Skip to main content

Bridget Everett, Blazing Trails

 The penultimate episode of "Somebody Somewhere," this year, has a script by Patricia Breen, who once made a mark on "Frasier," and on "Big Love." Breen seems to be particularly alert in her daily life.


How would this be clear? From Breen's attention to detail. A family meets for family therapy. The well-intentioned therapist asks which of the grown daughters should start -- and this would seem to be fine, except that it's a near-fatal error. One daughter, Tricia, says, "This would go much better if you'd just choose a speaker." A small bomb has exploded. The aging mother says: "Tricia is my pretty one." Sam snorts. The mother says: "Sam is my smart one." And it's a small leap from this breathtaking moment of cruelty to a prolonged screaming match. After one person storms off, Tricia has the perfect, childish ending for the scene: "Dr. Smith, did that unfold the way you'd wanted?"

On a similar note, the course of Sam's professional crisis is surprising and inevitable. A boss uses language we all might recognize: "Since I've become your mentor, you're really shining. You could get a promotion if you wait three years....OR, if you'd consider a switch to I/T, I see many paths toward advancement....I/T is where the grass is really green.....right now...." What a treat to see Sam's resignation, Sam's commitment to a Sam Plan, and Sam's return to her high-school songwriting journals ("I HAVE A PUSSY!!! .....") In these scenes, I feel like I'm reading someone's memoir. I think this is how televised fiction *should* feel.

It's been a joy to spend this season with Bridget Everett.

P.S. Sam's mother has my attention; I don't know of many TV characters like her. As soon as the mother is in the spotlight, she hides behind hyperbole and self-pity. ("Well, I guess if it snows in January.....it's all my fault.....") I admire the writers' interest in a spiritually maimed character -- and I also sense compassion for this character (which is impressive).

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Joshie

  When I was growing up, a class birthday involved Hostess cupcakes. Often, the cupcakes would come in a shoebox, so you could taste a leathery residue (during the party). Times change. You can't bring a treat into a public school, in 2024, because heaven knows what kind of allergies might lurk, in unseen corners, in the classroom. But Joshua's teacher will allow: a dance party, a pajama day, or a guest reader. I chose to bring a story for Joshua's birthday (observed), but I didn't think through the role that anxiety might play in this interaction. We talk, in this house, quite a bit about anxiety; one game-changer, for J, has been a daily list of activities, so that he knows exactly what to expect. He gets a look of profound satisfaction when he sees the agenda; it doesn't really matter what the specific events happen to be. It's just about knowing, "I can anticipate X, Y, and Z." Joshua struggled with his celebration. He wore his nervousness on his f...

Josh at Five

 Joshie's project is "flexibility"; the goal is to see that a plan is just an idea, not a gospel, not a guarantee. This is difficult. Yesterday, we went to a restaurant--billed as "open," with unlocked doors--and the owner informed us of an "error in advertising." But Joshie couldn't accept the word "closed." He threw himself on the floor, then climbed on the furniture. I felt for the owner, until he nervously made a reference to "the glass windows." He imagined that my child might toss himself through a sealed window, like Mary Katherine Gallagher, or like Bruce Willis, in "Die Hard." Then--thank the Lord!--I was able to laugh. The thing that really has therapeutic value for Joshie is: a firetruck. If we are out in public, and he spots a parked truck, he wants to climb on each surface. He breathlessly alludes to the wheels, the door, the windows. If an actual fire station ("fire ocean," in Joshie's parla...