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S I G H T S | review
Indulging the WB
This summer, over dinner one Tuesday night, around 9:30 p.m. — halfway through an episode of Smallville — I unwittingly came out of the WB closet. My sister causally, unthinkingly, flipped channels during a commercial break. We watched Scrubs for about six minutes before I broke down and demanded she change it back. And that was it. I caved and waved the white flag of surrender.
In my defense, I resisted for as long as I could. My cold war against the WB lasted long and hard, but (much like my battle against the Gap) ended in a spectacular, bloody defeat. I watched many episodes of Gilmore Girls come and go, without betraying so much as an ounce of my internal enthusiasm for Rory, Lorelai and even the gooey Dean. Now, an entire season of pure composure and feigned indifference over Smallville had been felled by one small click of the remote control. Admitting to my sister that I was actually enjoying the reruns of Gilmore Girls and Smallville that night was distressing enough. Admitting to myself that I had enjoyed an entire season of special effects, romantic triangles, teen angst and badly contrived plot lines was almost too much to bear. Throughout the year, I clung to the illusion that even I had my pop culture standards, my pop culture dignity, to maintain. Of course, admitting my growing WB addiction wasn’t necessarily social suicide; in fact, it’s quite probably everyone’s dirty little TV-viewing secret. Now I’m facing the fact that my 20’s may henceforth be known as the largely embarrassing WB years. What I (and others) have discovered is that while the four major networks (and yes, I’m including Fox) are filled with reality based sitcoms, intense medical dramas and one family drama/comedy after another, the WB focuses on it’s own unique blend of escapist reality. So much of pop culture these days, especially popular television, is saturated with defensive humor and crude sexuality; a culture where no one ever really says what they mean. Smallville and Gilmore Girls stand out. Without hiding behind the shroud of irony, both shows create good worlds; the characters live lives that I’d lost the ability to believe actually exist. While idealistic, they aren’t as na’ve as the old Leave it to Beaver- type sitcoms of the ’50s and ’60s. These places aren’t devoid of conflict, pain, anger, sexuality and loneliness; they simply haven’t surrendered to them. As a newly-outed WB fan, I am most excited about the return of Smallville. Even in the 10-car teen drama pile up that is the WB network, this show should have crashed and burned. With all its flaws (TV Movie of the Week writing, borderline acting, and plot lines that have already come perilously close to jumping the shark) Smallville has one tremendous saving grace: There is a hopeless lack of irony, a disarming sincerity and eagerness in our young super teen Clark, and in the WB, that is grudgingly endearing. In an episode from Season One titled "Leech," Clark Kent, our mopey but well-meaning superhero-to-be, loses his powers due to a lighting strike. Without his extreme abilities to define him, Clark goes through a convoluted hour of self-examination, figuring out how to be who he his, super powers (which, god bless ‘em, parents Jonathan and Martha Kent keep calling “his gifts’) or no super powers. When it looks like Clark’s powers may not return, our hero wonders out loud to his father, “You and Mom don’t feel any differently about me, do you?” It’s a disarmingly genuine and earnest moment, devoid of any self-deprecation or the self-consciousness that accompanies these scenes on traditional sitcoms. While Clark’s parents reassured him that he’ll always be their son, “whether he can bench press the tractor or not,” I was struck by the sincerity of the scene, and the sincerity of Clark’s relationship with his parents. In "Hourglass," perhaps the episode that best weaves together the myth and the new reality of the Superman series, Clark is allowed a glimpse of the future, from a woman aptly — if not obviously — named Cassandra. Clark sees himself in a graveyard, surrounded by the headstones of all the people he loves. Eventually, he will outlive everyone he knows. It’s the plea to his parents after the vision that is surprisingly touching. “I don’t want to be alone,” he says, echoing a fear everyone has, but one which resonates especially with adolescents. The real genius of Smallville is its portrayal of super villain-in-waiting Lex Luthor. Rather then relegate Lex to the annals of one-dimensional cartoon villainy, as previous incarnations of Superman have, Smallville gives our villain a soul. And not just any old soul, but a dark, brooding one, tinged with melancholy and misunderstanding, the kind that always seems to attract teenage girls. The show’s writers have created a sympathetic, struggling young man, who, most importantly, has a genuine desire to be good. Smallville series creators Al Gough and Miles Millar have realized that it is the middle of the Superman saga that is most interesting: How we become the people we are fascinates us the most. While other shows are driven by what comes next, Smallville concentrates on the journey. And it is this journey that promises to be hugely entertaining and surprising, even if it’s not brilliantly acted. With all its appeal Smallville tends to stray into sentimentality a bit too often, but that’s a forgivable flaw. There are lessons to be learned, but between all the WB eye candy, the CGI special effects, and (if the Television Without Pity crew is to be believed) the homoerotic tension between Clark and Lex, the viewer (thankfully) doesn’t have a chance to dwell on it. The show’s action adventure X-Files-esque elements save it from turning into a strict teen melodrama.
Gilmore Girls, the WB’s most network ready show, also spares us the emotional brutality of a lot of prime time fare, and it straddles the fine line between sincerity and sentimentality far better then Smallville. Much of the charm rests in the dynamic single mother/daughter duo of Lorelai and Rory Gilmore. Series creator Amy Sherman-Palladino has delivered two of the most forthright, honest, witty and genuinely likeable characters on TV, ensconced in the relatively irony-free universe of Stars Hollow. An idyllic town, a literally one stoplight kind of place, Stars Hollow is a modern day Mayberry of sorts. Complete with a cast of eccentric local characters (Taylor, the local grocer; Luke, the gruff and handsome owner of the diner; Kirk, the aspiring filmmaker who still lives with his mother), Stars Hollow evokes a sense of community, of place and belonging that has been long absent from most shows. By integrating Lorelai and Rory so fully into the town, rather then having them exist independently of their environment, the town of Stars Hollow itself is a key player in the show. Last season, the writers introduced a new love interest for Rory, Luke’s ne”er do well nephew, Jess. Throughout the season, Jess proved himself a clich” in adolescent rebellion: drinking, smoking, wearing black all the time, committing various acts of petty larceny, reading Allen Ginsberg’s Howl ” you get the idea. Jess’ attitude of indifference and detachment contrast starkly with the rest of the characters, especially Rory. Jess and Rory’s exchange in the episode titled "Lost and Found" illustrates the difference between our sincere heroine and the anti-hero: JESS: So just because she’s your mom or Luke’s friend doesn’t mean that I automatically have to get along with her. By this point in the season, it had been well established that Ironic Jess (as I like to call him) had a crush on Rory, and his defensive response to her request is filled with lame adolescent bravado. While Jess creates an interesting dynamic and conflict, his poser attitude is so disliked in Stars Hollow that there’s a very quaint town meeting called to discuss ‘the Jess issue.” Taylor flatly states, “There is a consensus among townspeople who are in agreement that Stars Hollow was a better place before Jess got here.” Amen, brother. Jess would fit in nicely on, say, Boston Public, but inspires a lynch mob in Stars Hollow — and with viewers. There are message boards all over the Web dedicated to the sheer loathing this character inspires. Viewers are just as protective of their irony-free zone as the townspeople. Like Smallville, the sincerity and honesty in the relationships between the main characters is key. In last season’s penultimate episode, "Lorelai’s Graduation Day," Rory runs away to New York to visit Jess and misses her mother’s graduation. Rory’s apologetic confession to Lorelai after the incident is a mix of regret and confusion, delivered without so much as a throw-away joke, a tepid one liner or parental platitude. This is what makes it markedly different from other shows. Gilmore Girls and Smallville may always be considered guilty pleasures, not because they lack artistic merit, but because they embrace a worldview free of the ironic undercurrent that surrounds so much of popular culture. In Smallville, especially, there is no pretense of ironic detachment, no pretense of coolness, just a sincerity of belief that comes from embracing the Superman myth. I’m not abandoning the big networks anytime soon. This fall, though, I plan to take refuge from them, every Tuesday night, from 8 to 10 p.m. P O P F O R U M Hemal Jhaveri is a Web designer and writer in the Washington, D.C., area. She just outed herself as a WB fan to all her hip, indie friends. Related Sites |
