Tag Archives: TV

The OC: Razzmatazz and Stud Finders

The Care Bear StareTwo-timing, three-timing, tortured looks, and Machiavellian scheming are the talking points of any soap opera. “The OC” acknowledges this – its broad story arcs have nothing on the teen-eat-teen world and war paint of “The Tribe.” However, since its inception, “The OC” has dutifully defined and deepened its characters with a clever combination of understated grace, real world cynicism, and pop culture relevancy. Throwaway moments – eating bagels around the kitchen island, listening to Journey while driving – become opportunities to subtly develop backstories and motivations, often with a wry, knowing humor that’s largely absent from TV land. “Tonight! Richard Moll guest stars on a very special episode of ‘Overweight, Insensitive Guy Is Harangued by Hot, Exasperated Wife’!”

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The OC: Subdue the Hebrew Honey!

Fists clenched like a caged animal...The OC

March 31, 2004

Besides its often hilarious pacing issues – Newport gets more done in the ten minutes before school than you do all day – “The OC” has been dominated by sudden or awkward Walk-Ins. This is when the one character who must never discover the indiscretions/secrets of another just happens to bring over Chinese food at exactly the wrong moment, letting herself in the front door. But last night’s “OC” flipped that MO with a series of satisfying Walk-Aways. You know the Walk-Away. That’s when, instead of dealing with a bombshell revelation rationally and directly, a character becomes steely-eyed – “You’re dead to me!” – turns on her heel, and stalks for the door. All of a sudden, chains of melodramatic pacing bind the confessing character. “______, wait!” he squeaks, but his mouth is soon clapped shut by an iron plate labeled “next week”, or, in the case of Fox, “two weeks,” “a month,” or whenever “American Idol” finally, mercifully ends.

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The OC: What’s Your Obsession?

The Steve Sanders of the 00sEscape once again from actionable intelligence, pointing fingers, and political stammering with another installment of Glorious Noise’s “OC” post-game. The clunkiest melodrama is magically transformed into compelling television – it’s the world’s best fantasy league.

Whether by Tivo™ or wily marketing, Fox has figured out a way to wean us off weekly episodic television. Various hopefuls from the latest “American Idol” were chosen, dropped, and resurrected in a vicious cycle of bait and switch reality programming between the time Chino sacked Eddie with a patented double-leg takedown and last night, when the “OC” finally returned to the airwaves. Finally not because my scalp’s been sweating underneath this Adam Brody Novelty Wig for nearly a month, but because a TV show in good standing should not be dangled like limp linguini over a network scheduling grid. Still, Fox is to be applauded for cleverly getting us to accept such a tactic. I can’t even remember why Jack Bauer was in Mexico, let alone what Kim thinks of Chase’s babydaddy status, or which swarthy European of indiscriminant accent is now in control of The Virus. But that doesn’t mean I’m not waking up at night to check in on Fox‘s “24” Final Nine Episodes countdown ticker. Damn you network executives! You’ve got me all bugaboo!

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Phantom Planet: Escape to The OC

Summer and Seth are still doing the dirty deed...Fantasy worlds have really been quite popular lately. It makes sense – the next few months will be nightmarish no matter what you think about anything, so why not live like the dungeon masters? You’d darn your frayed tunic, and inexplicably start attaching “Mr.” to your friends’ first names. If however you’re like me, and an elitist streak makes you at the very best lawful evil, then you’ll never make it in the land of magic missles and dexterity. You might instead take as your fantasy refuge the gleaming Cali artifice that is the TV Orange County, Newport, “The OC.” Now is the time, cynical Race of Man! To help with your quest, Glorious Noise will provide a running interpretation of events in “The OC.” It won’t be an episode summary; it won’t be objective. It probably won’t even be politically correct, to use a phrase from a different fantasmical era. But it will revel weekly in the frivolous escapism of a TV show about cool teenagers and boobs, and the conflicted, sarcastic parents who love them. The teenagers, that is. So dive in to this well-bred fantasy, because it’s better than that escape hatch to Bangkok idea you’ve been planning for November. One night in Newport will make a hard man humble.

JTL

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Grammys 2004: What a Fool Believes

Andre 3000's left and right nipplesIt was nice of CBS to hire the sound crew from Santa Monica High School’s winter production of “L’il Abner” for its live broadcast of the 46th annual Grammy Awards. It was music’s biggest night – or whatever – but pops, clicks, buzzes and feedback plagued both performer and presenter alike, causing even the coldest hearted French-Canadian dragon lady a few moments of very real frustrated bluster. The vocational school audio enthusiasts out in the sound truck unwittingly helped bust up the veneer that usually separates us from things like the fancy shmancy Staples Center Grammys.

The event was live – or at least live after a five-minute signal reroute meant to give CBS’ newly-installed naked boob-lancing SDI war machines time to power up and scorch the sky, the better to prevent the tainting of innocent cherubs. But this live-ish broadcast was fraught with clunky pacing issues and awkward teenage camera cue blues, making us wonder just how far forty years of televised music and media have really brought the medium.

This year’s Grammys became an unraveling ball of elaborate performance setpieces, distended award receptions, and unfinished strings of confused reaction shots and glittering, empty platforms – shards of a shattering mirrorball of an industry that no longer has the upper hand of cushioned celebrity detachment with which to burnish its often marginal product. Thanks, SMHS sound geeks. Your ineptitude demystified the illusion once and for all, unmasked Mr. Johnson. He might’ve gotten away with it, were it not for you pesky kids.

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Meditations on Janet Jackson’s Right Breast

I'm-a have you nekkid by the end of this song...To be sure, the fact that Justin Timberlake removed a portion of Janet Jackson’s Genghis Khan-like costume during the MTV-orchestrated Super Bowl half time show is well known. Presumably, this has more to do with the fact that Janet’s career is about as over as M.C. Hammer’s: they can both do a great job of bustin’ a move, but who the hell has been thinking about buying discs from either of those two? Since Janet posed a few years ago for a Rolling Stone cover with her breasts covered by a man’s hands, it is evident that she’s not in the least bit shy about showing her well-rounded skin. What’s somewhat interesting about the whole thing is that unless someone was watching the CBS telecast with a high-definition plasma screen about the size of something found in a multiplex, the exposure was something that would be best measured by physicists at Argonne National Lab, as it had the half life of one of those new transuranic elements that have just been found.

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Beyond the Music.

All Access: Most Awesome MakeoutsIn the world of popular music, does the music matter? No.

At least that’s the sense of things if one takes a look at a week in the programming of VH1. (Lest you immediately think: “What the fuck is this? No one watches VH1 who still has a pulse,” remember that the issue here is popular music. And does popular music matter with regard to (un)popular music, which can be in some ways used as a label to describe much of which is considered on Glorious Noise? Yep. Because to the extent that the economics of the popular portion are in some semblance of order, there is the opportunity for there to be (un)popular acts signed to contracts that may allow them to garner some sort of recognition than they otherwise might not have. Whether those contracts are fundamentally good for the listener is not the question. Whether they allow the (un)popular bands to not only record but also eat does matter.)

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The OC: Cali is where they put they mack down

Fists clenched like a caged animal...There was a point, probably around 1996, when “Party of Five” and “Melrose Place” were the glimmer twins of prime time twentysomething trash TV. From dorm rooms to boardrooms and all the bedrooms in between, 18 to 35 year olds were yattering and worrying in equal amounts about the murky familial sweetness of the former and the sleazy chum of the brazen, backstabbing latter. Of course “Beverly Hills 90210” was still doddering along with veteran tenacity. But perhaps because we’d largely grown up with its cast, “Beverly Hills” seemed like a weird plastic Coppertone spin on our own lives, amp’d with bling, boob jobs, and Dylan McKay. There was escapism there, but it wasn’t satisfying like the protein shake of heartwarming melodrama and shit eating base desire that “Party” and “Melrose” proffered. Culture has accelerated in the time and seasons since, and everyone has less patience. The boardroom corporate fat cats won’t wait for their dorm room target audience to glom on to a show, and the scant few promising offerings (“Freaks and Geeks”; “Undeclared”) are canned in favor of low concept, high yield reality programming. Some of these have their charms. But with all this 21st century television hateration and holleration, what we really need is some melodrama in our lives. And to that end, Fox has done it again. Welcome to “The OC,” bitches.

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The White Mouse Has Escaped!

Easy easy cheap cheap cheap...History and Revisionist Reality at the 2003 VMAs

What’s that flinty taste in our mouth? Why, it’s the unforgiving barrel of the Mossberg 12 gauge jammed between our teeth. The shooter’s face is distorted – garish, hyper-real images flicker unabated eighteen inches away, just above the chamber. Bursts of red, washed-out orange, and otherworldly, shimmering gray reflect in blue steel; frames fly by faster and faster, each one unique, yet oddly, opaquely the same. Is this our life flashing before our eyes? Can’t be. We were never voted off anything. What was that shot? A rose on a tray, women wiping tears from their hardened eyes? That never happened to us. What’s P. Diddy saying? Wait, we don’t even KNOW P. Diddy! Then the images falter, fade to black. And we see it. A thin fiber optic cable leads from the Mossberg’s double action trigger to a frosted glass office door marked ‘Reality Television – New Season.’ The wire terminates in the keyhole of a silver knob. And that knob is turning.

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DANCING HARDER TO MAKE YOU NOTICE

Reality Television, Reality Music, and the fight for Real Rock and Roll

Johnny Loftus

MTV’s “The Osbournes” has become a flashfire, no-brainer money-maker. Its unlikely success has granted rocker Ozzy Osbourne a second career as a strung out, British Leslie Nielson. And not surprisingly, the show’s runaway popularity has driven some notable exposure whores into development overdrive. But as this scary new twist on reality television escalates, there’s a chance it might bleed all over rock and roll.

By now, millions of watercooler people have recounted with hilarity the antics of Ozzy and his family, as they flounder helplessly in the face of such domestic challenges as extricating a housecat from behind a large mirror. Ever the dumfounded straight man, Osbourne never seems to grasp the finer points of his every precocious whim being broadcast for the bong-loading entertainment of cable audiences everywhere. Indeed, in the rogue cat episode, the only thing funnier than Ozzy in sweatpants was he and his family’s sheer inability to hatch a proper cat-removal scheme. Nevertheless, the bickering bunch will be back for more domestic debauchery next season. And they’ll likely be joined by Sean Combs, Kato, and Courtney F’ing Love. These are only a few examples of the repeat publicity offenders who have rutted their truck tires in the gross mud of the reality television series. In the near future, we will still have “The Osbournes.” But we’ll also be sprayed with the muck of reality shows like “Love Hurts” and “P. Diddy’s Posse Goes to Starbucks…Again.” It seems that real is where it’s at, even if your particular reality is about as unreal as it gets. Rock stars have always wanted to be actors, and thespians have always dreamed of a rock and roll heaven. But all of a sudden everyone just wants to keep it real. And this ugly new strain of celebrity reality – there’s an oxymoron – has a chance of mutating into something even greasier than Courtney Love skinny dipping in the La Brea Tar Pits.

As M2 overtakes its larger sibling as a barometer of cool, rock and roll bands that actually rock are being thrust to the forefront of pop music. The gone-native production, elephant gun riffs and defiant anti-style of The Strokes, The Hives, and The White Stripes (to name only the principals) has begun to dismantle the Nu-Metal golem, and replace much of the bombast with at least a little substance. But how is the deceptively simple music made by bands like these perceived by keepers of the bottom line? The visceral rock and roll that is coming back into fashion might be in danger of being co-opted into “reality music,” sent by the Big Five to save their bottom line, just as reality television has lowered the production headaches of network executives from Belgium to Burbank.

The music made by the aforementioned groups arrives ready to eat. It has been developed and test-marketed on the band’s own dime, in shitty rock clubs and cramped practice spaces over the past few years. Comparatively, the music of many of rock’s largest recent money-makers – Linkin Park, Creed – resounds with the sheen of producers with diamonds on the soles of their shoes. While LP and Creed certainly had talent enough to rock the mic at their local Sizzler, it took big money to convince people that there was more to the music than production winks and a few good-looking cheekbones. Now, don’t misunderstand. There’s a physical element to the Strokes’ success, beyond their furiously simple New York City rock and roll. But their popularity proved to the Stuffed Shirts that rockers can be cool without the guiding hand of Glen Ballard. Rockers that have come to the table without a promotional budget and T-shirt sponsorship are now proving to the industry that the public’s craving for “reality” doesn’t end with watching Ozzy bitch at his children. The “reality” of unwashed hair, touring Austria in a Nissan Sentra and name-checking Nuggets on MTV is created largely without anyone’s help but the band, and its fans.

But who says the music industry can’t make money off of that?

Reality TV is successful because it’s cheap to produce, eminently viewable, and there’s a never-ending supply of talent – i.e., all of us. That’s the same formula that’s been creating Pop music at least since the inception of the blues. But there’s nothing simple anymore in a music industry that circles its wagons around whatever is currently driving revenue streams. And right now, it’s “real” rock and roll that’s doing it. So the DIY ethic, and the punk rock ethos, and the International Pop Underground, and every other independent network that has given life to and supported bands like The Hives or The White Stripes (again, to cite only a few examples) is the new template that will be embraced by the Endemol of the music industry, in an attempt to create more “reality music.” Because the kids want their music, television, and music television real. And in the end, it’s always about what the kids want, right?

The inside joke with reality television is that it’s not actually real at all. The perception is that, yes, this really is where P.Diddy hangs out. But if Sean Combs is the executive producer of the reality show that portrays his life (which, assumingly, he is also the exec producer of), then can’t he simply show you what he wants to show you? There’s a built-in capacity in rock and roll that should be able to counteract this quandary, if in fact the real rock gets co-opted by Evil Brain and His Men of Morda. The thing about much of this first wave of rock and roll that’s currently breaking in American music is that many of these bands didn’t ask for the exposure they’re receiving. It’s too idealistic to suggest that they’ll all shun it; indeed, the signing frenzy that followed Nirvana’s explosion destroyed a lot careers. But there’s no question that this new color of reality in media is going to have its effect on music. Let’s hope rock and roll never forgets.

JTL