmates-in-waiting. Education is the key to escaping the downward spiral of poverty and drugs. All politicians, white and especially black, need to do more to bolster the African American community. But because of his age (77) and occupation (funny man), Cosby has been summarily dismissed by Black America as a grouchy curmudgeon talking down at us from his mountain of money. We didn't want to hear the message, so we objected to the messenger.

Now, I've said all that to say this: these last few weeks have ripped holes in my heart. Cosby has been my hero, role model and comedy icon for decades, as he has been for millions of others. (C'mon, don't be ashamed to admit it now.) I haven't even mentioned how he almost singlehandedly saved NBC in the 1980s with his most successful Cosby Show (he had several in his career), or what Fat Albert and the Cosby Kids meant to children of my generation and beyond. 

Hearing this litany of assertions is like finding out that Captain America was a Communist spy, or Judge Judy abuses her grandkids. Did he do all these horrible things he's being accused of? I don't know for certain, and neither do you. If it was only Janice Dickinson making the charges, we might not be so quick to rush to judgment; she hasn't had a purely lucid thought since the '90s. But a steady stream of women, at 16 and counting I believe, have come forward with essentially the same story.

I think a big part of it is that deep down, we want Cosby to be Cliff Huxtable, the dad we all wished we had, which is kind of like expecting Jim Parsons to be Sheldon Cooper. (Some days, I'll bet Jim Parsons wishes he was Sheldon Cooper). This just in, people: television is not reality. The truth is, nobody is all good or all bad; the backlash is so ferocious because our naivete has been shattered.

I went back and watched the video of the Hannibal Burress standup routine that rekindled all this. It was direct. It was cutting. But what struck me was that it wasn't funny, which made me question his motives for doing the bit in the first place. Did he just want to denigrate a living legend in order to elevate himself? I think it's fair to say "black man" and "rape" in the same sentence almost never brings an audience to tears. (Of laughter, anyway.) It just seemed like an odd forum for so vicious a contention.

Let me say without hesitation that rape is a horrific, odious, unforgivable offense. If America was just, there would be no statute of limitations for the crime, as is the case with murder, especially because women sometimes require many years to gather the courage to come forward and name their attacker. But there is a statute, and for these accusers it has long since expired. Why, oh why did it take so many years for all of his victims to step out of the shadows? Was Cosby's control and intimidation over them that complete? Did he and the lords of Hollywood do that good a job of keeping his sins away from the public eye, keeping them swept under the rug?

So instead the nation has turned on him like a pack of wolves. It's too late to prosecute, so they persecute. The media is opting to use the most grizzled, stubbly, unflattering photos it can find. New projects and concerts have been abruptly cancelled, Cosby Show reruns have been yanked. Meanwhile, I still can watch Two and a Half Men in syndication every night, and Charlie Sheen's myriad transgressions are a matter of public record. Heck, he boasts about many of them. Seventh Heaven is back on the air although series star Stephen Collins has admitted to molesting children. What are we to make of that?

In Cosby's case, he has been tried, convicted and sentenced in the Court of Public Opinion even though no charges have been filed against him. Now he has resigned as a trustee from his beloved Temple University, a board position he has held more than 30 years, not wishing to be a distraction to his alma mater.

Did he do it? I don't know. Power corrupts. Absolute power corrupts absolutely, and at one point Cosby was among the most powerful men in Hollywood.

Bill Cosby has had a remarkable, multifacted career, one almost anyone would be proud to claim. Now he's a septuagenarian and rich as Midas. Does he care that his reputation and legacy have been tarnished for all time? Only he knows. I know that his only son, Ennis, was brutally murdered on an LA freeway some years ago. so it's not as though he's blithely floated through his success without having some holes ripped in his heart, too.

I just wish my hero would come forward and deny it all in the most powerful terms possible. Say something. Anything. Right now the silence hurts more than any F-bomb used for a cheap laugh. It's deafening. Nobody's laughing.

Monday, February 13, 2017

'Detroiters:' A Silly, Drive-By Celebration of the Comeback City

Sam Richardson and Tim Robinson play airhead ad men in 'Detroiters.'
Though I wasn't born there, I spent nearly half my life, more than 30 years, in Detroit. I lived most of that time inside the city proper (always on the East Side) but also claimed addresses in Pontiac, Southfield, Warren and Ferndale.

And in the minds of many locals, that combination of facts – (1) wasn't born there, (2) didn't live there continuously, and (3) don't live there now – are more than enough to disqualify me as an "official" Detroiter.

In the Motor Town, pride and provincialism run as thick as Sanders' hot fudge over Stroh's ice cream. If you're gonna "do Detroit," you better come correct. So you can imagine the southeast Michigan trepidation and jubilation upon the arrival of Detroiters, the new half-hour sitcom Tuesdays at 10:30 p.m. EST on Comedy Central.

It's not unlike having your kid perform the solo in the school recital: we're so excited for the opportunity, but please don't screw up and embarrass us.

And for the most part Detroiters does Detroit proud, although it definitely could have made a better first impression comedically. It goes beyond the standard national video clich̩s of the city Рblighted buildings, the Spirit of Detroit statue, ruin porn, Joe Louis' fist Рto layer in some references sure to make locals smile.

When the two principal players, a pair of hapless advertising guys struggling to keep their tiny agency afloat, need a snack break after an all-night brainstorming session, they grab for a bag of Better Made potato chips. When they want to check out their new commercial as it airs, they slip into the Temple Bar and – ohmigosh! – isn't that legendary former Detroit anchor Mort Crim on the TV, intoning the local news?

This attention to Detroit detail should come as no surprise, since the show's thirtysomething stars and creators, Tim Robinson and Sam Richardson (Veep), are Motor Citizens to their core, fulfilling a long-held dream to mount a comedy shot in and about their homeland.

Robinson grew up around Clarkston, while Richardson spent his childhood in the city's famed Boston-Edison neighborhood. They met as members of the now-defunct Detroit edition of the Second City comedy troupe and formed a tight friendship – so much so that they texted each other almost daily even though they continued their careers on opposite coasts. Robinson resettled in New York and parlayed that Second City connection into a cast position, and eventually a staff writing gig, on Saturday Night Live.

He must have left on excellent terms: Detroiters is executive produced by legendary SNL founder Lorne Michaels and former ensemble member Jason Sudeikis, who appeared in the pilot episode as the Big Kahuna vice president of marketing for Chrysler. His character becomes the impossible dream for Tim Cramblin (Robinson), owner of a small-time family ad agency with his partner (and brother-in-law) Sam Duvet (Richardson): though they don't have a swimmer's chance in the Detroit River of landing a major national auto account, that doesn't deter them from going to extraordinary measures to make their pitch.

In part, Detroiters is a celebration of those classic, incredibly hokey local-TV commercials that every market cherishes – in Detroit's case, featuring outrageous pitchmen like Ollie Fretter, Richard Golden, Mel Farr "Superstar" and, of course, the immortal Maurice Lezell, "Mr. Belvedere." In part, it is silly and disjointed, and at some point during the pilot you'll find yourself wishing it was funnier. The New York Times described the show as "Dumb and Dumber meets Mad Men," which is fairly accurate, but not quite as goofy as the former and nowhere near as sophisticated as the latter.

What makes Detroiters special is that of all the series set in or based on Detroit – from Home Improvement and Martin to Detroit 1-8-7, Low Winter Sun and Hung – it undeniably comes closest to getting Detroit right. YES, black men and white men can get along, be besties and even be related to each other! YES, we have fine downtown dining establishments that don't serve coney dogs! NO, not every residential area in the city looks like a bombed-out, postwar London!

You can't throw a bottle of Vernors anywhere in the country without hitting a Detroiter upside the head. We're everywhere! However, whether enough of them care about reveling in their hometown's mystique – and convincing hundreds of thousands of their non-Detroit friends to do the same – will be this sitcom's ultimate key to success. Wish I could help lead the charge, but as you know, I'm not an "official" Detroiter.

On the Big Glowing Box Remote (out of 10): 7.0 clicks (anticipating rapid improvement)

Wednesday, September 21, 2016

Making a Pitch for the 'Newest' Show of The New Fall Season

Kylie Bunbury is Throwing Heat. (Warwick Saint/FOX)
This fall, everything old is on TV again.

There's a scaled-down home version of The Exorcist. Lethal Weapon, MacGyver and Van Helsing, too. Michael Weatherly left the No. 1 show on television after 13 seasons – 13 seasons! – only to show up this September with a new drama of his own. (What kind of Bull is that?)

Kiefer Sutherland is back with the job Jack Bauer really wanted, as President of the United States in Designated Survivor. Kevin James, Westworld (with Anthony Hopkins, no less), Sarah Jessica Parker, Frequency, Ted Danson, a show abut going back in time (Timeless) and at least two new series (No Tomorrow, Aftermath) about the end of the world. It's like taking a stroll through the Museum of Broadcast Communications in Chicago.

That's why, ever since I heard about its coming and its concept, there is one new fall show I've been almost giddy with anticipation to see.

Because I am an absolute fool for baseball.

Because, with a woman running for president for the first time in history, the time and setting are perfect.

Because I'm fascinated to see how the phenomenal executive producer and director, Paris Barclay (NYPD Blue, Sons of Anarchy) and his team can sustain the excitement of the storyline through, say, four episodes.

And because, as far as I can recall, it is unlike any other series ever on television.

The show is called Pitch, about the first woman to play for a Major League Baseball team, and it premieres at 9 p.m. Thursday (Sept. 22, 2016) on FOX.

It revolves around pitcher Ginny Baker, played by Kylie Bunbury, who has fought her way up the San Diego Padres minor league system to make a spot start for the big club – and set off the kind of media frenzy and public hysteria usually reserved for Royal Weddings.

The day she's scheduled to take the mound, Ellen DeGeneres sends a fruit basket. Hillary wires a congratulatory bouquet. The streets around Petco Park are absolutely jammed with delirious fans. And while all that's entirely fictitious, one of the things I like about Pitch is how it weaves real-life sports notables into the storyline. As Ginny meanders to the clubhouse, she passes by screens showing FOX Sports luminaries (Colin Cowherd, Katie Nolan, Ken Rosenthal) weighing in on her odds of success. (Wonder if they participated willingly?)

It also seems realistic that the sad-sack Padres, who haven't truly approached greatness since my Tigers whupped 'em back in '84, might be the major league franchise most likely to take such a gamble-slash-publicity stunt. And with the full support of MLB, the show resounds with being-at-the-ballpark authenticity. (Wonder if the Padres participated willingly?) 
You Can Buy Lauria (L) as a Manager, but Mark-Paul Gosselaar? (Ray Mickshaw/FOX)

Where the bounds of credibility begin to stretch is with Kylie Bunbury, who is, in a word, stunning. I think it's a masterstroke that producers chose a relative unknown Рher FOX bio is just six lines long Рfor their lead, so we can focus on her present role instead of her resum̩.

Word is that Bunbury was cast months before the show went into production so she could learn how to pitch, or at least look like someone who could make it to the majors. However, I might expect a young woman who could throw in the mid-80s (aided by a trick-pitch screwball, the pitch taught her by her father) to have a build more like Hope Solo or Serena Williams than a teen model – which Bunbury once was, in Minnesota.

Obviously, your belief in the possibility of Ginny Baker – wearing No. 43, "one more than Jackie Robinson" – is critical to the success of the series. Like a rookie on the diamond, however, Pitch wisely surrounded their newcomer with an impressive team, a cast of familiar TV players: Bob Balaban as the team owner, Dan Lauria (The Wonder Years) as the requisite crusty Old School manager, Mark Consuelos (Kelly Ripa) as the Padres publicist, and the sumptuous Ali Larter as Ginny's agent.

You'll be fascinated by Michael Beach, another omnipresent actor, as Ginny's stony, unrelenting Sports Dad, obsessed with molding one of his kids into a baseball pro. But I can't get over the casting of Mark-Paul Gosselaar as the team's veteran star catcher, Mike Lawson. Because pitcher and catcher must be two sides of the same brain, he and Ginny are inextricably connected. So your ability to believe in Gosselaar as a perennial All-Star behind the plate is almost as vital to Pitch as seeing Bunbury as a hurler.

The beard he's grown to increase his grizzle quotient didn't help me. If your Gosselaar memory goes back only as far as Franklin & Bash or NYPD Blue, you've got a shot. If you remember him as Zack Morris, good luck.

Ginny knows well her limitations, and her sexist teammates' expectations. "Seventy-five percent of them think I'm the next San Diego Chicken," she sighs. "The other 25 percent just want to see me shower." Yet Pitch clearly intends to take the societal implications surrounding America's first female MLB player far beyond stadium walls.

"This girl is Hillary Clinton with sex appeal," raves Larter's character, Amelia Slater, who says she gave up George Clooney to make Ginny her full-time client. "She's a Kardashian with a skill set. She's the most important woman on the planet right now."

The writing is crisp, witty and topical (there's even a Red Reddington reference on FOX), and a baseball-themed series on the network that's broadcasting this year's World Series can't hurt the show's exposure. It's suspected that when ABC decided to move Scandal to a midseason return, FOX leaped at the possibility Shondaland fans might sample another hour drama with a strong black woman atop the cast.

I think Pitch is going to have trouble hitting a home run, for the same gender-challenged reasons a show like Men of a Certain Age (a personal fave) didn't make it: men aren't going to flock to see a woman play baseball, and most women don't love the game enough to watch.

It's hard to be the first. Much as I love the baseball setting, Bunbury and Gosselaar may make it hard for Pitch to get to first.

On the Big Glowing Box Remote (out of 10): 7.5 clicks.


Saturday, January 23, 2016

Your "X" Favorite Series Returns...With a Melancholy Drone

Do you really think it's sheer coincidence that a massive Stormageddon is blasting out of the sky and engulfing major East Coast population centers this weekend, trapping people inside their homes where they're more likely to watch TV this Sunday night?

Mulder and Scully are Back..lit (FOX/Frank Ockenfels)
Or could it be the work of...aliens?

The truth is out there – or more accurately, on there, as on the FOX primetime schedule. The network has gone back to the future to exhume one of its all-time defining series, The X-Files, for a limited six-episode encore. It kicks off with a two-night "event" beginning at approximately 10 p.m./9c in the cushy, coveted time slot following the NFL's NFC Conference championship slugfest.

In more than one sense, the return of FBI special agents Fox Mulder (David Duchovny) and Dana Scully (Gillian Anderson) to FOX after 201 episodes, a 14-year absence and two relatively unsatisfying feature films is achingly bittersweet. For the better part of the 2000s, no matter how woefully its fall season stumbled from the gate, the network could rely on the midseason January launches of 24 and American Idol to propel it to a string of weekly ratings victories down the stretch. In 2016, however, the clock has stopped ticking for Jack Bauer and Idol is limping into its 15th and farewell season, no longer capable of holding the nation in its thrall as the recording industry's newest pop sensation is unveiled.

And Empire isn't returning until March. For FOX, midseason ain't what it used to be.

So the whole affair also has an air of sadness in that the network felt compelled to reach back to its earliest glory days, mend fences with The X-Files executive producer and creative mastermind Chris Carter and pull one last buzz-inducing January programming stunt out of its hat while it scrambles to figure out what to do in 2017. And it did so with the full knowledge that there now exists an entire generation of vidkid millennials who have no idea what all The X-Files buzz is about.

Well, kidlets, let me tell you: in its mid-2000s heyday, The X-Files could frighten the holy feces out of you on a weekly basis in a way Hitchcock and Serling could only dream about, given the limitations of the medium and censorship in their eras. Even the show's theme song could send chills up your back. (In full recognition of this, the FOX press kit for this mini-blockbuster included a faked-up red FBI "dossier" that played the theme when you opened it.) I remember thinking back then that the song was so identifiable that it should have lyrics, so I penned some on my own:

"There is a scary show
About where aliens go,
It stars Fox and Scul-leee.
It scares hell out of meeee:
Boodlee-boodlee-boodlee-boodlee – BOO!"

So they've gotten the old gang back together, and what do we have? Of course, both leads are older now. Duchovny has enjoyed some Californication and the dawning of Aquarius during the interim years, but the square-jawed former JFK Jr. classmate never seems to age. Maybe it's because of the world-weary cockiness he brings to almost every role. And Anderson has been – hey, where has Gillian Anderson been the last 14 years?

Besides Hannibal and the current A&E/History/Lifetime remake of War and Peace, she's been mostly on the stage and small screen in and around London, where the onetime Grand Rapids, Mich., resident has made her home since The X-Files series ended. Anderson has taken on even more of a pale, porcelain gauntness, like Julie Andrews' baby sister, either because of her living environment or because the blood still hasn't returned to her face after initially being offered half as much money as Duchovny to return for the miniseries. Before the first hour is over you'll also briefly see FBI Assistant Director Walter Skinner (Mitch Pileggi) and the Cigarette Smoking Man (William B. Davis) – it's safe to say, as you've never seen him before.
Joel McHale (of all people) guests as a conservative TV talk host.
As the script reminds us, however, this is a different age as well. The '90s, you may or may not recall, were an extremely paranoid time in America; the new storyline asks the question, in a post 9/11 era of ubiquitous video surveillance and TSA body scans, are we more secure or more paranoid? "How they police us, spy on us and tell us that makes us safer?" the script asks. "We've never been in more danger."

This conundrum is wrapped in two persons: Tad O'Malley (guest star Joel McHale), a conservative TV and Internet talking head with enough celebrity juice, money and wild conspiracy theories to spring Mulder back into action (Hmmm: Fox...news...O'Malley. Wonder if the politically astute Carter is alluding to anyone here?); and a mysterious young woman named Sveta (Annet Mahendru) who claims to have been the mom for a string of extraterrestrial babies...and has multiple scoops taken out of her stomach to prove it. Her very cool last scene in the first hour is proof that Carter's special effects budget for this miniseries is enormously greater than it was back in the day.

I like how Carter manages to review and summarize the entire X-Files history in the first few minutes through photos and stock footage. Theoretically, that should have opened the door to hit this new storyline running, with the pace and action such a classic revival deserves. Sadly, however, the first episode – ironically titled "My Struggle" – plods annoyingly through much of its hour, as if the script and the characters are trying to find their rhythm again.

The action picks up conspicuously as the episode concludes, and morphs into some of the "Monster of the Week" scenarios that X-Files fans grew to love farther down its six-week arc. But longtime fans of the series will need to exercise considerable patience, and newcomers to the Mulder-Scully matrix are certain to wonder initially what all the hype was about.

"It's about controlling the past to control the future!" Mulder rages at one point. "It's about fiction masquerading as fact. I spent a decade of my life in this office, and all the time I was being led by my nose through a dark alley to a dead end. Exactly as they planned."

I feel you, Fox.

Big Glowing Box Remote rating (1-10): 7 clicks


Saturday, September 26, 2015

EXCLUSIVE: With Andre Braugher of 'Brooklyn Nine-Nine'


I don't remember now which of his many series he was representing. Could it have been so long ago that he was still playing the role for which he may be best known, as arrogant, eccentric, irresistible Detective Frank Pembleton on the classic cop drama Homicide: Life on the Street?

At any rate, I was still a relatively brand-new television critic, writing for The Detroit News, and certainly something of an anomaly: even today there are very few people of color writing about TV on a regular basis, and in the early '90s there were almost none.

Perhaps that was the key. I bumped into Andre Braugher in the elevator of the Santa Monica hotel where the Television Critics Association meetings were being held that summer and we began a casual conversation. It floated into the lobby bar where we talked about a variety of subjects – very few related to acting or television, as I recall – over a round or two of drinks. "What a great guy," I think to myself. I've never been starstruck, but neither had I ever spent significant time chatting with a nationally known actor in a non-interview setting. "He's nothing at all like his characters!"

As we get up to leave, Braugher takes a napkin off the bar and pulls out a pen. He writes down his home number and hands it to me. "If you're ever on the coast, give me a call," he smiles. Well, just how cool is this?

I'd like to tell you this is the start of a beautiful, decades-long friendship. But I would be telling you a lie, for I am a doofus. By the time I returned to Detroit from California a few weeks later, I lost the napkin.

I recount this story to Braugher recently over the phone (no, I didn't find the number; a Beverly Hills publicist set up the call), which elicits a laugh. "I'm glad to know I was perceived as being a nice guy," he says.

He's also being perceived now – for perhaps the first time in his long career – as a comedic actor. He has been nominated for a Primetime Emmy Award as Outstanding Supporting Actor in a Comedy Series each of the two seasons Brooklyn Nine-Nine has been on the air for his portrayal of Captain Ray Holt, the by-the-book, openly gay commanding officer of TV's wackiest precinct.

As Capt. Ray Holt, the Last (Serious) Man Standing. (FOX/Tommy Garcia)
As Season Three arrives on FOX at 8:30 p.m. EST Sunday (Sept. 27, 2015), however, we find Capt. Holt has been transferred – and demoted – to head his former unit in the NYPD's Public Relations Office, the result of his ongoing insult war with the evil Deputy Chief Madeline Wuntch (guest star Kyra Sedgwick). Holt's farewell to his squad at the end of Season Two was the kind of scene from which YouTube legends are made. And now the 9-9 must deal with a new captain: guest star Bill Hader, former Saturday Night Live stablemate of series star Andy Samberg, as the efficiency-obsessed Capt. Seth Dozerman.

What are we to make of all this? For that matter, what does Braugher think of these big changes, I asked him as our one-on-one interview began.

When you received the script for the Season Two finale, were you at all concerned that you were being written out of the series?

I wasn't concerned in the least. I mean, there's always a cliffhanger at the end of a season. Jake (Andy Samberg) left the first year, Ray left last year, and next year who knows?

As a matter of fact, (co-executive producer) Dan Goor gave me a call after the script came out and said, 'Oh, in case you were wondering whether or not you're on the show, we have this whole elaborate thing planned out, blah, blah, blah,' I told him I had no doubts. Other people asked, 'Are you leaving the show? Where are you going?' I said, 'I'm sure they have something planned and they're going to resolve it.' I know these guys (Goor and Michael Schur) to be sharp and funny. They're not crashing their own show.

I think I have a contract that runs six years, and I think they're happy with my work. I've gotten two consecutive Emmy nominations. So I think I'm good.

Did you have any misgivings about playing a gay character?

I wasn't concerned about anything other than the fact that typically, gay characters are the butt of the joke. But I understood these guys (Goor and Schur) have a very good pedigree. I've watched The Office and Parks and Recreation and I know these guys are smart writers who create really rich and detailed universes for their characters. So my only question was, what's your intention with this?

Basically it was a five-minute conversation. Dan said his intentions were ultimately respectful. New York is a city that's incredibly diverse and this cast is incredibly diverse as well. It's his attempt to mirror the world, and I think that's wonderful. Raymond Holt is in a long-lasting, monogamous, stable relationship. He said this is not the kind of show where you're going to be wearing pink hot pants one day and dancing to 'YMCA' the next. No matter how crazy the characters are, they're still going to admirable in their own way. And I took him at his word.

It's an especially touchy issue for black actors, no?

You know, African American men in drag or as flamboyant homosexuals is really a very common theme in television, so it was always important for me to stay away from that kind of stuff. So I trusted these guys, and it's proven true. Ray Holt is a very interesting man whose sexual orientation is part of his character as opposed to being his defining trait.

Do you expect that Brooklyn Nine-Nine has impacted your image to the extent that casting directors will think of you now as a comedic actor?

(Laughs.) Possibly. I don't know. I mean, this was so unexpected. I would love to. I would love to take on some comic movies, I'd love to take on some comic challenges. I wasn't born to comedy, but I think there's a place for me. I would love to embrace it wholeheartedly and see where it goes, because I feel rejuvenated as an actor by being involved with this comedy. 
The undeniably diverse (and bizarre) cast of 'Brooklyn Nine-Nine' (Scott Schafer/FOX)
Do you have any 'rearview mirror' thoughts about Men of a Certain Age (the short-lived TNT drama co-starring Ray Romano and Scott Bakula, which also earned Braugher two Emmy nominations). It was so good, and seemed to be canceled way too soon.

Well, I guess the numbers weren't good enough. People really had a very strong affection for that show, as did I. And I felt we were telling a really mature kind of comic tale about men in this time of their life.

You know, it's typically true of television that men at this age are the butt of the joke, and this was a show that loved them and understood them. You could see it in the writing. So I was sorry to see it go, but that's been the story of my entire career. It's not my decision. It's not my network. I would have done something different and I would have loved to go on with the show. Ray is a comic genius, period, and Scott is a perfect gentleman. But once again, it was TNT's call. If the numbers don't satisfy them, it's time to go.

They (TV networks) do love to pull the plug too early on the shows, you know? Shows don't get a chance to build. They just yank 'em. If farmers ripped up their crops as quickly as networks rip up television shows, nothing would ever grow. But I went on to Last Resort (the military drama that aired one season on ABC), and right after that I went on to Brooklyn Nine-Nine. So I consider myself fortunate as an actor to have been gainfully employed for five years in a row.

Does anyone still recognize you as Frank Pembleton, or has too much water flowed under the bridge since Homicide?
As Det. Frank Pembleton

Yeah, sure, from people my age (53). Because those are the people who saw the show when it ran on the network or saw it in DVD or boxed sets. But you know, the show doesn't stream, so there's a whole generation that knows nothing about that show. I mean, you can't find it on Hulu or iTunes, you can't buy it. You can see excerpts that people have posted on YouTube, but that's it.

It was a really interesting show, but no one can actually see it anymore. It's going to disappear, because you can't watch it. Test it out. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe it's the neanderthal in me coming out, but I don't consider myself a novice on a computer. And I don't see any way for an ordinary individual to watch an episode of Homicide. It's going to fade from consciousness.

Friday, August 28, 2015

Horror in Roanoke Evokes Memories of an Old Friend – Tragically

One of the first things I did Thursday morning (8/27/15), after the shock and disbelief and rage and outrage had fallen into place, was to call my dear friend Robin Hardin in Detroit.

I wanted to make sure "Robby-Rob," as I love to call her, was doing all right emotionally. My concern was prompted by of one of those weird, six-degrees-of-separation experiences that you never expect will stretch out to involve you personally – until it does.

Alison Parker and Adam Ward, killed on live TV. (CBS News)
You see, the senseless, nauseating murders of WDBJ-TV reporter Alison Parker and photojournalist Adam Ward and the wounding of their interview subject Vicki Gardner this week during a live TV segment in Roanoke, Va., sent America's media mob scrambling for the archives. As it turns out, the last time a working U.S. journalist was gunned down in this country was back in 2007. The victim was the editor-in-chief of the Oakland Post in Oakland, Calif., a man named Chauncey Bailey.

He was a friend of mine.

And Robin Hardin is his ex-wife.

In the torrent of reportage over the deaths of Parker and Ward, the name of Chauncey Bailey was almost certain to be dropped frequently and mindlessly by the national media. He's a human footnote, a casual point of reference. It's got to be hard enough to carry around an undercurrent of grief over the murder of an ex-spouse, an incessant pain eight years this month and counting, without having to hear his name thrown in your face every time you turn on a newscast. Some people might rejoice over the memory of an ex's demise. Robin Hardin is not one of those people.
Chauncey Bailey was a fighter – and one heck of a journalist.

Like Parker and Ward, Bailey was shot down outdoors and in broad August daylight, with the ruthlessness of Walter Palmer going after Cecil the Lion. Like Parker and Ward, Bailey was simply doing his job as a journalist at the time, investigating the finances of an Oakland business called Your Black Muslim Bakery when he was assassinated on 14th Street by a masked gunman. (Eventually, in 2011, two men were convicted and sentenced to life in prison for their role in the murder.) Unlike anyone I've ever known or worked with, however, Chauncey Bailey was uniquely, absolutely one of a kind.

He and I were contemporaries at The Detroit News in the 1980s and '90s. Away from the office Chauncey was warm, conversational, surprisingly funny. With a keyboard or notepad under his control, however, he could be as abrasive as a Brillo pad. He was aggressive, articulate and fearless, never afraid to ask the toughest question regardless of the consequences. I admired that quality a great deal.

There's a reason I gravitated toward feature writing. Some people shy away from that "going-for-the-jugular" question, fearing vicious retaliation or the bruising of feelings; Chauncey seemed to live for the moment – not so much, I sensed, to be deliberately confrontational or piss people off, but because he had a story to unearth. The truth must be told, and truth was one thing from which Chauncey Bailey never shied away.

In one legendary newsroom incident, a young News reporter named Darrell Dawsey had convinced editors to let him write a neo-hip-hop, urban oriented column called "Buckwhylin';" Chauncey thought it was demeaning, and told him so. Words were exchanged. Fists flew. At some point an industrial-sized wastebasket was used as a weapon. There they were, two brawny black men slugging it out in the middle of a newsroom that was almost entirely white. It must have looked like a prize fight. Even I felt the fallout from that encounter.

Robin Hardin, kissing her ex-husband farewell. (SF Chronicle)
Chauncey and Robin went their separate ways long ago, divided by time and distance. Yet the two remained good friends, a rarity for a long-divorced couple. I wouldn't say Robin continued to carry a torch for him, but she spoke of him often and warmly in conversation. To my knowledge she has had few if any serious relationships since. Because I knew them both well, Robin and I often recounted stories from their happier times.

Contrary to conventional wisdom, I am living proof that a man can have a close female friend who is a friend only. I have known Robin – who now, ironically, works for a television station – for going on 30 years, and we never have had a romantic interlude. Not that the thought hadn't crossed my mind, you understand: Robin Hardin is a tall, stunning, exceptionally intelligent and delightful woman. A man would have to be a fool. But God places people in your life in the role they need to play, and in Robin's life I was cast in the part of good friend. I'll never forget the look of shock and disbelief on the face of my girlfriend, Karen (who later would become my wife), when I explained our relationship the first time she met Robin, who had orchestrated a pre-dawn, three-state road trip to surprise Karen on a holiday weekend. "Well, that's a relief!" Karen exhaled. Robin was my "best person" at our wedding.

And now, with no significant movement on gun control since her beloved Chauncey was shot down in the street, two more families have to deal with soul-shattering anguish. This time, the deranged, cowardly scumbag not only snuck up to shoot his unsuspecting victims in the back, but also took time to videotape his actions so he could post the deed on social media.

Several calls to Robin's home went unanswered, which is not unusual. She is a private person, given to occasional periods of reclusiveness, and almost never cleans out her voicemail to accept new messages. I was slightly more worried than usual, however. And then, Friday morning, my phone rang. Robby-Rob.

"WHUZZUP?" I exclaimed jubilantly. We both laughed about 20 seconds before another word was spoken.

"It's been a rough week," she said, as I anticipated. "It's one thing if your relative or friend dies of an illness, or is killed in an accident. But to have someone who is killed like this, just shot and killed, that makes you part of a special club."

A club nobody should ever have to join.

Saturday, February 28, 2015

'The Last Man on Earth:' The Last Show You'd Want to Watch

 
Will Forte is Phil Miller, Awash in a 10-year-old's Paradise. (FOX/Justin Althaus)
Think of all the money they saved on casting.

The very definition of the one-note gag, The Last Man on Earth, premieres Sunday (March 1, 2015) at 9 p.m. EST on FOX with a one-hour introductory episode, which is at least 41 minutes too long.

The promos proclaim this comedy is "unlike anything you've seen on television," and that is true. The question is whether that's a good thing.

It's different. It's outrageous. What it's not, as far as I could tell, is funny. I occasionally thought to myself, "Well, that's excessive" or "That's meant for shock value," but I never thought, "Hey, that's hysterical!" I strained to work up a pleasant smile.

The premise – do I even need to explain the premise? – is the title. Will Forte is Phil Miller, a fortysomething ex-temp worker (read: slacker) who appears to be the lone survivor of a devastating virus in 2020 that wiped out the rest of America's 320 million citizens. (Question to God, please: If you were to kill everyone in the United States, why would you spare Will Forte?)

He steals – well, guess it wouldn't exactly be stealing, would it? – a tour bus and criss-crosses the country looking for another survivor, emitting the longest scream of desperation ever heard on TV after he comes up empty. He spray-paints the message "Alive in Tucson" wherever he can, because that's where he's elected to settle.

He's taken souvenirs from his travels to spruce up the mansion he's chosen as his new digs. Babe Ruth autographs. Priceless works of art. Dorothy's ruby slippers. He takes cues from the Tom Hanks movie Cast Away. He talks to God, and admits having the run of the country does have its benefits. "These are Hugh Hefner's actual pajamas," he boasts to the Almighty. "Yeah. I washed them."

Mostly, though, Phil fights boredom by engaging in the kind of childish acts of destruction that would make Jackass fans green with envy. Not to mention, he now has free access to all the alcohol he can drink, and takes full advantage at every opportunity. He flashes back to his last birthday, a joyous party surrounded by loved ones, then contrasts it to this year's celebration: a single candle in a Twinkie – washed down with a bottle of $10,000 wine.

If you had free access to all booze, would you become a human margarita? (FOX)
So socially awkward is Phil that he has difficulty working up the courage to introduce himself to a shapely dress-store mannequin. (No, really.) After vowing to himself that he can keep it together despite the crushing loneliness, by the 16-minute mark of the pilot he's ready to commit suicide by driving an off-road vehicle into a huge boulder he's taken the time to adorn with a red-and-white bull's-eye. Time is one of the many things Phil has plenty of. "I've been through a lot lately, and just realized that having other people around is really what makes life worth living," he acknowledges.

Where do you go from here? This show is sad, occasionally contemplative, maybe even pitiful, all of which flies in the face of classifying it as a sitcom. You won't be tempted to join Phil in ending it all, but I find it impossible to believe you won't want to end Last Man on Earth by jumping off to another channel. There is a development about halfway through the hour that changes the dynamic significantly, but I believe you'll find it more annoying than encouraging.

Since he's really all you've got here, liking this show inherently means liking Forte. My feeling: meh. Did anyone ever really think those MacGruber sketches on Saturday Night Live were funny?

It's hard to fathom that the same people who gave us Empire also could give us this. Different silos for drama and comedy development, no doubt?

Entertainment Weekly tells us nearly 100 new series have been greenlghted for airing already in 2015. If any more of them are as brainless and unwatchable as Last Man on Earth, networks, please, scrap the process and start over.

My rating (1-10 scale): 1 click.