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TV Without Pity

 Our TV life seems to have three planes, these days.


Plane One: Uneven crime dramas. I found "The Fall" occasionally exasperating, though I liked Gillian Anderson. "Tommy" gives us Edie Falco, but the screenwriters seem to have mistaken their assignment for a job writing Hallmark cards.

Plane Two: "Better Things." Both Marc and I feel awe for this show. A recent episode was a highpoint: One child seems to be flirting with the idea of coming out as transgender, though the process is messy and mysterious, and not at all like an after-school special. In another part of the house, Sam Fox attempts clandestine sexting while using her spare hand to fill her daughter's lunch-box with Fritos. There is also some stunning advice, from an adult to a teen: "Los Angeles is full of guys I've blown. You just have to charge through the next cafe encounter, wear a smile. Otherwise, you'll find you just stop leaving your house."

Plane Three: Kennedy Center Honors. This is--reliably--the best form of television. I recommend the Sting tribute, and Chita Rivera. And Oprah. It's sort of hard to go wrong.
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