Skip to main content

Law and Order: SVU

 One thing I like about David Graziano is that he is really trying--not always gracefully--to make Olivia Benson into a human being. 


Is she a superhero? She has extracted a child from a box in the ground. She has used the jaws of life to pull her dear (pregnant) friend from a crushed, burning car. Just recently, on a slow day, she stopped her boss from murdering his neighbor; the murder was actually seconds away from happening, when Olivia intervened.


"Probability of Doom" asks--subtly--how much Olivia can withstand. She has been struggling this season, seeing antagonism in neutral strangers' faces, snapping at her colleagues. A new therapist suggests that she might want to revisit an old case, to answer some questions that she is asking herself--but the apparently straightforward act ("Google the phone number!") becomes overwhelming.

All this plays out against a backdrop of indescribable horror. A pregnant woman reveals that her pedophile husband has been stabbed to death. Then, other pedophile corpses begin washing up. Interviews transpire. It emerges that the daughter of one rapist/pedophile has been using a special app to uncover the identities of other monsters; she then murders the men in question, as a way of protecting children. (In the interrogation room, she almost smiles. "I killed them, and I liked it.")

Unusually, the writers focus on the decaying bodies of the victims. We see the rot. One squad member has to step away, to vomit. Velasco wonders if the new M.E.--played by Tony Award winner Frank Wood--might be a kind of subhuman ghoul. (He is certainly quite pale.) Olivia retreats to a bar--to seek "anesthesia," in the form of a glass of "box wine."

This show is still better than it needs to be. It's the tiny details. My spouse actually sobbed at the ending.

I'm looking forward to "The Third Man Syndrome."
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

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...
3 comments
Read more

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...
2 comments
Read more

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...
Post a Comment
Read more