Two, Maybe Three

This is the point in September where my thinking becomes increasingly Darwinian. Since it's pretty much my gig, I probably try harder than most to sample all of the fall's new shows. I never get to see them all, but I do see most, before they fall away. And most years it's pretty easy to break up after only one airing or, at most, two.

But the critics were right. This year's fall season is probably the strongest in years. There's a lot of shows that are infused with a more serious melancholy -- maybe it's the 9/11 hangover finally made flesh, maybe not. But much of the season's fare was not so easy to dismiss.

But...and here's the big one -- none of that matters, since TV viewing time is like Real Estate. It's only value is in the fact that it's finite. I'm sure I would have loved to watch Rock Star: Supernova this summer like a lot of people -- but I don't watch a lot of TV in the summer, and this year the few slots I had were taken up by things like Entourage, Deadwood, and Brotherhood.

In fact, Brotherhood, which ended this week, has my undying admiration for actually going in direction I'd never expected it to. It's not often I'm completely surprised by a TV show. But the season finale of Brotherhood completely took me by surprise. I have no idea where they go now. Rescue Me, too, had moments of this kind of brilliance - but that show's appeal is altogether shaggier and more unruly.

But that was summer. Welcome to fall. And with fall, what it comes down to for me is this:

I can't watch any more TV. In fact, I'm probably looking to watch a little less. I figure I have two or three hours where I can add new shows. This is completely unscientific, based on the fact that I now have the hour I spent watching The West Wing and the hour I spent watching Alias back. There's also a third hour to be gleaned from the fact that I think I'm done with Grey's Anatomy.

So of my new suitors, who makes the cut?

I've obviously only seen one hour of Smith. But Ray Liotta in Goodfellas mode is incredibly hard to resist. Add to that the incredible moments of stillness, cast against the kinetic nature of the storytelling, and it's a potent brew. The amount of time Liotta spends, quietly, with his kid at the end...the beauty of the police cars screaming along the pier as they fled in the boat...the sick knowledge that they screwed up just enough to make their trail possible to follow. Well, there's action and stillness and character and the cast is spectacular. I really felt thoroughly, cinematically entertained at the end of this hour. And, um...Amy Smart. Yum. So it gets a conditional promotion for the next several weeks, certainly.

Yes, it's incredibly inside. It's probably too kind in its portrayal of TV idealists, but I have been Aaron Sorkin's bitch for so long, I can't go back now. So Studio 60 gets slot number two.

So that leaves one more hour. I can maybe negotiate with myself and buy more time, by, say, not watching Simpsons anymore. (Once upon a time that would be heretical, but come on.)

What about the also rans?

Brothers & Sisters Another incredible cast, but this one for me is defined by the spectacular audacity with which Calista Flockhart allowed herself to be miscast. When she's in scenes with Rachel Griffiths, it's like they're not in the same show. It smells like quality, but none of the characters or the stories particularly grabbed me. Maybe I'm done with white rich people problems, I don't know. But I don't think that Brothers & Sisters is going to make the grade.

Standoff. Oh yeah, we've flirted. You're fun. But there's an episode on my PVR from last week that I haven't watched yet. Not a good sign...and the same reason, BTW, why Vanished will probably Vanish from contention: I've got two on the PVR, and I didn't tape this week's at all.

Heroes. A weird pilot. Kind of cool. But while I was watching it I thought to myself, "I'm really going to enjoy renting the DVD of this show after they cancel it." Not a great sign, right?

Justice. You want justice? Give Victor Garber a real show. Whathisname who played Sayeed on Oz, too.

The Class. Had two jokes I really liked -- the guy about to commit suicide when the call comes, and the end gag with the vehicular surprise. But the two characters I liked were obviously supposed to be secondary. I might dip in on this one in a few weeks (if it survives) and see if they've found their feet.

Happy Hour. Something about me just has to check out the vilified ones. John Doyle in the Globe & Mail wrote an interesting piece a week or so ago where he suggested that American critics were more prudish, and that the reviews of this show where drinking and cocktails are part of the action reflected that puritanical cant. I don't disagree with him. I found the show fitfully funny in places: like the main rabble rouser, love the bruised slutty girl with the heart of gold, think everyone else is bland, but much as I'd love to add a new comedy to the mix, I don't think this is it.

Til Death. Close(r) but no cigar. Damnit, I want a new comedy.

Six Degrees. Something about this was ineffably sad, even though it's supposed to be that old saw about people crossing paths in unexpected ways. (I never bought Sleepless in Seattle, either.) A great cast, some interesting performances -- Campbell Scott was amazing. I love series set in New York. I also love Hope Davis. I believe that she went to a Sonic Youth show in 95 at the Roseland...(the fact that the writers want us to believe that Bridget Moynahan was also there, as is portrayed in the pilot, is, to me, the man in your 30's equivalent of dreaming that lonelygirl15 is a real geek into Richard Feynman.) Still, I found myself involved with the stories and the characters by hour's end. I'm intrigued enough to bo back.

Kidnapped, Jericho -- haven't watched yet. Will get to them this week.

Still to come that I'm planning to watch: Ugly Betty, Friday Night Lights, Black Donnellys, Knights of Prosperity, The Nine

So the jury's still out. But wait. There's more. Because I'm in Canada, there's a dark horse. Tonight, CBC repeats the two hour movie of Intelligence, the Chris Haddock produced backdoor pilot. Set in Vancouver, it's a story of criminals and cops jonesing for intel in a post-9/11 world where terrorist fears make for strange bedfellows. CBC takes this to series in a couple weeks, and the advance word is great. I loved this movie. Not just because its treatment of the subject was compelling, but because, like the best British dramas -- it brings a decidedly non-American, internationalist view to the issues it raises. It's good to shake up your assumptions about the world...something that Amercian TV does too little of. This is a Canadian drama that's at least as good as any of the competition above. Will that story get out? Will viewers respond? Stay tuned.

So that third hour might already be gone. Anyway, we'll see.

What are your add's and misses? And why?

Opening the Presidential Seal...of WHOOP ASS.

You know, it's not just the thought that W. would go fetal and dissolve into his weird ticks if he was ever questioned like this, it's the knowledge that, whatever his faults (and they were legion) here's a guy who actually saw the world as complex -- who read, and absorbed info from a variety of sources. And who left office with a high approval rating, no less. And -- lo and behold -- actually takes responsibility for his failings. (Just not the failings that the wingnuts want to rewrite history to put on him.) It's such a breathtaking change from Bush it's...a little appalling.

I'm reminded of that Onion headline after Bush was installed: "Our long nightmare of peace and prosperity is over." Indeed.



The Clinton Anger: still fearsome to behold. Good for him.

And Meanwhile...

Ken Levine agrees with Alex.

X=Mr. Castricone/Math

This post really started way back with a man named Mr. Castricone. I never really knew his first name, and I'm pretty sure I'm spelling his last name wrong. Anyway. I'll get to him in a minute.

The way to really start this is through a post I recently really enjoyed over at the incomparable digs of John August. John observed something recently that I thought was quite nifty, with the spank of truth. An excerpt from his post "Vampires are the imaginary numbers of Modern Literature" follows:

Vampires do not exist. That is, they do not exist in the same way you or I do. You’ve never met an undead blood-sucker, and neither have I. Yet we can both agree on quite a few characteristics of these non-existent beings:

They drink blood.
They avoid sunlight.
They’re strong.
They are undead and undying, except by special procedures.
This checklist is by no means complete: different writers may choose to add or subtract abilities. Shape-shifting and hypnosis were once pretty common traits that have all but disappeared from the modern vampire. Likewise, flight and coffin-sleeping seem to be on the wane...

Neither vampires nor imaginary numbers exist, yet we treat them like they do, simply because it suits our purposes. Imaginary numbers let us posit hypothetical mathematical scenarios; vampires let us imagine hypothetical human scenarios. Want an addiction analogy? Vampires. Epidemic? Vampires. Alienation? Vampires. Need to have your protagonist exist both now and two hundred years in the past? Just make him a vampire.

I loved this idea, not just because of how much it's true, but because of my own tortured history with imaginary numbers, and Math in general.

Math and I started to part ways in ninth grade. I was in a class that was too advanced for me, with a teacher who didn't really know how to teach the few of us who weren't Rainman-level math prodigies. I dumbed down for Grade 10 and 11.

Then came 12th grade. It was tough. I went in for extra help. But things really hit the rails when we hit the unit on imaginary numbers. Because when we hit imaginary numbers, something in my head snapped. I couldn't grok it. I tried. I tried the homework. I went in every day and got help, from Mr. Castricone, my Grade 12 math teacher. He was a very gentle and a kind man. A very good teacher. He had a stutter, and some people made fun of him for it...and he was a swarthy guy who sweated, and other people made fun of him for that. But for me he was a life raft. I'd had three years of cold, uncaring math teachers. And this guy -- well, he was different. He loved math. You could see that. He wanted you to love it too. I felt so badly that I didn't. Lord knows I tried.

I never did get the imaginary numbers. I was so scared that I was going to fail math. I couldn't understand how I was defeated, laid low, and cast aside by this concept of imaginary numbers... if they were imaginary...why did I need to know about them? If they were imaginary, how could they fit into...math? WHAT the FUCK was going ON?

Mr. Castricone tried to explain the unit to me at least ten times. We went over the sample problems. We worked through the book. I didn't get a lick of it. I was clearly, irrevocably blocked. Broken. Math. Feh. It did this to me. I was done. It was the only time in my life that I've ever felt dumb. Great for character building, lousy for day-to-day life when you're a teenager.

I kept going back. I had drama to take care of, and the school paper, and I had a girlfriend, but I still kept going back to Mr. Castricone.

He never did get me to understand and be comfortable with math problems that involved the dreaded imaginary numbers - and I sweated terribly at the thought that I was going to fail 12th Grade Math. I'd never failed a course before.

But Mr. Castricone was kind. He told me, "Denis, show up. Write the exam. You have worked hard. You've come in for help. Do your best, and you won't fail."

And then he fixed me with what I still consider to be my first ever adult-to-adult stare. And he said this: "Now. That being said, I fully expect, I'm not going to see you in any math classes next year." (Back then, high school in Canada went to Grade 13. The Maths in Grade 13 included Calculus and Algebra and...I don't know...kill the Russians with Equations or something.)

I understood our bargain, and I kept to it. I passed. I did not take Grade 13 math.

I heard a few years later that Mr. Castricone died of cancer. I thought about him with respect and thanks, and then it receded as these things do, until John August's analogy brought the memory of him, and my problems with math, back.

After reading August's post about Vampires, I went back and looked at the imaginary number problems that had stalked me since I was sixteen, and maybe I didn't understand them totally...but they were no longer the Undiscovered Country.

These two competing strains -- My memory of Math and John's post about Vampires -- butted around in my head for a few days. And then I found myself in the Production office of Across The River To Motor City one day, and I was waiting on something and had time to kill. And I took one of those online tests -- spatial stuff and math stuff -- and I scored pretty highly.

I'd internalized the narrative of my failure in math for so long -- it had become such an article of faith for me -- that I'd not questioned it for years. I have trouble with everything beyond the basics. I'm not the guy for Math. I'm hopeless at it.

Except then I remembered conversations I'd had twenty years ago in high school, with people who were good in math. I remembered articles I'd read about chess prodigies. How they saw everything spatially -- not as problems on a board or on a plane, but how they imagined the concepts, the equations, almost hanging in three dimensional space. They "saw" the answer. I never got that. It was voodoo.

But now, I'd spent weeks getting into notes discussions, and defending and trying to understand and process changes to six hour long drama scripts. People get elements of the narrative confused. They want to change this and that for production reasons. They don't understand why this change can't be made. They're confused about the timeline. Can this be night? Can that be day? What if we move this here? What if this character says this earlier? What if this happens later?

With some of these suggestions, or fixes, I realized that I was the only one who was able to see how all these thread rippled through the whole six hours. How this setup and this payoff interrelated; how if you changed this thing in Ep.3, it would ruin something in Ep. 6. It sounds like crazy talk, doesn't it? It sounds like the delusions of Russel Crowe's character in A Beautiful Mind.

But then, suddenly, I realized something.

I was seeing the whole story spatially. Story points hung there, in space. I could see them in three dimensions, just hanging there. Of course if you disturbed one, it would knock into this and change that. I couldn't understand how the people asking the questions couldn't see what I was seeing.

It was math. But it wasn't numbers. Numbers were signifiers. These were concepts. Story ideas, beats, acts, flow, sequences -- but what are these things if not mathematical components adding up to a whole?

Oh Mr. Castricone. It wasn't that I didn't get the math. It's just that I didn't care about the numbers.

Thanks for everything you did. You helped me more than you know. I wish I could tell you that right now.

Today's my 38th birthday. I'm not scared of math anymore. I see stories spatially, in three dimensions. Life is good.

It Takes A Drama Critic

If you're like me, you've been enjoying Frank Rich's columns in the NYTimes for a while now. Well, now he has a book, and Salon has a feature/review.

Again, this all looks pretty different when you're an American living in Canada, seeing and reading media that's at least a little more fact-based and less fear-based than most of what I see on CNN, or read when I visit cities like Detroit, New York, Orlando, Houston, Buffalo, or Chicago. (All of which I've been to in the last little while, and sat open-mouthed when I see the terrible -- verging on inane -- crap being fed to you by your news media.) Liberal media? Yeah. Right.

Anyway, two things: I've started watching Countdown, because Olberman's commentaries are just too rich. And it's a damn fine news program. A little humor, plenty of light, not quite as much silly heat. It's ... dare I say it ... almost Canadian in its seriousness.

'Course then Olberman goes and does one of these again:



Second, my favorite passage from the Salon review of Rich's book:

"Bush was a competitor who liked to win the game, even if he was unclear about what to do with his victory beyond catering to the economic interests of his real base, the traditional Republican business constituency ... Iraq was just the vehicle to ride to victory in the midterms, particularly if it could be folded into the proven brand of 9/11. A cakewalk in Iraq was the easy way, the lazy way, the arrogant way, the telegenic way, the Top Gun way to hold on to power. It was of a piece with every other shortcut in Bush's career, and it was a hand-me-down from Dad drenched in oil to boot."

The only people Bush has left are the rich who are too priveleged to care, and those who are so frightened that they have slipped entirely into infantile fantasies of authoriarianism which is the very antithesis to the roots of American democracy.

The verdict is already in: worst president ever. Now it remains to be seen if enough people have the courage and smarts to vote something other than their fear. If they choose fear again, then maybe we all truly deserve the approbation of the world.

New TV Blog

Jaime J. Weinman, whose blog is on the sideboard -- has started a new blog on www.macleans.ca, the site for the venerable Canadian newsmagazine.

My favorite post so far has got to be about the new trend away from the Big! Shocking! Season! Ender! to the Big! Emotional! Season! Ender!

He explains it better.

Previewing: Rent-A-Goalie

Looks like the promotional push has finally started for Rent-A-Goalie, a new Showcase comedy that premieres Oct. 1.

RAG is that rarest of beasts: a homegrown Canadian comedy that's actually funny. I got to read the scripts last year and was blown away by how good they were and the unique voice contained in them.

Then I saw cuts of seven of eight episodes, and they were even better.

There's a real mix of humor here: smart and savvy and dumb and accessible. It's fast- paced, character driven, and it's got heart, too. Spread the word.

And yes, this is the show that I was talking about in this post a few weeks back.

I have more to say on this show, and I'll probably put it out there closer to the airdate.

For now, go check out the website.

Rescue Peter Tolan (Redux)

I figured I'd repeat this blog post from a few months back, since here in Canada, "THAT" episode of Rescue Me airs tonight on Showcase. If you've managed to be spoiled so far, you might want to hold off reading this post until after the show airs at 10PM ET.



So there I am, wondering what to talk about, and then, lo and behold, Peter Tolan (Rescue Me) goes on Television Without Pity last weekend.

Oh boy.



(l'il bit o' spoiler space)





At the end of the episode, Tommy went to meet Janet to discuss divorce arrangements. The whole thing went down calmly -- too calmly -- with Tommy acquiesing to most of Janet's requests.

Then he forced her down on the couch, ripped her blouse open, and forced himself on her. She fought back, but at some point, clearly gave in. After it was over, Tommy apologized: not about the rape -- about ripping the shirt.

Janet's answer: "It wasn't one of my favorites."

Tommy got going because he knew his brother, (who's now sleeping with Janet) would be home any moment. He left, the brother rolled up, and Janet was sitting on the couch (having changed her blouse) chipper, and smiling like nothing happened.

It was a horrifying scene. For a lot of reasons.

Most of the TV writer coverage has focused on the rape itself, understandably. But there was so much else to be horrified over. His cavalier attitude. Her cavalier attitude. Her willingness to cover it up. And, of course, the suggestion that the attentions -- though unwanted -- were not entirely unwelcome.

Editorials have taken Rescue Me to task for "its pattern of misogyny," and a lot of writers seem to be suggesting that this episode crossed the line.

So Tolan -- in a fit of I don't know what -- decided to try and go explain himself.

From the L.A. Times:

Before posting his first comment, "I sat there and thought, 'Should I do this? My gut is saying no,' " he said in a phone interview Friday. "I thought maybe I could explain some things.

"But all you do," he has since concluded, "is paint a target on your back."

So what did he say?

From the TWOP forums:

This is Peter Tolan. I learned about this site a few days ago while reading an article in EW, so I checked out the RM forum. I'm amazed about the quality of our fans. Some really interesting takes on things - even the people who take us to task do so in a consistantly thoughtful manner. And to the person who saw the World Series ring on DL's hand in the truck near the end of last season's finale - you made his day. He didn't think anyone would ever notice.

Let me affix the target to my back - there - now I'll continue. About last night's episode and the scene near the end between Tommy and Janet. We tried to be extremely careful about that scene. I did not direct the episode, but I did my most careful writing in preparing the scene. Our feeling has always been that Tommy and Janet are in a highly dysfunctional relationship (obviously), a negative vortex fueled by only one positive - a faint glimmer of love that is constantly overshadowed by truly fantastic physical attraction. In terms of the scene last night, I never wrote the words 'don't' or 'no' at any point in the scene, and when I talked to Andrea about the playing of the thing, I pretty much told her that she had to stand up to Tommy - that he had taken so much away from her over the years, that she had to stare him down from a position of strength while he was forcing himself on her. I told her to shame him with the words she was given - to let him know she couldn't hurt her anymore, no matter what he did.

Did this come across? For many viewers, obviously not. I was not on set the day the scene was shot (I live in California and am only in NYC when I direct episodes), so maybe those ideas weren't followed through as well as they could have been. I'll admit this is extremely dicey stuff. The idea of any woman 'enjoying' being raped is repellant, and caused all of us (and the network) a great deal of concern. But again, these are seriously damaged people who are unable to express their emotions - and so expression through brutality has become expected.

I don't want to answer to many other questions - although I'm sure I will in the weeks to come should anyone care to ask. But I do want to clear up the Probie story issue, which no one seems to be enjoying. I also want to clear up a quote that was attributed to me, about torturing Mike Lombardi with this storyline.

I came up with this story idea during one of our first story sessions of the year. Many times on this show, I'll pitch something that seems a little out there - even to me. This was one of those stories. I don't want to go into too much detail, but it was never pitched as a joke to see Lombardi discomfitted. Hey, we're moronic at times, but that's going too far. The truth of the story is - we've sort of bailed on the original pitch and now we're neither fish nor fowl. The original pitch had Probie much more invested in the relationship with the guy. When the crew found out about what was going on, they joked and slowly accepted it, but something else happened - they all started to chip away at him, questioning him, breaking his resolve about his choice. Soon he'd be so uncertain about what he was doing, he'd go to the guy with the intent of breaking things off. The guy - in love with Mike - would respond violently - and I can't say much more. It was very dark and much more interesting than what we've got now. Honestly, we disagreed about the story among ourselves - and now we're stuck with a much more shallow story that's played, sadly, more for laughs.

Welcome to writing a television drama. We're trying to do something different with RM - straddling a thin line between heart-wrenching drama and balls-out comedy. Sometimes we succeed, sometimes we don't. Again, sorry if anyone was offended by the scene last night. That was not our intention.

And to the person who's had so many lovely things to say about me the last few hours, I wrote this whole post with both hands securely on the keyboard. Thought that might help you lighten up a little bit.

From there the conversation devolved. You can read the whole thread (starting with Tolan's post as "Jim Spriggs" here)

After a while, it started to devolve. You can see Tolan enjoying some of the adulation -- complimenting posters on analyses and details noticed...but eventually it all goes south. It got bruising, inevitably.

We've been here before, of course. I wrote about LOST fans sometime ago, and how demystifying the writing process is a non-starter that shouldn't be attempted. (At least not in that kind of unmediated environment.) Aaron Sorkin got his ass handed to him at TWOP, and eventually worked it into his show.

But this kind of stuff is only going to get worse. Because drama is at a point where it has now got to be more brutal, more raw, and take more chances. More chances mean more people not liking what you have to say.

When you're surrounded by lies every day -- when your culture is threatened by doublespeak and division, the choices seen on TV are going to reflect that.

It doesn't stop with Tony Soprano. Characters are going to die now. They're going to get fucked up. They're going to make terrible choices. They're going to do things that they wouldn't have done ten years ago. Jack Bauer will torture people. Tommy Gavin will rape his wife. And Janet Gavin will enjoy it on some sick level -- because she's still hot for Tommy, and that's probably why she's fucking his brother in the first place.

I was horrified by that rape scene. (And I won't entertain any of the idiots saying it wasn't rape, either. It started as rape. Ergo, It was rape.) But you know what? I was horrified the episode before, when Tommy beat his brother bloody because he discovered the brother was sleeping with his wife. I was horrified by Tommy's little girl having to look at her beaten-up Uncle, and him reassuring her that it was OK, and not to be scared of her daddy. I was horrified by the conversations between Tommy and his brother where their violent way of working things out was treated as normal -- and no big deal. I was horrified when the son died, and Janet blamed Tommy. I was even horrified by the comic subplot, when the Probie got a blowjob from his roommate and then insisted he wasn't gay -- cause he was only getting a BJ -- and rather than talk about it to a place of understanding -- they too got into a drag out fight. I'm horrified that the brother was probably coming to the house to confront Tommy. I'm horrified that he carries a gun. I'm horrified that he probably would have used it.

This is what Rescue Me is. It's about people bottled up and twisted by grief, who can't express themselves and who act out in stupid, self-destructive ways. It's about people thrown together who would probably be better off apart. It's all horrifying. Which is why it's such compelling viewing. The point isn't that they crossed the line. In the very first episode, we find out that Tommy is sleeping with his dead best friend's wife. We're told right off the top that among firefighters this is a great big no-no. Tommy has crossed the line. There it is, right from the beginning. Rescue Me is a show about characters who will set lines, and constantly cross them, and never, ever, ever be honest or stop to think, "what am I doing and why?"

Melodrama tells you what to think. You can watch an hour of melodrama, and at the end, the moral is, "racism is bad." Great. Nice. Next. You can now go feel really smug and have not have been moved one iota.

Drama, on the other hand, is supposed to raise provocative questions and get you thinking. You can't do that and not have a variety of opinions. YOU WANT PEOPLE TO HAVE DIFFERING VIEWS ABOUT IT.

People are restless today because their media is constantly telling them what to think, and the background white noise is buzzing, buzzing, buzzing, and telling them that it's all bullshit. Some people hate this. They want to have an easy answer, especially from TV.

But the best dramas: Six Feet, Sopranos, Rescue Me -- are not about giving you answers. They don't let you off the hook that way. Why should they? Life doesn't let you off the hook, either.

But there's always going to be a sector of the audience that hates that. Just like the fans of the old, cheesy 1978 Battlestar Galactica who complain that they want the shiny campy original, rather than the dark drama of the re-invention. These fans will go so far as to insist things that are just not true: like the new series is a failure (even as it's renewed) and no one likes it (even as it makes top ten lists, and is singled out by TIME and the New York Times.)

There's no talking to these people.

Some of 'em, anyway. And you know what? The moment you write something that doesn't have an easy, melodrama-like interpretation, that's what you've signed up for.

Andrea Roth, the very smart, very beautiful actor who plays Janet, had her say about the scene in a recent interview. You'll notice that Tolan, though he seems out on a limb on this one, actually is pretty in step with the people making the show, who may have a deeper or different view of the central relationship. She spoke to TV Guide, and said:

It has a dark, dysfunctional soul, mixed with a lot of light, funny drama. The audience has no idea [what will happen], so it's like a big kids' roller-coaster ride. There's enough alcohol, swearing and sex involved so it's a good ride. Every once in a while, because it can get so outrageous, I wonder if people think it's just too over-the-top or soapy, but they just eat it up. The crazier it gets, the more obsessed people get.

Interestingly enough, in the TVGuide interview, Roth seems to indicate that she was far more disturbed by the anger she had to play in the wake of her child's death than the rape scene. That makes total sense to me. She wants to connect to the human emotion, the thing that lets us get through times of grief. But Tolan said, "stay angry." That's hard. Because that's not how we want to think of people in times of sorrow. It's counter-intuitive. But that is also the absolute dysfunctional DNA of Rescue Me.

So where does that leave things? How did Tolan come through his online experience? From the L.A. Times again:

Meanwhile, Tolan has gotten a bit of karmic payback himself. He clearly feels a little burned by his online adventure. But his experience may prove useful for future producers who find themselves squaring off against an empowered fan base. He also can't say he wasn't warned.

"I've actually talked to some friends, some of whom are actors who are very well known and other writers, and I've said, 'How do you find it to be dealing with your fans of your shows?' To a person, they said, 'You know, it's probably not a good idea to get involved.' "

So does that mean farewell to the message boards?

"I think I'll go back to say I won't be back," he said.

This is now a well-established pattern. Simpsons writers, Aaron Sorkin, Tolan -- each has been through the fire of TWOP and come out burned. At what point do you concede that it's not that you presented yourself poorly, but maybe -- just maybe -- it's a function of the kind of unmediated experience a board represents that you are going to come out the loser?

You have your say. It's on celluloid, or HD, and people watch it. A little mystery and mediation in your interaction with the audience is a good thing. Because once you put yourself down on the level with the audience -- eventually someone will turn on you.

I don't want to say that the audience is Mark David Chapman laying in wait outside the Dakota for John Lennon, but...

...well, wait a second. Will that image keep you off the boards? Will it keep me off the boards, trying to justify my work?

Fine.

The audience (or part of em, anyway) are like Mark David Chapman waiting for John Lennon.

If you are an actual, honest-to-mergutroid writer: Message boards are not for you. Stay away. As much as the fans may say they want your feedback, they really don't. The nature of the social experience will be that once you are a voice among many, and eventually, they will take you down. Partly because you've introduced a power dynamic to an area that's supposed to be "equal." Everybody on a message board is entitled to their opinion. Some are stupid, some are trenchant, but so long as they don't P.O. the moderators (who they bitterly resent, BTW) they get to have their say. And they fiercely protect that right. But if you come in with more knowledge, or first-hand knowledge, sure, at first they might like it. But after a while, they're going to think that you think you're better than them. That's just the way it goes. Eventually that accusation comes out. You may think it's true. You may think it's not. But it doesn't matter. You're not on the dais. You're not being interviewed by the NYTimes or Entertainment Weekly -- you're in the bearpit with the groundlings. And they smell blood.

You get your chance to express yourself through art. This is theirs.

As much as it may be tempting, as much as you think it's a more egalitarian way to interact than answering mail on a website (filtered) or podcasts that go one-way, or screenings with Q&A's, it's not.

Leave it alone.

Will Sorkin Take On Murrow?

Paddy Chayefsky and Network gets quite a homage-workout in the pilot of Studio 60 On The Sunset Strip (which aired last night in Canada, and tonight at 10pm on NBC.)

I watched last night, even though I'd seen the leaked version on the 'Net a few weeks back. (Which NBC/Universal had nooothing to do with, oh no, oh no...) I wanted to see if anything was different. I noticed a bit more sweetening of laughs, clearer ADR...but the picture was the same lock as the leaked copy. It was nice to see that Sorkinesque West Wing font titling everything.

Alex seemed vaguely disappointed in the pilot. I've read one or two reviews that seem to agree with him, though the buzz seems to be tipped overwhelmingly positive. It seems critics got to screen the first two shows, and many allude to next week's episode being even stronger.

Alex seems to think that after the big stakes of West Wing, that Studio 60 is a bit of a comedown. And that, as a premise pilot, Studio 60 shared most of the flaws that premise pilots generally have.

Well, I kind of disagree. I've heard a few people compare this pilot unfavorably to West Wing's pilot. But to me, that's a cheat. I mean, West Wing's pilot ended on a deus ex machina, for heaven's sake. (It's all well and good to say that they were building to the President's entry for the whole hour, but it's still a dramatic cheat -- the king comes in, solves everything, and everybody goes home. In fact, it's predicated on a very slim, very unlikely consequence: that a religious zealot would confuse the first and the third commandments. Nice for the scene, bullshit in reality.)

So why did it work? Because when you're as audacious a writer as Sorkin, you count on people just going with you. That's his muscle and his confidence. And damnit if he doesn't pull it off 90 percent of the time.

The Studio 60 pilot actually recombined a lot of DNA from the West Wing pilot. Not just Tim Busfield, that Schlamme whip-neck camerawork and Bradley Whitford -- but it also hinges on religious concerns. Only this time, the religious character is front and centre and presented as one of the good guys. (I guess Sorkin did learn something from Kristen Chenowith.)

There's even a larger-than-life figure -- or a couple of them. Only this time, they don't come in and solve things at the end: they kick off the proceedings. Judd Hirsch's off the top rant is a sly thesis statement for what I hope Studio 60 will eventually become. And casting Ed Asner as the absolute capitalist is probably the best in-joke since Oliver Stone put him in JFK.

I'll mostly leave out the miraculous and unlikely things -- like the fact that this is the first thing I've liked Amanda Peet in, ever, and say that I think -- I hope -- what Sorkin is going for here is not so much the promise of Chaefsky -- but an answer to the call of Edward R. Murrow.

This instrument can teach, it can illuminate; yes, and it can even inspire. But it can do so only to the extent that humans are determined to use it to those ends. Otherwise it is merely wires and lights in a box.

Murrow's speech to the 1958 Radio and Television News Directors conference (which can be read in its entirety here) formed the framing scenes for Good Night and Good Luck. Like Eisenhower speaking of the military-industrial complex, or Chayefsky's warnings in Network, much of what Murrow saw and feared has come to pass. I think that, far from backing off from the serious world of politics and policy, Sorkin is picking up Murrow's gauntlet. Because of how far we've come, or fallen, it's not news that can do it. That's where Sorkin is wily. He's going to try and reclaim some ground through drama.

The culture wars are being fought everywhere right now. And I think Sorkin's thesis is that they're just as important, and ultimately just as influential in our age, as anything you could say in a fictional White House show.

We lost the plot on the military industrial complex. Now, every week, Sorkin is going to make you care about characters who run a TV show that takes on taboos and cultural no-no's. Someone, I think it was Rob Reiner, said that one of the best things about Studio 60 is how we'll be able to see sketches -- but just the funny parts. They don't even have to come up with endings. For anyone who ever tried to write a comedy sketch, that alone is a point of envy.

You want a clue to where Sorkin's going? I think you look to the thesis statement he puts right there, right up front in Judd Hirsch's rant:

We're all being lobotomized by the country's most influential industry which has thrown in the towel on any endeavor that does not include the courting of 12-year-old boys...
And not event the smart 12-year-olds, the stupid ones, the idiots, of which there are plenty thanks in no small part to this network...

there's always been a struggle between art and commerce, but now I'm telling you art is getting is ass kicked, and it's making us mean, and it's making us bitchy, and it's making us cheap punks and that's not who we are.

...We're eating worms for money, "Who Wants to Screw My Sister", guys are getting killed in a war that's got theme music and a logo. That remote in your hand is a crack pipe...

...It's pornography, and it's not even good pornography. They're just this side of snuff films, and friends, that's what's next 'cause that's all that's left.

And the two things that make them scared gutless are the FCC and every psycho-religious cult that gets positively horny at the very mention of a boycott.

I think Sorkin's still looking to fry bigger fish. Can a TV show change things? Nope. But far from stepping down and concentrating on something with lower stakes...I think Sorkin knows exactly what the stakes are. And I think he knows how he can help.

And if that's the TV show that Studio 60's going to be, well...I'll never miss it. Not once.

Well.

That was something.
First shot around 8am.
41 Days more to go.
I need sleep.

Errrg.

Jesus Christ, it's early. And now I gotta drive?

A Long Day. But A Good Day.

Today, in a conference room in Toronto's West End, the principal cast of ACROSS THE RIVER TO MOTOR CITY sat down and read all six scripts aloud for the first time.

And lo and behold. The mystery tracks. The jokes are interesting. It works. It sounds good.

It's sad to Blow, Gabriel, Blow, -- especially when you're talking about your own stuff. But I've been low, Gabriel, low, a lot this summer. What a tremendous amount of work it's been. And continues to be. Even little changes ripple across when you're the guy who's responsible for getting them all in there.

We all have things to learn about how we clearly communicate our intent and themes. Actors can teach writers. Directors, too. With all our self-loathing, comes a lot of self-regard. And sometimes a step back and a bit of humility helps you to understand, truly, just how the collaborative process makes something stronger. It also makes it easier when you have to defend your story and say, "no. it's like THIS."

We have a tremendous cast. We start shooting Sunday. It's going to be great.

Sometime soon I'm going to sleep for a year.

In the meantime, for those of you who followed Rock Star: Supernova, Callaghan -- newly minted CFC Writing Resident and my helpful story coordinator the last couple of weeks, has this monster anecdote over on his blog.

Have a great weekend.

At The Three-Quarter Turn

Well.

I mentioned to a friend last night that I felt like I was now at the point where even when I get my eight hours sleep (which is by no means assured -- one of the casualties of doing a lot of production writing for me is that it's hard to turn off the analytical sense, so you find yourself waking up a lot) I feel like I'm starting each day at about 40%.

It's my own fault. I don't do much to make things better on myself. I'm terribly out of shape and I'm not exercising right now. I hope to get back to swimming once I'm done. I like swimming. Helps me focus.

Anyway, it's hard to explain to people who do real backbreaking, physical work that writing for eight hours is tough and exhausting. But it is. Riding a chair, strangely, can actually wear you out. All you professional writers with kids -- or even committed strivers who have to write around family duties -- my hat is very much doffed for all of you.

See, I'm not complaining -- merely making the point because it's still one of the things you have to deal with. There are decisions being made all the time, things you get asked about, and if you're not clear-headed, something could go bad. And when there are forty people rushing to get to the finish line -- which is the starting line, really... you just gotta breathe and push through it. You have to be able to keep working even when you're not at your best. So the whole excuse, "I didn't feel like writing today?" Add that to the pile of "things real writers can't ever afford to say."

Sometime next week I'm going to write about some of the stuff that's been new to me that I've found particularly fascinating: like the clearance process for names.

But for now, I'll just drink more coffee and look forward to tomorrow. Tomorrow, I get to hear the wonderful cast read my scripts aloud. After more than a year of work, and I don't know how many rewrites, that's going to be a singular treat.

If I can stay awake for it.

Three days to camera.

Those of us out on the hustings...

...may not have had a chance to read this yet...The L.A. Times has launched a new weekly feature on screenwriters and their new projects called Scriptland. First up is a peek at the new Charlie Kaufman. (Registration may be required)

Here's the juicy part:

And what a project. Ambitious doesn't even begin to describe the sublime and scary head-trip that is "Synecdoche, New York." For one thing, the marketers are going to have to borrow from the P.T. Anderson "Magnolia" poster campaign, in which the title was broken out syllabically, just to get people to pronounce the film properly. (It's sin-neck-duh-key, emphasis on the neck.)

For all those who aren't AP English professors, a "synecdoche," other than a clever play on Schenectady, where some of the film takes place, is a figure of speech in which a part is used to describe the whole or the whole is used to describe a part (think "threads" for clothes, or "the law" for a police officer). It's representative shorthand.

Yes, I had to look it up. Several times. And this is far from the only reference or play on words in Kaufman's story that rewards a closer look.

"Synecdoche" nominally concerns a theater director who thinks he's dying, and how that shapes his interactions with the world, his art and the women in his life. But it is really a wrenching, searching, metaphysical epic that somehow manages to be universal in an extremely personal way. It's about death and sex and the vomit-, poop-, urine- and blood-smeared mess that life becomes physiologically, emotionally and spiritually (Page 1 features a 4-year-old girl having her butt wiped). It reliably contains Kaufman's wondrous visual inventions, complicated characters, idiosyncratic conversations and delightful plot designs, but its collective impact will kick the wind out of you.

Spike Jonze, who directed Kaufman's scripts for "Malkovich" and "Adaptation," was once destined to helm this new project, but eventually opted for the Dave Eggers co-scripted "Where the Wild Things Are," now shooting in Melbourne, Australia. This left Kaufman, who's always been deeply involved with the making of his screenplays, to direct it himself. He's currently finalizing casting deals with an eye toward filming next spring.

If this film gets made in any way that resembles what's on the page — and with the writer himself directing, it will likely gain even more color and potency in the translation — it will be some kind of miracle. "Synecdoche" will make "Adaptation" and "Eternal Sunshine" look like instructional industrial films. No one has ever written a screenplay like this. It's questionable whether cinema is even capable of handling the thematic, tonal and narrative weight of a story this ambitious.

Mmm. Delish.

Open Thread: You Blog for a While

Sigh. Production rewrites.

So the season creeps forward slowly. My thoughts, briefly summarized:

• HOUSE bounced back with one weird case. An IVF twin? Brrr.
• STANDOFF has a great opening. 2nd episode was very strong. Still don't see how they get to 22, but she's still cute, and the TRACON story was inventive enough that it's on conditional pass for me. Being after HOUSE helps, though.
• BSG webisodes is probably the first use of webisodes that makes sense to me. As we all know, them scifi fans? They's crazy. This whole "can't watch them from Canada" thing (pioneered by SHOWTIME is B.S., tho.)
• Should I try watching BONES again?
• I'm done with JUSTICE.
• What, besides STUDIO 60, are the biggies next week?

There. discuss any or all of those amongst yourselves down in the comments.

I have to go kill my darlings, now.

Outsourcing Patriotic Propaganda

So in brain dead mode, I managed to catch the last half of The Path to 9/11 last night.

Now whereever you come down on the politics of the miniseries, the ironic thing that I want to point out to y'all is this:

All those actors you didn't recognize besides, like, Penny Johnson Herald, Stephen Root, and Keitel?

Canadian.

I mean, I knew it was shot here, but, Kee-rist! I think I saw every Canadian actor I've ever met in my life in one hour and a half. Every one. My agent's wife. The guy I was on the Gemini jury with. The guy who was in my play. That girl I went on a date with once. That comic I just saw at the Rivoll. The guy who was drunk at the Spoke Club last Thursday. The babe who goes to the same coffee shop as me. That woman who lives in my building. The guy from the beer ad. The girl from the beer ad. The other guy from the beer ad. The guy who served me my salmon last week. The girl who was crying in the corner at the CHUM party on Friday night. The guy who stole the cab I was waiting for last night. The lead in Across The River.

And, of course, Wendy Crewson.

No word of a lie. They look just like you. They move among you. They can pass...and...they've...infiltrated...your...most...dire...right...wing...propaganda.

Take that, Rush! Take that, Ann! Take that, Bill!

How can you sleep at night?

Putting Ideas Out To Tender

Five years ago, right now, as I type this, people were still worried about Shark Attacks and Chandra Levy. And it was sunny. Just like it is right now.

Today is not going to be one of those "lotsatimetoblog" days, so I figured I'd hip you to a few other things.

First, drool mortals, over the splendor of the Sorkin.

Secondly, can anyone who's 25 or under please explain the whole lonelygirl15 thing to me? Start slow. Use small words. Try not to blow my mind.

Is that the future of TV? Or some other media form entirely?

Norman Jewison is So Cute

I'm sorry.

I know he's an Academy Award Nominated Director. I know he's done a whole host of wonderful films. I know he's tirelessly promoted and supported Canadian talent through his establishment and association with the Canadian Film Centre.

But every year, when I see him give that speech at the Festival barbecue I just want to hug him and squeeze him and love him and keep him for my very own. And I will call him George.

(It's not a gay thing. It's a Looney Tunes thing.)

Anyway, barring any---well, any free Gala tickets coming my way, The 2006 Toronto International Film Festival is probably done for me. I have scripts to write. And rewrite. Many of them.

In recent years, the Festival Barbecue up at Windfields had become a rather clusterfucky affair. Too many people, too many lines, too many, too much. This year they really clamped down on the guest list and made it way smaller. (though the food lines were still way too long.) Initially it was disconcerting, because there seemed to be far fewer people than I knew. But I guess I found people after a while. Talked to a bunch of writers, touched base, met a few new people -- got a few messages passed along -- shout out back to you, W.C. Dixon.

It's always nice to talk to your fellow in-the-trenchers. It was schmooze-free for me today. I think at one point when someone asked me what I was up to I looked at my feet sheepishly and said, "oh well, you know...still writing the porn."

But in the end, really, it's all about the Jewison. He's adorable.

Now, back to work.

Oh Snap, Motherfuckers. On Trusting the Bull.

Will at Uninflected Images Juxtaposed has just a monster guest post today.

There's really not a single thing I can say against it. It's dead on the money. I can tell you the similar anecdotes, like the analyst from Telefilm who told my class when I was in University, "Canadians won't go see Canadian films," who, when challenged on this point, equated, "films people might want to see" with "Porky's." I could tell you the number of times I've sat or stood around at cocktail parties hearing about what the creator wanted to say, rather than what the audience wanted to see.

I could talk of meeting after meeting where I was told, "don't focus on the plot so much...we really want to explore the character/issue here."

There's a hundred things I could say. But it all comes down to this:

I am of the generation, or the ilk, or the temperament of creative types that wants to find the way to trust the bull. And we don't want to go to L.A. to do it. Deal with us. Because they're not going to sell you the rights to stream or download CSI, m'kay?

Those who stand in opposition to this in this country will point to this model and say that you can't "pander." But those of us who actually are more interested in telling stories than "saying something and expressing our vision" know that the ache of Will's post rings true.

But all that is said better over in the post at Will's. I don't want to talk about any of that.

Mainly, I want to give a shout out to Jocelyn. Jocelyn is a writer that helped us on Across The River these last few months. When Jocelyn came on, she was there to help my co-creator and I break the last three stories of six episodes. Jocelyn helped us ably in this regard -- taking us places we hadn't anticipated. But she also cast us back a bit, and returned us to the start, and got us honest and right with God by always approaching it from this perspective:

"What is the audience feeling right now? What do they know? What don't they know? Why are they going to keep watching?"

These are, of course, the key questions. And I know that they seem obvious. But the reality is that these are questions that have rarely been asked on series that I've worked on. I've just never heard them framed in that way. And though I understood when Jocelyn brought them up just how right she was, it was nevertheless crucial to hear that viewpoint articulated...because in the rush of notes, and feedback, and oversight in the Canadian system -- because it's not market driven, it is often the thing that gets considered third. To our everlasting shame, it is often subservient to the demands of quasi-governmental agencies, and political considerations of networks, production companies, etc, etc, etc.

That evil word: Stakeholders.

If Across the River is decent, and audience responsive -- and I have every hope in the world it will be -- judging by early response to the scripts, it's not just because I've worked hard and my co-creator and the exec producer, Bob Wertheimer, has worked hard on concept and stories -- and because we've got a great team who's poised to make it...it will also because of Jocelyn saying at a crucial time, when we needed to hear it, the thing that Canadian creators hear too seldomly:

What is the audience getting out of this -- right now, right at this moment.

An industry where that question is paramount will be far healthier than the moribund domestic industry that exists now in Canada. Hey CTF -- you're looking for comments from stakeholders? The post over at Will's should be Exhibit Fucking A.

Now. I'm to bed. V For Vendetta was OK, I guess.

I need to be fresh and pretty for tomorrow's Canadian Film Centre barbecue. I hear every time you rub Uncle Norman Jewison's beard, an angel gets its wings.

TIFF 06: I See Dead Things, Babies.

It's an interesting phenomenon, this film festival where you live thing.

I had a parking chip. I wanted to get it validated, because that would make my parking cheaper. But Zach Braff, and Rachel Bilson were blocking my way in. I know. I know. I don't dig on the whole celebrity thing either, but Summer? Her I dig.

Anyway, I couldn't get my chip validated. Too many people. So I had to go get a coffee first. Write a bit. Wait it out.

That's kind of my whole strategy for the Toronto International Film Festival. I rarely see any films. I can't get it together to book tickets ahead, and gone are the days when you could just walk up day of and expect to get in.

What I do, is, I go to parties. Not all the parties. I don't try very hard to get into the ones I don't get invited to, because, really, fuck them. This must be your attitude. I think of all the people trying to get into Hyde or any swank club and waiting in the line where you can't get in and all I can think is "he's just not that into you." Move on.

I have two modes. I'm what I call an introvert-extrovert. This means that if I've met you before, I'm actually quite outgoing. Sometimes too outgoing. Many of my friends from University all sort of do the same thing: "I don't remember meeting you, and I don't remember you for the first few months...and then suddenly you were there. Everywhere."

Right. Cause...I'm an introvert extrovert.

The problem with being an introvert extrovert is that schmooze parties are difficult and awful. You have all the awkwardness of the introvert without any of the valve mechanisms. Because people take pity on introverts. They help 'em out. Introduce them 'round. But because I'm perceived as ... well ... very outgoing, I don't often get the tip. By the way, if I'm at a party and I don't know anybody, and you help me make the rounds and the introductions, I will take a bullet for you. Seriously. I will lie to your wife about where you were. I will drive you to your parents and stand there beside you while you come out.

Serious. Word.

Anyway. What ameliorates the dance a bit is that I'm not currently looking for gigs. It's nice being able to go 'round the mulberry bush and say, "Yeah, my show goes to camera in a week. Ack." Not bragging. Just so. It also helps with a really much nicer side effect: when you run into a friend who's just had some success at the festival or selling their film or something, you feel pure happiness for them, without the gunked up envy. That's a nice feeling. Selfless, almost.

So last night at the CHUM Schmooze party, I did enjoy the chipotle caramel popcorn and the skirt steak sangwiches. I also managed to be inside, talking to my agent's lovely and fun wife and a bunch of other cool types when the rain hit. So that felt like victory too.

And because I wasn't desperately on the schmooze tip, I didn't overcompensate by overdrinking. A few Stellas, a few waters, and in bed by 1am. All schmooze and no play makes Denis a dull, dull boy.

In fact, if anything, the weirdest (and most delightful) thing about the CHUM Schmooze this year was that I found myself actually being schmoozed. L'il ol me: a schmoo-zee. Way. It's pretty goddamn cool, cochise. That I'll tell you proper.

Then this afternoon there was a Telefilm party. I hung out with the compatriots I usually lean on at these things. The Montreal Crew -- people like old Alex "Bon Cop" Epstein. I missed the always misanthropic stylings of superstar half hour sex machine writer Rob S. and the Big Bald Hebraic Moxie of the Tribe's Favorite Agent Provacateur, Big Bald Marvin, but you know, that's okay. Absent friends and all. Builds character.

There were South Africans there who I got to talk to, which was fun. There were a few people I met who I've not talked to for a while. But it was crowded. Crazy crowded. And all those months working alone take their toll. I get a little rangy that pressed in. Better to stay to the margins.

But there's also something to be said for anonymity, though it seems to be disappearing slowly. Canada is small, and for the first time ever, I get the sense that people are actually reading this blog. Interesting. I gotta hold back some stories, or I'll have no bullshit left for cocktail chatter.

I got to listen to a delicious conversation about Canadian industry bloggers by two people standing right next to me. Yes, if you were at Ultra, and you were talking about Canadian Screenwriting Bloggers -- I was right there, babies. Like the wind. I heard everything. And I would have said something, but your body language was seriously closed off, dude. I know when there's no oppo for a jump-in. Torontonians are masters of the talk-block.

Anyway, some of your critiques were right on, but no, I will not stop bashing the CBC. Because I bash from a place of love. I will burn this village in order to save it. Heh heh.

Now. It looks like Rachel and Zach are gone, and I can finally get that chip validated. So I'll go. How am I spending my Film Fest Saturday Night? I'm renting DVD's.

LIVING. THE. DREAM.

I got a series that's bleeding my brain. I only schmooze recreationally right now. But by the way, I'm all about the little curried beef and salmon things at Ultra. Thanks, Telefilm.

The Path to 9/11...The Race to 9/17...

You know, when you start writing teleplays or screenplays you work so hard rolling the boulder up the hill. Trying to develop a style. Learning to express yourself clearly. Then poetically. Then economically. Then politically.

Then, if you're lucky, one day you freelance, and you obsess over the notes you get back and you try to know the mind of God and work real hard to anticipate a million and one things you can just never anticipate. Then maybe you staff on a show, and that's another experience altogether.

Then maybe you get a development deal and you try your hand at coming up with your own characters, your own stories, your own template. And maybe you love that show you've created, like a spunky little sister or a straight-talkin' gal who you know would be just right for you, finally, not like all the others.

Then they pass and you're heartbroken, just like when that spunky gal who finished all your sentences told you about the boyfriend, and you went home and listened to old Billy Bragg songs.

But one day, something you've created, or co-created, at least, makes it over the wall. And then there's months and months of work. There's rewriting and rewriting. There's desperately trying to fit your ten pounds worth of ambition into a four pound sack. (Pounds like British Sterling, here, kids, not like actual mass. We all tracking the metaphor? Good.)

There's differing opinions, and conversations at creative purposes, and board-driven rewrites and casting driven rewrites, and 11 o'clock brainwaves that make it into the draft and then leak back out a week later. And there's notes and notes and notes, and note driven rewrites. And there's more fights and late nights, and now you can't even remember what that spunky gal you were so in love with ever looked like in the first place.

And then it comes to a moment like the one I had today. Forty people sitting around a conference room. And in some sense, they're there because you wrote FADE IN.

And it's the scariest motherfucking feeling in the world. But also? Kind of hot.

We're nine days from camera.

And here's an interesting sidebar: a few people on the show also worked on a big project that shot here recently, known in Toronto film circles as the "Untitled History Project."

Now it's called The Path to 9/11, and, don't know if you've noticed, but it's caused a bit of a shitstorm. ABC is actually thinking about pulling it. This is based on the first episode which (if the reports are to be believed) really distorts the Clinton presidency's response to terrorism pre-2000. Some of the errors or distortions do seem pretty fishy to me.

But to the people who worked on it, the sting is thinking that this 40 million dollar behemoth that you spent five months of your life on may not go to air at all.

They're supposedly re-editing...and they have plenty to work with. Somebody here told me that for the five hour miniseries they shot 550 hours of footage.

Also, Part 2 makes George W. look kind of like a dink, too.

I find the whole thing very illuminating about what a flashpoint 9/11 remains. Conservatives thought they had it cornered. But Liberals, too, it seems, can muster up the old outrage when they need to. Finally. In a week where W. tried to change the subject, this can't be good news for the White House -- or for Disney.

Justice

Um. Okay. The "seeing how the crime really went down" at the end is mildly interesting. But...who am I rooting for in this show?

"At Long Last..."

Cinderella Spawn Takes Writerboy Hostage

(TORONTO) The granddaughter of boxing great and Cinderella Man James J. Braddock threw a few punches of her own last night as she took an area man hostage following the premiere of a TV show.

The actress, Rosemarie DeWitt (pictured left with co-star Ron Livingston) was starring in a new FOX show, Standoff.

The incident began shortly after 9:12 p.m. when the unidentified man fired up his PVR to find a pleasant looking woman with a really cute nose on his screen.

"I can't help it," said the man. "I really kind of like brown hair and brown eyes and pretty, cute noses. She just didn't look like people you see on TV. She was life pretty, not TV pretty, you know what I mean?"

DeWitt's flinty, no-nonsense hostage negotiator, Emily Lehman, quickly emerged as the best thing about the drama, STANDOFF, possibly triggering Stockholm-syndrome like feelings in her helpless hostage.

"Don't get me wrong," wept the man, "I think Ron Livingston is great and definitely deserves to be a TV star. He's the TV John Cusack. And don't get me started on Gina Torres...but there's just something about DeWitt. She's not any relation to Joyce DeWitt, is she?"

Fox has an interesting tradition of casting appealing, off kilter women in roles that make their casting among the best on Television. With characters like Chloe O'Brien on 24, Constance Brennan on Bones, and even Ming Na on Vanished, Fox manages, more than the other networks, to cast women who are pretty enough to suck you in, but strong enough that watching them proves to be compelling, preying on tired people who should know better.

Says Arthur E. Robinson, a psychologist and not the name that we currently can't clear for another role on Across The River To Motor City, "an interesting thing happens to the heterosexual male when he's tired and sitting on the couch after a long day. He might find himself susceptible to things that he otherwise wouldn't even consider, like watching a whole episode of a middling drama about hostage negotiators." Robinson continued, "Yes, the show might have their attempt at a HOUSE-like "Everybody Lies," hook with "at the core of every standoff there's a broken relationship," but really, how far can it go? A show like this as a limited run series could perhaps work, but are we really going to sit through 22 weeks of hostage situations? Then 22 more? I think the answer is clear."

A day later, the victim isn't so sure. "Here's the thing. Everybody loves the whole will-they-or-won't-they thing. Standoff had a great teaser, with Tom Wopat as a Seventh Heaven like TV star taking his kids hostage. Ron Livinston's character distracts him by revealing his no-no relationship with his partner. Now everybody knows. It looks like they're going to have to not be together to keep working together, but can they keep doing that? Can they keep doing that? I. Just. Don't. Know."

Evidence suggests that they can't just keep doing that. "Eventually," says Robinson, "All will-they-or-won't-they shows has to end with, "they will," and the question is whether STANDOFF has enough heft to survive to that point. I could almost see a very different show, where there actually was a very black comedy element to their relationship, where these two hostage negotiator types use all their manipulating hostage techniques on each other in the relationship. That could rise to the level of something sublime. As it stands, though, as a straight down the pipe drama with a frisson of romance, the world of Standoff is probably too limited to survive a long run with an appreciative audience."

But for one area man, now safe at home, the scars of his ordeal aren't quite ready to fade. And the Standoff in his heart is by no means over.

"I keep thinking about that nose. The dry line delivery, the evident passion and intelligence in the performance. The lovely fitted blouses...and the nose. God help me, I can't forget the nose."

Ker-Plug: The Smart Women's Survival Guide

[CANADIAN TV] Wow. See what happens when you have time off? One more quick plug:

The W Network today premieres a new show at 8pm ET. It's called The Smart Women's Survival Guide and it's an interesting stab at a hybrid: part lifestyle show with tips for young women, and part behind-the-scenes comedy.

I really, really, really hope this show works, because I think it's an interesting way to try and find a middle ground for being able to do scripted material at a lower cost. I also think the melding of real info and tips with scripted fantasy elements is a worthy hybrid concept that could scratch that reality itch while still offering opportunities for new writers to break into fiction.

Even if this show isn't your cup of tea, it's one I think you should check out, since I get the feeling that the format is something we're going to be seeing variations on in the future -- especially in territories outside the USA where money for programming doesn't always flow like a vodka fountain.

The writers for the show have a blog here. I'm looking forward to reading that too -- and not just because I know a few of the writers. I think I might have even taught a few of them, back in the day.

Break a leg, ladies. May the Smart Women flock to you en masse.

What I Learned on My Summer Un-Cation

So, there it is. There are jets roaring outside my window right now. Same as they do every year at this time, on this day. The air show's going on down at the Canadian National Exhibition. Time was, I'd be down there. I spent several summers at "The X" lugging around heavy aluminium canisters of soft drink syrup and CO2. I had vivid fantasies of one of the CO2 canisters tipping over, shearing off the valve off the top, and becoming the airborne missile that would bisect me and truncate all my teenage pain.

But you know, that was then.

Later this week, the Toronto International Film Festival will start. Streets will close, people will wait in line and crane their necks to get a glimpse at [insert star here.] There will be much fooferal and fuss as people scramble for tickets for movies they could see cheaper if they would just wait two weeks.

Time was, I'd be jostling in one of those lines, not because I wanted to, but because I was doing some festival-oriented story or another. I used to hate the fact that because the TV station I worked for had people accredited going back to the 1970's who didn't really need the accreditation anymore, people like me who actually did need to get accredited got shunted to press screenings and photo only passes. That's when I really started to hate the festival.

But then again, time was when the Festival was smaller, not quite so Hollywood driven, and it was fairly easy to volunteer and get some great tickets to films. And maybe you'd even get into a party or two. I get into the same two or three parties every year now, and the admission procecdures are getting to be more of a chore every year. I suspect we're two years away from needing to give a DNA cheek swab at the door.

A lot of the reason, though, why I don't like the film festival very much is that I don't like having the same argument over and over and over. And at the Festival, the Canadian film types come out, every year, and make their arguments for Canadian Cinema. And the Canadian Cinema types cluck over this film or that film that continues, or constitutes a "bold new direction" for the Canadian Film Industry.

And for the most part, it's a massive crock. But at least this year I have a new answer for those inevitable arguments. Every English Canadian filmmaker I see this week, I'm going to ask the same question: "Name me an English Canadian film made in the last ten years that is as joyous, well-realized, audience pleasing and involving as Jean-Marc Valee's C.R.A.Z.Y."

I just saw C.R.A.Z.Y. last night. I'd PVR'd it off the Movie Network. I sat down to watch Infernal Affairs, but got three minutes into it and it was the dubbed version and I just couldn't take it anymore.

I was so surrprised and so blown away by C.R.A.Z.Y. I can't even tell you. I knew only that it was about a guy coming to terms with his sexuality in 60's, 70's, and 80's Quebec -- but it was so much more than that. It was a genuine, heartbreaking, sensitive, wonderful movie.

And all the canapes and all the dead things on sticks in the world can't change the fact that I'm hard pressed to come up with a single contemporary English Canadian film that comes close to being as quietly profound and immensely entertaining as Jean Marc Vallee's work. If you haven't seen it, it's a great rental. Go.

So at least I got some ammo. But what else?

Well, funnily enough, this Labor Day feels a lot like when I was going back to school. I got to feel that feeling more than most, since I spent so many years teaching at University, that I would get that "back to school feeling" as an educator, not just a student.

But I'm not doing that this year. Nope. This year I'm looking at a big binder of blue drafts of my series. It starts shooting in two weeks. Two weeks! Wow.

I took a bit of rest over this weekend because I needed it, and because I couldn't really let the papers build up any more -- they were becoming a hazard.

Once we go to camera, most of my work on Across The River will be done. I'm ramping down just as everyone else ramps up, which is interesting. Because there are only six scripts, there won't be as much "generating new script" while other, earlier scripts are on the floor. Because the show is block-shot, there's going to be lots of skipping around through different episodes. It's an incredible task for the director, and for his team. But for me - most of my creative work is really done. I've spent the last couple weeks trying to reduce, integrate notes and track the story so that nothing gets lost in the race to economize and stage the action affordably.

Sometime this fall, I'll have to think on next projects (a few are already bubbling up) and maybe even on taking some time off. But all in all, if you ask me what I've learned on my summer un-cation, it's this:

I'm like a stingray. I'll only attack when I'm provoked or stressed.

No. Sorry. That's not what I meant to write. CNN is on in the background. Guess which story is receiving saturating coverage? Afgh...no.... Ira...no... the other Ira...nope ....Osama Bi...you kidding? The freak celebrity accident? Yessssss. What happened to the JonBenet guy? Oh, right. Good thing next week's the 9/11 five-aversary. That'll be good times.

Anyway, what I've learned over the summer is that for television production to achieve anything like a well-oiled efficiency, you need equal parts honesty and cooperation. I've also learned that if there's a flaw in the system, it's that the latter is far more appreciated than the former.

Sadly, I can't stop my attachment to the former. Any more than the main character in C.R.A.Z.Y. could deny his true nature to please his father.

So the official spin on me is this: "that guy's a straight shooter." Kay? Pass it on.

Dane Cook Explained

Heather Havrilesky has an interesting article in Salon today that takes on the popularity of Dane Cook.

The phenomenon of Dane Cook is one that I greeted initially with mild interest that quickly slid into alienation and then full-blown horror. It was interesting that this guy who had virtually no profile in the media had managed, through relentless touring and internet self-promotion, to become a huge force in comedy.

Then I started to listen to him. And the head scratching started. Because he wasn't funny. In fact, for the life of me, I couldn't even spot the jokes. He seemed to be getting huge laughs for stating the obvious.

Humor is subjective, of course, always. But Dane Cook, to me, wasn't that. There are tons of comics whose schtick I didn't find particularly funny: Jeff Foxworthy, Steve Harvey, Tim Allen, Ray Romano, even... I didn't find their stuff funny because it wasn't my sense of humor. But I always knew where the humor was.

By the time Dane Cook hosted Saturday Night Live, in the least funny episoe this century, his continued popularity was making me panicky. See, some of what I do is write comedy. If I'm actually past the point where I can't even see the humor in a comic who's connecting to millions of college students, I am in deep, deep trouble.

It got to the point there where I would reflexively say, to no one in particular, "but I like Jackass!" I was scared, man. Really scared.

Well, Heather makes it all better:

His comedy is most notable for what it lacks: a critique of the political climate (Dennis Miller, George Carlin, Jon Stewart, Bill Maher), a commentary on our culture (Chris Rock, David Chappelle), a slightly tweaked perspective (Ray Romano, Steven Wright, Jerry Seinfeld), outrageously dirty material (Eddie Murphy, Andrew Dice Clay), or just a goofy, oddball routine (Howie Mandel). Although his delivery can be chafingly smug, Cook doesn't present himself as anything special. He likes video games and chicks and sports and other general-purpose guy stuff. He's not particularly baffled by the world, or all that perceptive, or all that self-aware. He's a little self-deprecating, a little bit cutesy and a little bit aggressive, but most important, he treats mundane experiences like they're huge revelations: Breakup sex is the best, right? Right! Sometimes you have to lie to get out of stuff you don't want to do. I know you've done it, too, bro!

But Cook's is the sort of non-threatening humor that appeals to people who, when watching Jon Stewart or Jerry Seinfeld, don't feel like they're in on the joke. With Cook, you're always in on the joke.

The content, in other words, is secondary to the fact that it's shared...

From his sloppy college kid look to his avoidance of anything political, cultural or remotely critical, Cook aims at appealing to those vast numbers of kids who haven't really developed any interests yet, and are most of all focused on having fun with a big group of people... By celebrating the myopia of the young, Cook has become the hottest comedian around.

I'm not being elitist here. I'm not. The guy's not funny, but whatever. The point is, I think I now understand the sociology of why he's so popular. And, old fart that I am, that makes me feel a lot better.

Course, the fact that he steals material from Louis C.K. doesn't hurt, either.

Somebody Needs To Say It

Am I the only one who thinks that they should be taking a harder look at Paul Hogan?

Crocodile Dundee, man. You call that a stingray? Now this is a stingray.

I'm going to hell.