Tuesday, November 04, 2003
Speaking of CBS
My husband and I watched the CBS line up of sitcoms last evening. I wish I could say we found a bit of escape and pleasure, the only reason to watch such things. I can't. It was abysmal, infantile, embarrassing and off the mark.
The first offering was something called Yes, Dear. I'm sorry to say I spent a good fifteen minutes before I began surfing.
At 8:30, Still Standing came on. The usual situation--two parents and two children, the sister-in-law and the male best friend of the father all live in a house where no one has privacy or boundaries, the children are completely out of control and lip off as if they were talking to their friends. The parents are idiotic twits with such far flung interests as Arrowsmith and other 80s iconic crap. The sister-in-law could be funny, if only she were funny, and the best friend is nothing more than a functionary character to second banana the male lead.
Here's last night's episode. The son comes home smelling like a goat. He obviously has tried to cover it up with gallons of cologne. The parents, concerned that he's using too much cologne decide to help their son by talking with him on the usage of cologne.
Cut to the kid's bedroom. Father comes in, does the odor schtick, opens windows, etc. As the conversation progresses we find Sonny is embarrassed to take showers because he's "different" than the other boys. The story progresses to Father telling Son to stay after the rest of the class leaves, take his shower.
Mother takes over, tells her son she understands, and is there for him. Son is embarrassed, angry at Dad for telling. By the time we're well past the third commercial, everyone knows that this kid has a problem.
The kicker comes when the whole world finds out why the kid's so self conscious. It is not under-development that is the problem, it is over development.
The last scenes depict a 13-year old child being exposed as having huge genitalia. Up the stairs he goes, leaving the adults to salivate at the prospect. The lechery and debauchery is seen on their faces, including the mother's.
Hubby and I sat astounded, glad we didn't have a teenager watching this with us.
Everyone Loves Raymond was terrific. The writing knows where it's going. First, middle and delightful denouement. It is life, not colloquial Studio City.
Thinking we might have another winner, we tuned into the next: Two and a Half Men. This time we're presented with an eight-year old boy leering at the near naked and tattooed bottom of the lead's girlfriend. The other lead, the father of this child and brother to the other lead, to his credit, complains how inappropriate it is for this to have happened. Further along, the discussion of breast implants came up among the men and the child.
Second segment, estranged wife of father is concerned because kid draws a picture of a women's behind in school. Confronting the two characters, the woman storms into the house. She's met with the "wacky, zany" group, and by the end, not only do we not get resolution of the exhibitionism of the girlfriend, the estranged wife discovers she's a Lesbian, thanks to the girl with the tattoo on her bottom.
This happens in my house all the time.
So, there you are. Another example of the disconnect of the Hollywood writer and modern man.
Many Screen Writers Act Like Little Boys With Huge Sexual Identity Problems
Find a message board of screen writers and you'll find the most amazing array of these arrogant, know-nothings masquerading as one of the big kids.
First of all, they're unrepentant ageists. When I attempted to join the "group," they dissed me as old and out of touch. I am not out of touch.
Their outward contempt for any woman over the age of 50 astounds me. I've been acculturated enough to know that such judgments don't usually see the light of day. But I found out. The judgment thing? That only applies if you're a protected class. Guess little old ladies like me are not.
I found the depth of their art usually included unresolved sexual issues, the type of which most of us have outgrown or ameliorated. Out of this neuroses comes much of the "art" in Hollywood. The art which tries to say that all of us are actually latently gay and everything stems out of that. Kinda like Freud who decided that all women's problems were a result of hysteria and sexual repression.
Great. I waiting for the scene of the husband and wife who negotiate for sex. Instead of saying she has a headache, she can say, "I think I'm latently gay."
How else can you eplain this barrage of gay themes? Someone's giving them the green light. Because it's popular? I don't think so. Less than ten percent of the population is gay. Okay, then it must be for their own satisfaction, a device to keep them from having to write to rest of the society. We've had our day, they say. It's time for confrontation by exposition.
And each word they write is political.
They call it art. I call it another way to make money. Most of the writers know they'll be rewritten anyway. No one sells a spec anymore. It all goes to the rewriters, especially those that can pull in six figures to make the project winnable. Those are the facts.
Art is not the issue, nor will it ever be. If it were, we would have films like "Dude, Where's My Car?"
The Reagans Gets Pulled
Amid shouts from the Left about censorship, CBS has evidently decided it just ain't worth it to air the Reagan movie. Good thinking, Viacom.
The post mortem will include the argument about destroying someone's art, or as the L.A. Times reported this morning a CBS anonymous stated outside pressure from some conservative fringe groups has caused the network to bow to their censorship.
Baloney. There's no censorship involved here at all. The truth is the film is rife with lies and slander. To take all of the untruth out would likely involve shooting a whole new movie.
I suggest the producer start with a decent looking Reagan and Nancy. Brolin looks like he needs to go to the bathroom. Judy Davis looks like a harpie.
As an artist myself, I always laugh when I hear the "creative process" and "art is truth" talk. Line up any screen writer and tell him you'll give him $600,000 to write a play about anything and he'll take it. It's all about money and prestige.
The Hollywood Stare
When I'm in Hwood at a function, to keep myself busy (I'm not "someone" so I don't get talked to much--I have to iniate any discourse) I watch people. What I've noticed is that no matter where I am, at the Oscars, a meeting, walking down a street, eating lunch, I am met with The Stare.
Now, The Stare is more than just looking straight ahead. It consists of actively ignoring other people who aren't like the Starer. It involves looking over the head of another person while he is talking to you, or as you meet someone walking by, say in a lobby or at a function, it is looking quickly at you to see if you're anyone, then quickly returning to a rather snooty gaze ahead. One time when I was in a bathroom at the Academy Awards, I witnessed gobs of starlets and real stars ignoring one another, looking straight ahead in the mirrors. It was the damndest thing I ever saw. Another world.
Fifteen young women with huge bosoms, tiny bodies, stiletto heels and Versace wardrobes who evidently signed the agreement not to converse with each other in public. Since I'm just a hick, I had the audacity to tell one Oscar winner she looked wonderful. She looked over at me, and down of course, curled her upper lip ala Elvis, said thank you very much, then returned to her eyeliner. I had broken the vow of silence, evidently.
I've told many a Gucci shod lout (probably a producer--he was very overweight) who allowed the door to slam in my face, "You'd never do this if your wife were here." Guessthis means he won't be reading my script. Oh well.
These oversexed Alphas, the silent, aloof stars, the callow writers: everyone of them wants to be in the group more than anything in the world.
Yeah, these are the kinds of people I want steering my children's culture. How about you?
The Water and the Guru
I attended a three-day seminar (these have become a cottage industry among out of work writers) for screen writers a couple of years ago. Besides being surprised by the number of people who put out $500 to attend this thing, I was marked by the age of the attendees. Very young. Very avant garde. And as usual, very impolite.
The leader, who shall remain nameless lest I be sued, ranted on about politics (he even brought up Oliver North, for God's sake) and the state of Hollywood, ad infinitim. Egomaniac that he was he allowed no questioning or interruptions. When one poor soul did interrupt him, he disgraced her in front of the entire class, calling her basically an idiot. I should have known then talking to him was not a good idea.
But, I'm a slow learner. At the break, I found a slot next to him, waited till the others were done, then opened my mouth to speak. Just as I did so, the water glass that he had set down next to him got knocked over by my huge purse. The glass broke, water soaked his feels-like-buttah slacks, drenced his handmade Italian shoes. I was mortified, and felt like the biggest moron to ever cross his path.
He assured me I was indeed the biggest moron he'd come across. Instead of being gallant, a gentlemen, he was rather rude. Yes, I got The Stare. Guess I deserved it.
Next time I'm in Hwood, I hope to refine my study of The Stare and report my findings to the rest of you rubes.
Thanks for the read.
The first offering was something called Yes, Dear. I'm sorry to say I spent a good fifteen minutes before I began surfing.
At 8:30, Still Standing came on. The usual situation--two parents and two children, the sister-in-law and the male best friend of the father all live in a house where no one has privacy or boundaries, the children are completely out of control and lip off as if they were talking to their friends. The parents are idiotic twits with such far flung interests as Arrowsmith and other 80s iconic crap. The sister-in-law could be funny, if only she were funny, and the best friend is nothing more than a functionary character to second banana the male lead.
Here's last night's episode. The son comes home smelling like a goat. He obviously has tried to cover it up with gallons of cologne. The parents, concerned that he's using too much cologne decide to help their son by talking with him on the usage of cologne.
Cut to the kid's bedroom. Father comes in, does the odor schtick, opens windows, etc. As the conversation progresses we find Sonny is embarrassed to take showers because he's "different" than the other boys. The story progresses to Father telling Son to stay after the rest of the class leaves, take his shower.
Mother takes over, tells her son she understands, and is there for him. Son is embarrassed, angry at Dad for telling. By the time we're well past the third commercial, everyone knows that this kid has a problem.
The kicker comes when the whole world finds out why the kid's so self conscious. It is not under-development that is the problem, it is over development.
The last scenes depict a 13-year old child being exposed as having huge genitalia. Up the stairs he goes, leaving the adults to salivate at the prospect. The lechery and debauchery is seen on their faces, including the mother's.
Hubby and I sat astounded, glad we didn't have a teenager watching this with us.
Everyone Loves Raymond was terrific. The writing knows where it's going. First, middle and delightful denouement. It is life, not colloquial Studio City.
Thinking we might have another winner, we tuned into the next: Two and a Half Men. This time we're presented with an eight-year old boy leering at the near naked and tattooed bottom of the lead's girlfriend. The other lead, the father of this child and brother to the other lead, to his credit, complains how inappropriate it is for this to have happened. Further along, the discussion of breast implants came up among the men and the child.
Second segment, estranged wife of father is concerned because kid draws a picture of a women's behind in school. Confronting the two characters, the woman storms into the house. She's met with the "wacky, zany" group, and by the end, not only do we not get resolution of the exhibitionism of the girlfriend, the estranged wife discovers she's a Lesbian, thanks to the girl with the tattoo on her bottom.
This happens in my house all the time.
So, there you are. Another example of the disconnect of the Hollywood writer and modern man.
Many Screen Writers Act Like Little Boys With Huge Sexual Identity Problems
Find a message board of screen writers and you'll find the most amazing array of these arrogant, know-nothings masquerading as one of the big kids.
First of all, they're unrepentant ageists. When I attempted to join the "group," they dissed me as old and out of touch. I am not out of touch.
Their outward contempt for any woman over the age of 50 astounds me. I've been acculturated enough to know that such judgments don't usually see the light of day. But I found out. The judgment thing? That only applies if you're a protected class. Guess little old ladies like me are not.
I found the depth of their art usually included unresolved sexual issues, the type of which most of us have outgrown or ameliorated. Out of this neuroses comes much of the "art" in Hollywood. The art which tries to say that all of us are actually latently gay and everything stems out of that. Kinda like Freud who decided that all women's problems were a result of hysteria and sexual repression.
Great. I waiting for the scene of the husband and wife who negotiate for sex. Instead of saying she has a headache, she can say, "I think I'm latently gay."
How else can you eplain this barrage of gay themes? Someone's giving them the green light. Because it's popular? I don't think so. Less than ten percent of the population is gay. Okay, then it must be for their own satisfaction, a device to keep them from having to write to rest of the society. We've had our day, they say. It's time for confrontation by exposition.
And each word they write is political.
They call it art. I call it another way to make money. Most of the writers know they'll be rewritten anyway. No one sells a spec anymore. It all goes to the rewriters, especially those that can pull in six figures to make the project winnable. Those are the facts.
Art is not the issue, nor will it ever be. If it were, we would have films like "Dude, Where's My Car?"
The Reagans Gets Pulled
Amid shouts from the Left about censorship, CBS has evidently decided it just ain't worth it to air the Reagan movie. Good thinking, Viacom.
The post mortem will include the argument about destroying someone's art, or as the L.A. Times reported this morning a CBS anonymous stated outside pressure from some conservative fringe groups has caused the network to bow to their censorship.
Baloney. There's no censorship involved here at all. The truth is the film is rife with lies and slander. To take all of the untruth out would likely involve shooting a whole new movie.
I suggest the producer start with a decent looking Reagan and Nancy. Brolin looks like he needs to go to the bathroom. Judy Davis looks like a harpie.
As an artist myself, I always laugh when I hear the "creative process" and "art is truth" talk. Line up any screen writer and tell him you'll give him $600,000 to write a play about anything and he'll take it. It's all about money and prestige.
The Hollywood Stare
When I'm in Hwood at a function, to keep myself busy (I'm not "someone" so I don't get talked to much--I have to iniate any discourse) I watch people. What I've noticed is that no matter where I am, at the Oscars, a meeting, walking down a street, eating lunch, I am met with The Stare.
Now, The Stare is more than just looking straight ahead. It consists of actively ignoring other people who aren't like the Starer. It involves looking over the head of another person while he is talking to you, or as you meet someone walking by, say in a lobby or at a function, it is looking quickly at you to see if you're anyone, then quickly returning to a rather snooty gaze ahead. One time when I was in a bathroom at the Academy Awards, I witnessed gobs of starlets and real stars ignoring one another, looking straight ahead in the mirrors. It was the damndest thing I ever saw. Another world.
Fifteen young women with huge bosoms, tiny bodies, stiletto heels and Versace wardrobes who evidently signed the agreement not to converse with each other in public. Since I'm just a hick, I had the audacity to tell one Oscar winner she looked wonderful. She looked over at me, and down of course, curled her upper lip ala Elvis, said thank you very much, then returned to her eyeliner. I had broken the vow of silence, evidently.
I've told many a Gucci shod lout (probably a producer--he was very overweight) who allowed the door to slam in my face, "You'd never do this if your wife were here." Guessthis means he won't be reading my script. Oh well.
These oversexed Alphas, the silent, aloof stars, the callow writers: everyone of them wants to be in the group more than anything in the world.
Yeah, these are the kinds of people I want steering my children's culture. How about you?
The Water and the Guru
I attended a three-day seminar (these have become a cottage industry among out of work writers) for screen writers a couple of years ago. Besides being surprised by the number of people who put out $500 to attend this thing, I was marked by the age of the attendees. Very young. Very avant garde. And as usual, very impolite.
The leader, who shall remain nameless lest I be sued, ranted on about politics (he even brought up Oliver North, for God's sake) and the state of Hollywood, ad infinitim. Egomaniac that he was he allowed no questioning or interruptions. When one poor soul did interrupt him, he disgraced her in front of the entire class, calling her basically an idiot. I should have known then talking to him was not a good idea.
But, I'm a slow learner. At the break, I found a slot next to him, waited till the others were done, then opened my mouth to speak. Just as I did so, the water glass that he had set down next to him got knocked over by my huge purse. The glass broke, water soaked his feels-like-buttah slacks, drenced his handmade Italian shoes. I was mortified, and felt like the biggest moron to ever cross his path.
He assured me I was indeed the biggest moron he'd come across. Instead of being gallant, a gentlemen, he was rather rude. Yes, I got The Stare. Guess I deserved it.
Next time I'm in Hwood, I hope to refine my study of The Stare and report my findings to the rest of you rubes.
Thanks for the read.
