A Mad Break: Saying So Long to Two TV Faves

This weekend brought the series finales to two of my favorite television shows: Prison Break and MadTV. Although I've watched both shows infrequently lately, I've been a fan and have seen most episodes of each series, so I made sure to catch these last ones, (1.) for that necessary sense of closure and (2.) to see if my faithfulness would be rewarded with a satisfactory resolution. Though both shows are vastly different in genre and format, they delivered the best they could considering the circumstances. Indulge me an analysis of each.

Prison Break

"A brother's love . . . is a brother's love." -- Detective Roland Castlebeck (portrayed by Delroy Lindo) in Gone in Sixty Seconds

I confess, I didn't watch Prison Break's hasty return to television last month. Fox didn't hesitate to advertise the last half of this season as "the final episodes," so, if the network barely cared about the series, why should I? Still, four years later, I just had to see if/how the brothers Michael Scofield and Lincoln Burrows survived their run from the law (though the show's plot couldn't take place for a period of time more than just several months). To summarize the series' twists into a single, comprehensive synopsis, near as I can tell (spoiler alert): Lincoln was framed for the murder of the Vice President's brother so Michael would develop the prison break skills and a secret society led by their mother could plant him in a Panama prison to break out the man capable of delivering Scylla, a hard drive with data about global infrastructure. In the end, Michael protects Scylla from his mother and the Company, another shadow group with evil intentions, and he eventually cuts a deal with the United Nations in exchange for his comrades' freedom.

Trust me, the four seasons' worth of television was much more interesting than that synopsis. Fortunately, I was less interested in the perpetual mystery and more in the development of the characters, specifically Scofield and Burrows, who, as this finale explains, symbolize the concept of nature versus nurture. While Lincoln lived a criminal life (he wasn't hard to frame), Michael overcame their neglected childhood to become a successful architect. Further, these characters could've been the Hardy Boys for a new generation, as Frank was definitively the brains and Joe the brawn -- except in Prison Break, their mystery was too self-oriented. Indeed, with a title like Prison Break, even when the show didn't take place in a prison, it focused on issues of both internally and externally exposed exile, escaping both circumstantial bonds and the constrictions of one's own perceptions and personality. If you're branded a criminal, are you forced to live that life, even if you were originally innocent? Ironically, even an innocent man on the run is guilty of being a fugitive! As this show's bittersweet final moments prove, some things in life simply can't be outrun.

MadTV

What, me canceled?

I've said it before and I'll say it again: MadTV is better than Saturday Night Live. I use the present tense because many of MadTV's sketches retain a timeless comedy that should experience success via the likes of YouTube and Hulu or years to come. The secret to this success is simple: MadTV always put comedy first. SNL has frequently struggled with relevance and casting, and when either has suffered, the show has, as well; MadTV has been consistent in its content and delivery from day one. While many comic book fans don't consider MadTV a traditional page-to-screen adaptation, its goofy satire reflects what the magazine has done for decades. Unlike SNL, it never took itself too seriously to think it could make a difference on any social or political landscape, and it only sought to remain relevant in the realm of comedy, by offering memorable characters like Stewart, or by making celebrities like Kenny Rogers so exaggerated they might as well be as made up.

Consider the recent Presidential election. In their skits about Sarah Palin, SNL gave us a barely costumed Tina Fey simply reiterating the candidate's verbal pratfalls verbatim, as if giving America a chance to laugh at it again is genuinely clever or original. I actually blogged about this before, when I wrote, " . . . a squirrely old McCain that frequently asks for his shawl is much more subversive than a Palin lookalike that reiterates the source material with a smirk that’s somehow supposed to make the reality of it all more derisively funny. 'Mavericky' isn't a punchline; it's a shortcut. Obama and McCain in a dance-off, which would most likely and ironically receive higher primetime ratings than one of their debates anyway? Hilarious."

I'll especially miss Bobby Lee's characters: the Asian interpreter and his catchphrase, "Uh oh, hot dog," or Tank, or most recently Johnny Gan. For fourteen years, MadTV made Saturday night a night worth staying home -- and I couldn't help but take its mock charity fundraiser season finale a little emotionally. That's right -- I took it hard, and sloppy.

Like I said at the top, these final episodes did the best they could with what had been established, surprisingly faithful to longtime viewers with imagery and callbacks to first season standards. I was wondering why I felt like something was lacking after each finale, but I realize now -- it's not that the episode was missing something. It's that, now my life will be . . . not that I won't be looking for a substitute, though. Indeed, television is the prison from which we can never escape.

The Screening Process: Recent Thoughts About Television and Film, part 1 -- The Boob Tube

A few nagging tidbits about television and film have plagued my thoughts lately, so I've decided to purge them here for your enjoyment!

* While I was as compelled by the last season of American Idol as the squeaky teeny-bopper, I'm half-watching this season -- literally, since it airs on the Wednesdays I usually participate in a local poetry open mic. Even if I did reserve Hump Day for the latest round of Idol antics, a moment from season eight's premiere may have turned me off to the hunt for America's next diva altogether. Rocker Randy Madden betrayed his sensitive side when he cried for the camera, and after his ambitious performance of Bon Jovi's "Livin' on a Prayer," the judges said that Randy hadn't learned any of the industry's hard lessons, that he wasn't qualified based on a lack of experience and presumably its subsequent disappointments. In the same segment, they let a sixteen-year-old girl through to Hollywood, based on, gasp, her singing voice. The judges sugar-coating their critique with claims that life lessons are necessary for stardom when in the same fifteen minutes they open the door for a middle class teenager with nothing to lose . . . is hypocritical. It cheapens the show, even these first few episodes apparently dedicated to superficial value judgements based on a virtual freak show of wanna-be singers. Randy wasn't "make it to Hollywood" material, but at least guys like him know what they want. Me, I don't know how much entertainment I can derive from watching them fail anymore, especially in the face of judges that don't even know why they're there.

* Prison Break has been cancelled, probably for its own good. I've read the episodes that have been filmed will air in April, but the series finale hasn't been shot yet and maybe never will be. As a fan of the show, of course I'm anxious to see how these four seasons reach their end, and while such an action-packed show would undoubtedly demand a significant budget for a finale, I don't see why Fox wouldn't deem it worthy. First of all, a concise conclusion makes for a great complete Prison Break boxed set; second, a few more episodes might cement syndication sales. I mean, who would watch the reruns knowing that it all just leaves you hanging? Finally, since the show has always been an allegory for overcoming others' perspectives (the whole reason Lincoln was successfully framed and convicted for killing the Vice President's brother was because of his lifestyle as a thug, plain and simple), a series finale makes symbolic sense. We viewers have been chasing after the show's dangling threads for years; now, here we are, face to face with the fugitive that is Prison Break in the proverbial leaky sewer tube, except, unlike Tommy Lee Jones, we do care. Don't leave us hanging here, Fox! Like Michael Scofield, learn that hard lesson: finish what you start, no matter what!

* Sean Hannity recently interviewed Rush Limbaugh about President Barack Obama's economic plans. I didn't watch the interview, and I don't know if I have to, because I can predict how they feel and really can't get past the conversation's very concept. Its logistics. Hannity interviewing Rush is like a person getting interviewed by his own echo. It's like my left testicle high-fiving my right. It's like that verse in the Bible that says the Bible is the inspired word of God because the Bible tells us so! (That's 2 Timothy 3:16, folks.) Of course, the interview wasn't really a chance for Rush to share his thoughts on just-inaugurated President Obama -- he has a nationally syndicated talk show for that. No, sitting down with Sean Hannity was a purely militant move, akin to a platoon beholding its field commander chatting with their staff sergeant. The message is loud and clear: "As the newly elected minority, the more of us in a room, the louder we can be!" Rush Limbaugh and Sean Hannity: Keeping the can in Republican!

* In the wake of the holiday season, I've realized how important The Late Show with David Letterman is in my life. Long-time friends will remember my "Top 10 Boy" alter ego in high school, but on a much more personal level, unlike other television staples Letterman has adhered to a few traditions on his show that have become integral to my sense of the holiday spirit. For instance, on Thanksgiving night, when Dave began the "guess the pie" segment with his mom from Indiana, I nodded fondly, familiarly. Then again, when Jay Thomas tossed a football to knock down the Christmas tree meatball in December, I smirked knowingly, remembering I had seen the bit some years before. Dave's always been a sensitive guy, but especially since his heart attack, September 11, and the birth of his son, his vulnerability for tradition is apparent now more than ever -- and I'm all the more appreciative of his comedy as a result. When I first moved to California, I thought I should pledge an allegiance with Leno by way of coast, but Dave proves it every year: home is where the heart is. I couldn't deny my own late night nature for too long.

Now, these thoughts aren't in order of importance or anything, but I consciously concluded the diatribe on a high note. Needless to say, when it comes to the boob tube, I usually always have something to get off my chest . . . but the silver screen isn't safe, either! To be continued!

A Head of My Time?

Last night's third season premiere of Survivorman was everything I'd hoped it would be. If you aren't familiar with Survivorman, on the Discovery Channel Friday nights, the show's website sums up its premise most concisely: "No food, no shelter, no fresh water, no tools . . . no camera crew. One man -- alone in the wild for seven days." Sure, several shows mimic this concept, but Les was the first to launch it successfully, first in his native Canada then here in the United States. He often simulates outdoor excursions gone wrong, like in last night's new episode, in which Stroud role-played a lost backpacker in the Sierra Nevadas. By far his most comprehensive exploration of survival, Les not only implemented his usual food-capturing, fire-starting, and shelter-building innovations, but also discussed the psychology of getting lost (which reminded me of Blair Witch, still lingering in the back-brain after Halloween) and the logistics of the local search and rescue office. In a world ruled by cell phones and wireless Internet connections, is it strange to feel reassured by the reminder that one can still get lost, even if the results are fatal? One part entertainer, one part educator, Survivorman does his best to both proudly boast and reassuringly alleviate the thought.

Yet the contents of last night's episode are only part of why Survivorman remains in my thoughts today. I've anticipated few things on television lately. Yes, Fox's Monday nights are still beloved, thanks to Prison Break and Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles, but if this week's episodes were the series' last, I don't think I'd mourn too much. In fact, both shows are written in such a way that they seem prepared for that inevitability -- that, as much as Michael's quest to unravel Scylla and Sarah's attempt to save her son for the impending apocalypse are respectively multifaceted, they're each just a single revelation from culminating in an explosive finale. Also, I'm moderately excited about next week's premiere of Batman: The Brave and the Bold on Cartoon Network, but I'm equally skeptical of its depth and longevity, as well. Alas, the end of the Presidential election means no more political partisan antagonism for awhile, either; the fight has actually gone inward, at least for the losing Republicans, which strikes me as just a rerun for all of the liberal criticism they received months ago -- in other words, boring. So, Stroud's search for some morsel of food in the Sierra Nevadas is somewhat reminiscent of my flipping through the cable channels these days. His is just more exciting to watch.

When it comes to what entertains me, I was simply born in the wrong decade . . . which is something I've heard plenty of people say, so I claim no originality in that regard. Though, I think I can pinpoint the disconnect; had I been born in 1959 instead of 1979, the original releases of my most favorite acts in entertainment would've corresponded with the age in which I liked them. Never mind that I would've been two years old when Spider-man premiered in Amazing Fantasy #15 (August 1962); the argument for comics can be made in any decade, and in fact had I been more attune to comics culture as a kid, I could've been shaped by the likes of The Dark Knight Returns and The Watchmen in real time rather than retrospectively. No, I'm thinking about the Monkees, whose 1966 debut would've paralleled my love for them when I was six-years-old. (Their 20 year reunion in '86 was great, including my seeing them in concert in Connecticut, but no Nesmith . . .? The first time is always the most memorable.) A genuine love for the Monkees then is like the kids' fanaticism for any American Idol now. Now, when I proclaim myself a Monkees fan, folks cock an eyebrow and ask, "They didn't even play their own instruments, right?" For the record, the Monkees were a multifaceted franchise that began as a television show, transitioned into a failed feature length film, and still continues to be a successful pop rock band, if only when the guys perform separately.

In fact, Davy Jones is performing in Orange County tonight. When I first researched his tour schedule over a year ago, I had just met Peter Tork, which was just on the heels of my meeting Micky Dolenz, so I was stoked to find out when the other two might be around. Unfortunately, tickets to Davy's show range from $30-$60, and since I've seen the Monkees perform three times not including those solo Micky and Peter shows, I'm less interested in the music than I am the meet-and-greet. I've called the venue twice and reps can't confirm if he'll be signed and picture-taking with fans. So, I've opted for this Wednesday's commemorative showing of Head, the Monkees' movie, which will precede a Q & A with Peter and Davy. I don't know if they'll mingle with fans there, either, but the opportunity is too definitively Monkees to miss -- definitely the better of the two upcoming options on a budget. Why must the circumstances of adulthood often restrain the fulfillment of long-standing childhood dreams?

Further, had I been born in '59, I would've been in my teens in the '70s and experienced the hijinks of Andy Kaufman as he first hatched them, rather than vicariously through the release of Man on the Moon and Bob Zmuda's book. Like this Wednesday's showing of Head, I was lucky enough to attend my generation's definitive Andy Kaufman event, the "Andy Kaufman: Dead or Alive" variety show at the Hollywood House of Blues in 2004 . . . but I wasn't smart enough to stay until the bitter end, which including a Kaufman walking tour and an invitation to the Bunny Ranch. This comes to mind because of a recent ad in the L.A. Weekly featuring Tony Clifton and the website for Two Boots pizzeria, which has a special slice named for Kaufman's lounge act alter ego. Initially, I'd hoped for a real Clifton appearance, but tomorrow's supposed press conference may be better -- fortuitous that I found it searching for the Two Boots connection. Perhaps his is one phenomenon that plays better in retrospect, considering the myth of Andy's resurrection . . .

Such are the thoughts that assure me of my place in history. In the heat of the moment, one never knows if their pop culture passions are fleeting (like, say, any American Idol after season one), but years later, one can benefit from the fellowship that comes with nostalgia. For example, sure, I wish I could've experienced the success of the Monkees in real time, I prefer the older crowd that will attend the Head showing today versus the screaming, teeny-bopper masses from their '60s concerts. Now, Monkees fans, or Kaufman fans, can enjoy developments with the clout of hindsight, with the relief that their beloved personalities are still influential if only through that pre-established work. Of course, this is the "nurture" side of the argument. I wonder, since my parents were born in the '50s and experienced these things in my stead, could it be that their absorption of it all instilled an appreciation of it all in me? Through . . . osmosis? Could it be . . . natural? Yes, I'm just trying to survive in a habitat of my own outdated tastes. Screw the Sierra Nevadas, Les. Trying getting out this one.

Fox TV Round-up

Fox, Monday night.

If Prison Break never aired another episode, I’d be completely happy with that.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t dislike the series. In fact, I liked this past season the best. Each season has had its distinguishing characteristics, from the first’s planned escape, to the second’s fugitive treasure hunt, but the third season, dropping Michael and company in the no holds barred, perpetually sweaty Panama, truly tested each enduring character’s real mettle. Watching Lincoln strong arm his way through his brother’s master plan was an exciting exercise in the timeless brains over brawn dilemma, and beholding Bellick’s and Mahone’s “badge syndrome” disintegrate into pure bestial self-preservation was a justified delight two years in the making. Of course, Wentworth’s Scoffield remains the world around which these tough guys orbit, and his emotional stability in the face of frustration and death is admirable -- the most unbelievable element in a world of aligning coincidence and conspiracies. This Panama prison brought out his best and worst, and sans tattooed pre-planning, put his intelligence and integrity to the utmost test. He passed.

So, the season finale, and we have Michael pursuing the conspiracy that framed his brother and killed his beloved. Though many questions are still unanswered, again, I’d be satisfied with this as a resolution, if only to affirm that Scoffield is the kind of guy that always needs a cause. If he, Lincoln, LJ, and Sara rode off into the sunset, I don’t think he’d be happy for long. Come on, this is the guy that tattooed a cryptic blueprint on the better part of his body and help up a bank at gunpoint to save his brother. Can anyone walk away from such a righteous, complicated project and not suffer some post-traumatic stress? Further, Lincoln, LJ, and Sofia look like a nice happy family now, and though Sucrae is back in jail, he wasn’t exactly innocent in the first place. That T-Bag has become the self-proclaimed king of said prison, well, talk about a pig in . . . you know.

If Prison Break fails to pull anything off successfully, it’s increasing tourism for Panama. Based on this season, Panama is one half naïve tourist trap, one half corrupted justice system. I’d hate to short change the guy from whom I’m buying that snow globe -- I’d end up holding T-Bag’s pocket.

Fox, Tuesday night.

American Idol. Last night’s offering of male performers was the worst selection of “top 12” candidates I’ve seen since this show began. First of all, ranging in age from 17 to 29, all of them struck me as incredibly metrosexual, if not blatantly gay. I don’t have a problem with that, but when Simon insists that the purpose of the series is to find a contemporary pop star, he must realize that a homosexual singer couldn’t appeal to widespread mainstream audience. Remember what happened to Clay Aiken when just the rumor of homosexuality clouded his career? He certainly wasn’t invisible, or invincible, or whatever his hit song was . . . and he’s proven the critics wrong by becoming a Broadway star.

Further, is assigning the first night’s performances a ‘60s theme the best way to find a contemporary singer? I’m sick of Simon criticizing singers as “too karaoke” to make it big. Yes, Simon, your whole show is the very definition of karaoke -- vocalists performing to pre-recorded songs performed by a canned studio band. The inclusion of a few guitar players doesn’t elevate Idol to real Hollywood audition status. When it comes to music, I idolize artists that are capable of capturing their emotions via originally written material. By the time Idol gets to its top five contestants, the kids should have to write their own stuff. I guarantee you’ll end up with at least one better than “Since U Been Gone.” At least they’ll take the time to spell the whole word.

I do often agree with Simon’s other critiques, particularly his oft eye rolls toward Paula Abdul. Last night, she praised a singer for his many colors. Listen, Pocahontas, you’re making me wonder if there’s more than Coke in that big red cup of yours, if you’re “seeing” the music. Randy was on Letterman last night praising your new song -- Why don’t you try to become a real idol before judging others’ capabilities? When you sang “Opposites Attract,” were you talking about you and, uhm, talent?

The contestants are obviously over the judges anyway. They got everything they needed from America’s favorite pop culture trinity -- it’s up to us, the voting public, now. Good thing we’re already in a voting mood, what with Obama and McCain whetting our appetite for grander schemes. Now, there’s a couple of men’s men.

Current Events Round-up: Commercial Appeal

A few quick thoughts on some recent current events, just to purge them from my head:

The Presidential Elections: Anybody that things any of the candidates, Republican or Democrat, is running for the good of the country is really naive -- and probably hasn't watched enough Prison Break. Running for President of the United States, the so-called most powerful position in the world, is the most selfish endeavor in the world. Otherwise, it wouldn't be American. So, when you're voting, you're criteria should essentially be, "Whose subversive agenda is going to screw me least?"

Heath Ledger: Shortly after Ledger's death, and I mean before his body was even exhumed from Mary Kate's the apartment, friends were calling and e-mailing me regarding his highly publicized role in The Dark Knight, wondering if all of his footage was in the can. While the next Batman film certainly does affect me personally, what cuts most deeply is the subtext I keep seeing under his name in rags like People: "Health Ledger, 1979-2008." I'm basically a poison-tipped arrow away from the same byline. I usually assume that successful actors are simply older than me, but the older I get, the closer I come to actually saying things like "Young Hollywood" and not equating myself to that generation. In more ways than one, the joke's on us.

Superbowl XLII: The Superbowl does exactly two things for polite society -- requires us to remember how to use Roman numerals properly, and offers us the best commercial breaks of the year. This year -- worst commercials ever. Absolutely nothing memorable, except for the Iron Man commercial, the footage of which I'll see in May anyway. I guess Taco Bell will have to wait another 365 days to try to lure me in again.

Let's Go Back to Prison

I love my brother, but if he were ever imprisoned for a crime he didn't commit, I wouldn't study the prison, encode its blueprints in a full-body tattoo, then hold up a bank to get arrested and incarcerated in the same joint to break him out from the inside. Hey, that's just me. Sorry, Kyle.

Prison Break creator Paul Scheuring has a different take on brotherly love -- a definitively more unconditional one. When the series began, smoldering protagonist Michael Scofield accomplished the impossible by freeing his brother from Death Row and breaking him out of prison, then, in the second season, the Brothers Fugitive and a motley crew of prison misfits toured the world in pursuit of their respective redemptions. Critics wondered how a show dubbed Prison Break could exist if its heroes weren't in prison, but season three answers that challenge . . .

. . . by throwing Michael right back in jail. This time, everybody's favorite furrowed-brow jail bait is in the world's worst prison, nestled in the world's persistently damp forehead, Panama, as the previous seasons' conspiratorial subplots reach a startlingly contrived fruition. Near as I can tell, Lincoln was framed for the murder of the Vice President's brother so Michael would develop the MacGuyver-like skills needed to break out of jail, which the government would manipulate him to employ again to bust out some guy from this impossible facility in Panama.

That Scheuring hasn't written himself into a corner with this elaborate The Fugitive-meets-The X-Files brand of storytelling is a prison break in itself, but more commendable is my dedication to Scofield's adventure through the apparently easily corrupted legal system. The implication that he and his brother have always lived a life of tumultuous vigilantism is the only thread keeping the series' context together, that their birthright is a rollercoaster ride of luck, chance, and justice.

Season three promises to challenge these limits more than ever, since this Panama prison is a lunatics-run-the-asylum scenario, where conflicts are settled with to-the-death gladiator brawls and the guards dare not venture past the perimeter, if only to collect the ever-increasing dead. Aside from the surreal passage of time (all three seasons capture just a little over a month's worth of imprisoned peril, and the characters' ability to cope can only be explained via acute bipolar disorder), my only critique of this season's premiere is its departure from the finale's otherworldly last moments, during which a dark, rainy sky kept the specifics of Michael's madhouse hidden in shadow. In this episode, the sunlight streaming into the prison's courtyard is a thin but tangible connection to reality. Perpetual darkness would've preserved that horror flick/parallel dimension vibe and made Scofield's escape that much more sweet.

Still, I'm in it for the long haul, now, just like Scheuring's chummy chain gang. It's okay. I don't expect my brother to break me out, either.