Enthroned

Upon return from England, I watched the finales of three highly-regarded series, one of which I loved and two of which I tolerated.  The first is unspoilable, because it is unique and fully-accomplished, so you’ll only find out how good it is by watching for yourself.  The other two are unspoilable, because they’re so predictably unpredictable and widely discoursed upon.  So be forewarned, spoilers will abound in this commentary.

Phoebe Waller-Bridge is the heart and soul of Fleabag (MC-96, AMZ), and what a heart, what a soul!  She’s anything but a goodie-goodie, bit of a pistol actually, but she maintains a wonderful intimacy with the viewer.  “Breaking the fourth wall” is getting to be a thing – vide current series Vanity Fair and Gentleman Jack – but nobody does it better than Phoebe, letting you into her reactions with a glance or an eyebrow, grin or grimace, or tossed-off aside.  Much more than a gimmick, it becomes a window into character and a revealing pact with the audience. The second season is even better than the first, and it’s a shame it seems to be the last.  The show certainly stands as rounded off after twelve half-hour episodes, and after this series and various stage incarnations, all acclaimed, you can see why she’d want to give the material a rest.  She’s certainly capable of much more, in different veins.  In the second season, she tries to clean up her act after the grief-driven debauchery of the first, going so far as to fall in love with a priest (Andrew Scott, aka Moriarity of Sherlock), while trying to reconcile with her sister and father.  It’s all deliriously funny and penetratingly real, swift and deep as a river in flood.

Two HBO shows recently completed their long runs to wide notice.  I’m glad I won’t have to watch any more of either, though I don’t resent the time I spent on them.  I’d given up on Veep (MC-87, HBO) after creator Armando Iannucci left the show, and it descended from the hilarious Shakespearian invective of its British precursor The Thick of It into mere raunch and shock.  But Julia Louis-Dreyfus comes back from a life-threatening illness to revive Selena Meyer’s quest to regain the White House.  With the intervening change in real-life administrations, however, what once seemed like over-the-top, gross-out satire now seems like documentary realism.  Yes, that’s really the way it is in Trump World, revolting as it may seem.  Woe is us, and laughter provides some relief.

Another HBO quest for power, Game of Thrones (MC-74, HBO), relied on spectacle and fan-service to complete its story.  Having run beyond the source material, the conclusion of the series abandoned many of its thematic dimensions and nearly all of its plausible character development, and relied on episode-long battle sequences and manufactured encounters between characters to round off story arcs.  All hail the Starks, I guess, but I doubt that any lasting peace has come to Westeros.  As was said of the Romans, and perhaps all empires, “They make a desert, and call it peace.”

Luckily, with these flagships sailing over the horizon, HBO has quite a bit of interest in the pipeline.  I’ve relished Gentleman Jack (MC-76, HBO), written and directed by Sally Wainwright, filmmaking bard of Yorkshire, known for Happy Valley and Last Tango in Halifax.  Suranne Jones plays Anne Lister, an unabashed lesbian in 1830s England, going her own way, managing her own estate, and courting women for purposes of “marriage.”  Based on her voluminous and encoded diaries, the series has a modern vibe to go with its period-perfect settings and costumes.  Ms. Jones is superlative, and the rest of the cast rises to the occasion, including Sophie Rundle, Gemma Whelan, and Gemma Jones.  The whole series is funny and subtle, rousing and touching, and definitely worthy of its just-announced renewal for a second season.

In fact, I liked it enough to follow up in two directions, watching an earlier BBC version of The Secret Diaries of Miss Anne Lister (AMZ), interesting as a compare and contrast exercise but not in the same league, and another series starring the hitherto unfamiliar Suranne Jones, Doctor Foster (NFX), for which she has won a number of awards.  She’s good, the series is not.  Stick with Gentleman Jack.

Documentaries are another strength of HBO, and I was absorbed by What’s My Name: Muhammed Ali (MC-86, HBO), directed by Antoine Fuqua.  Ali was definitely one of the most mediagenic and emblematic public figures of my youth, and it was a pleasure to relive those years from his perspective, over the course of almost three hours, even if the approach is heavily ring-centric.  It’s amazing how many of his bouts I remember, since I never took much interest in the ludicrously-named “sweet science” of boxing.  But in a brutal sport, he was, and remains in memory, not just the greatest boxer of all time, but an heroic figure of honesty and principle, wit and charm – pretty, too, as he was quick to tell you.  And tragic in his persistence, to the point of brain damage.

I’ll hold this post open long enough to review Big Little Lies, though after one episode of season two, I will say that Meryl Streep is fucking amazing, in the way she builds each of her characters from scratch, without relying on the tricks and good will she has accumulated over the years.

And I use that sort of language in homage to David Milch, who after 13 years and a diagnosis of Alzheimer’s somehow managed to return with Deadwood: The Movie (MC-87, HBO), still inimitable in his melding of the highfalutin’ and the scabrous, winners and losers, good and bad, comic and horrific.  Now this is fan-service done right, providing the long-delayed conclusion to one of the best tv series ever, in a manner that was totally satisfying.  I’ve often thought about going back and watching the whole series all over again, but with this perfect resolution I don’t feel the need to, though I may look in on a random episode or two, for the before and after effect.  I can’t recommend that you start with this postscript, but do suggest you give the series a try from the beginning, assured that it’s good to the very last drop, managing to conclude with an ending reminiscent of Altman’s McCabe & Mrs. Miller or Huston’s (i.e. Joyce’s) The Dead.  Almost all the leading players from the series return – as the story leaps forward ten years, to the day of South Dakota statehood in 1889 – having played enriching roles in the interim (for example, Timothy Olyphant brings a little Raylan Givens back to his Seth Bullock; as his wife, Anna Gunn now carries Skyler White’s baggage; Ian McShane, however, remains indelibly Al Swearengen).  Deadwood itself – which grew through three seasons in the same organic progression as the characters and story, and the unfolding of prolix and profane dialogue – is now a town with brick buildings, several competing hotels, and an actual telephone.  For more than decade, Deadwood fans have lamented the series’ premature cancellation.  Now we can rest easy, having completed so many story arcs, and not feel either exploited or pandered to.   

P.S.  Though a new head plans to take HBO in a different direction, in more direct competition with the big three of streaming, they continue to present premium series for varying tastes.  Years and Years (MC-77, HBO) is one that suits mine, a speculative domestic drama that follows a group of siblings through the next ten years in Britain.  HBO rightfully features Emma Thompson in their promos, but in fact she is a background character, who the real main characters see periodically on TV, as she rises from neophyte politician to prime minister, with her know-nothing but supposedly straight-talking, populist-xenophobic approach.  (Sound familiar?  Spoiler alert: Trump gets re-elected, and hell continues to break loose).  The creator of this co-production with the BBC is Russell T. Davies, a TV veteran whose work is totally unfamiliar to me, but some of the actors were pleasingly familiar from British sitcoms.  Two brothers and two sisters, with their respective families, form the chorus who react to the larger forces impinging on their home lives.  The series is soapy without being stupid, and well-made overall, though it goes seriously off the rails in the last two episodes, after killing off one of the central characters.

And I also enjoyed HBO’s flagship of the moment, Big Little Lies (MC-82, HBO), though I hardly take it as meaningful.  Much like GoT, as it gets beyond the source material, it thins out and devolves into fan service, but I’m a fan of all these women, so I’m satisfied if not convinced.  How could you not want to watch the “Monterey Five” plus Meryl Streep, who gets to confront each of them in turn?  Apparently the series was taken out of the control of director Andrea Arnold, and consigned to a team of editors.  She’s an auteur who probably had something to say, but the final product is a jagged mishmash.  Still, with these actresses and this setting, this is definitely a watchable series, which shouldn’t be stretched any further.

I hope Succession doesn’t lose focus like Lies in the upcoming season, because I’m looking forward to it.  One further bit of HBO programming I want to highlight is the stand-up routine Ramy Youssef: Feelings (HBO).  I’ve already highly recommended Ramy, his eponymous series on Hulu, but this routine makes a nice complement in its thoughtful and funny observations, from a very distinct viewpoint.