“Don’t fall for her Alan, she’s just a guest star”

Because I am the most impatient being to ever walk the planet, it shouldn’t come as a shock to learn that I’m already watching America’s schedule of TV shows rather than waiting for the nonsense that is British TV scheduling to catch up.  Of course, some of my existing favourites are still running, but since some have slipped from must-see status (I’m looking at you, Grey’s) it’s perhaps only to be expected that I would check out some of the other shows being ripped apart (or not) on TWoP.

Let’s start with the obvious – spinoff central with my beloved celebrity girlfriend, Kate Walsh.  Private Practice seemed at first to be simply about proving that supposed maturity doesn’t make you any less messed-up than a bunch of seduced-by-their-bosses interns.  While it still has problems (most painfully the complete absence of chemistry between Tim Daly’s Pete and my darling Addison) it’s slowly but surely growing on me.  It’s not trying to keep up the original medical pace of Grey’s (now neglected to the point of “oh yeah, shouldn’t we do like, a surgery?”) and the weird folksy charm is sort of working.   I won’t bother commenting on the longevity of my viewing here, since I think we all know that I’d even sit through “Watching Paint Dry With Kate Walsh”.  Girl is gorgeous, is all I’m sayin’. 

Pushing Daisies.  Honestly?  I would never have watched it were it not for J reminding me about the presence of La Chenoweth.  That said, it kind of grabbed me before she even had a decent scene.  Far be it from me to spoil anyone, but when she gets an honest to God musical number in the second episode, it sort of makes your brain explode: in the good way.  It’s kitsch, it’s bizarre and there are more unexplained issues than you could shake a small pie at, but it’s escapist TV – you really do just go with it, and so I shall for the foreseeable.

Now, as for Dirty Sexy Money, I’m not sure where I sit with this one.  At first glance it seems an absolute certainty: Kennedy clan updated for the 21st century, complete with transsexual h0okers and more Paris Hiltonian storylines than you could hope for.  It has also inspired me to hurry up and assign personal ringtones for my favourite people on my Blackberry.  It might be all about Nate Fisher  Casey McCall  Nick George in all his Krause-ian glory, but the absolute star is Donald Sutherland.  After being the only good thing about the short-lived Commander-in-Chief, particularly as a masterclass in how to play an evil Republican, this is another show that’s lifted by his very presence.  Called upon for more exasperated sighs than one man should have to deal with, he also manages Swedish comedy and one-look-heartbreak.  I don’t know that I’m hooked per se, but I’ll watch it when I run out of anything else to do.

Holy Mary Mother of Bad Ideas – Bionic Woman.  Fair play to Zoe from Eastenders, since making the leap from Walford to Hollywood takes a lot more than getting on at an imaginary Tube station, but man this is some tacky TV.  I’m not even that bothered about gayhab escapee Isaiah Washington getting hit in the nuts, since I couldn’t be bothered with his gay-bashing palaver at the time, and care even less now.  Still, the effects budget might be impressive but the storylines and most of the acting suck.  I’m all for suspending disbelief (as you can see above) but this is just nonsense, so stupid in places that it becomes completely jarring.  It’s clearly geek-fodder for sad guys whose only enjoyment in life is watching vaguely hot girls fake-fighting.  Bleurgh.

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Listening to: Diana Ross & The Supremes – Baby Love
via FoxyTunes

A good old-fashioned literary headfuck

Travels in the Scriptorium is the most recent Paul Auster novel, and for once I haven’t read the last book first.  It’s deliciously detailed, essentially a short story and a bit, like the New York trilogy that first made me fall in love with the guy.  (Intellectual love, clearly, I’m not revoking the International Lesbian Covenant  just yet.)

I love and could rave for hours about how his stories creep up on you.  There you are, floating intently through his succint but breathtaking descriptive passages and suddenly you’re blown away by the quiet insertion of a plot point, or one of those Road-to-Damascus moments of clarity.  His writing is of the genuinely gripping kind, where each slam-dunk moment leaves me torn between putting the book down to catch my breath (metaphorically and literally)  and the tense desperation of being sure that I’ll kill the source of any interruption since I can’t bear to  stop reading. 

I’m a great lover of the in-joke: my lifelong habit of being in cliques, gangs and clubs extends to the immediate or the remote.  I’m sure an outsider might take a perplexed enjoyment from this book, but the richness of having read his previous work makes this a complete headfuck, but the dawning realisation as one familiar name is jarred by another and suddenly inferences become outright references right in front of you.  It’s craft, it really is.

I’m a sucker for parallel narratives, as evidenced by my dogged insistence that Crash damn well deserved its Oscar for Best Picture.  The seamless interweaving of the story within the story, not to mention the slowly emerging relevance of his previous novels can almost leave you dizzy at points.

Perhaps my exuberance is fuelled by too much citric acid, the late hour or the fact that I look completely smokin’ tonight with straightened hair, a political slogan t-shirt and gently sparkling eyes.  Then again, it might just be that Paul Auster is a God and his writing makes me high.  I’ll leave it up to you decide.