Why, Nathan Fillion, of course. Sorry, Ric Ocasek fans. The fanboy favorite of Buffy, Firefly and Slither stars in Fox’s new series called Drive. It’s like The Amazing Race, except the contest is called only “The Race,” and if you get eliminated, you don’t get a conciliatory hug from an affable Aussie… your wife gets killed. Or something equally bad happens. Maybe.
Buried secrets abound in this show, and it’s a fairly safe guess they’ll all come to light once a group of ordinary strangers are forced to Cannonball Run across the country in search of $32 million and resolution of their personal dilemmas. So is it any good?
Based on the first handful of episodes, I’d say… sure. With reservations. Drive requires a pretty healthy suspension of disbelief. And I mean healthy like Bruce Willis in Unbreakable healthy – if you’re one of those people who say things like “that wouldn’t happen,” then watching this show shouldn’t happen. The Race itself is a little questionable, some of the pairings are suspect (particularly the estranged good/bad brother combo), and the show has a flight of fancy feeling overall.
But if you don’t get hung up on the details, it’s fun. Fillion’s always good, the accountant from The Untouchables is appealing as The Race’s DungeonMaster, and it’s a decent car chase every week. Plus, the producers have a good pedigree, with shows like Angel and Wonderfalls under their belt. Put your mind on cruise control and enjoy.
Pilot Opinion: Thank God You're Here This new comedy show, sort of a spiritual successor to Whose Line is it Anyway, is an Australian import. Guest comedians are sent into a scene with no more preparation than than their character's costume – they've got to improv their way to comedy gold! It's funnyish, but unfortunately it strikes something more like comedy bronze. Maybe comedy brass.
The setup is sound, but the execution is... safe. As host, former In Living Color player David Alan Grier fawns all over the guests and tries to come up with synonyms for the door he sends the comedians thru. "Enter the Portal of Possibilities" and such. Kids in the Hall alum Dave Foley is ostensibly the judge, but it's like American Idol with all Paulas. "Ohhh, so wonderful – I can't decide which is funner!" Hm. I can.
Even the improv feels approved for network family hour. Comedy ought to be a little dangerous and plenty provocative, and the first two episodes of TGYH won't do anything to upset your V-Chip. The show also got less funny as it went on; past the initial gimmick it's a bit devoid of life.
It's pleasant enough watching; ok to have in the background, but not worth clogging space on your DVR.
As faithful readers may or may not remember, I've been all over this issue since the beginning – do we, or do we not, live in a Cheer-ocracy. I am happy to report that further evidence has come to light, thanks to an often-prophetic force - teenybopper girl pop singers.
One can track their cheerful influence on top pop hits thru the decades. Take "Hey, Mickey, you're so fine." With a cheerleader-based video so fine it blew your mind. Or more recently, Gwen Stefani's declaration that she Ain't no Hollaback Girl. Listen to the lyrics: "bananas... b-a-n-a-n-a-s" and you'll wonder whether you are, in fact, listening to Nostradamus instead of No Doubt.
And despite the protests of a fellow blogger, another pop princess is in the process of confirming our Cheer-ocracy status - lil' Avril. Her new opus, Girlfriend, follows in the pom-pon-clad footsteps of the aforementioned cheeriffic hits.
Take a listen to the lyrics, dominated by "hey! hey!" and handclaps and I'm sure you'll agree - we live in a Cheer-ocracy.
...is pretty much that my money stays in Vegas. So I abandoned my career as a college basketball handicapper and hit the Strip for some non-gambling sights.
First, The Bellagio, where I caught the admittedly dorky, but still kinda cool Dancing Waters... ...an Ansel Adams show... ...and the Chihuly lobby and conservatory.Wrapped up the day at The Wynn, where I caught John O' Hurley in the Vegas version of Spamalot. Hurley drew on his Dancing with the Stars experience to be a worthy King Arthur compared to the original Tim Curry. The rest of the cast fared less well tho, particularly Nikki Someoneorother as The Lady of The Lake, a far cry from Sara Ramirez, who you prolly know better as Dirty Hot Callie on Grey's. Also, to condense the show to an hour and a half with no intermission, a couple songs got chopped, but nothing essential. Anyway, good stuff overall.
So that's it for Vegas, next time I check in, it'll be from...
...prolly will stay here, unless I get blogger-happy and post a bunch. I'm in Sin City for the opening rounds of March Madness. Hoping that SC can be this year's George Mason. Anyway, if I see any white tigers, I'll let you know.
I finally joined The Black Parade a couple of days ago, along with my friend Frank. It was a culmination of a long-held desire (well, at least since the start of this blog). As for my review, a quick preface: while I stand behind my take on TV and movies, I don't profess to be much of an authority on music. My iTunes library isn't gonna impress anyone, my CD rack is mostly filled with scores from movies and I'm often the guy who doesn't realize that that hot new song is, in fact, a decades-old cover. That said, how was My Chemical Romance? With apologies to David Letterman, I'll say they...
Blew. The. Effin. Roof. Off. The. Dump. (the Effin's mine, not Dave's – it's a familyish blog)
Unfortunately, "Dump" is pretty appropriate. While the view from the floor of the Allstate Arena was pretty good, it sounded like the show was being broadcast from the floor of the Atlantic Ocean.
However, MCR managed to rise against the poor sound mix... often due to the "pyrotechnics and strobe lights" that we were warned of on the way in. This was a full-out, old-school arena rock show. Spotlights. Lasers. Lighters. Guns. Blimps. And fire.
Giant, choreographed columns of fire.
The Black Parade is a concept album, loosely hung around the idea of a young dying cancer patient. To open the show, said patient was rolled out on a hospital gurney in front of a black curtain. When the first power chord kicked in, the patient ripped off his gown to reveal himself as Gerard Way, the lead singer, and the curtain dropped to show off the band, dressed in matching black skeletal band outfits. They blistered thru the set, playing the album in order, highlighted by shooting off ticker tape cannons during the title track.
Did I mention the giant, choreographed columns of fire?
Anyway, the crowd ate it up. The crowd, of course, being mostly half my age. If Frank and I wanted to hook up some prom dates, we'd have been in great shape. To be fair, there were a few audience members that weren't half my age... they were, perhaps, a third.
After strutting thru The Black Parade album, the band ditched the skeleton schtick for the encore, dedicating the second set of earlier hits to the "MCRmy" They wiped off the face paint, traded their dead band outfits for traditional leather jackets, and busted out five or six songs in front of a floor-to-ceiling curtain featuring a circle of guns around the word "revenge."
MCR may not be the most original band in the world; Frank pointed out that the lead singer was channeling Freddie Mercury and David Bowie almost pose for pose. Good thing my musical reference drawer is pretty shallow. And while tapping into teenage angst and rebellion has also been done before, it's for a good reason... it's a backbone of good ol' rock and roll.
So a hearty reco on the show – if The Black Parade is coming to your town, break out your best black wardrobe and get ready to revel in darkly beautiful musical excess. As the band says, "Come one, come all to this tragic affair."
Almost filled my DVR by taking a vacation, but I'm finally close to caught up. Rather than comment on shows from three weeks ago, I'll concentrate on those from the last few days.
The Black Donnellys: Just the pilot, but wow. Fresh off The Departed’s Best Picture win, another Irish mob drama announces its presence with authority. This tale of four brothers struggling to find their place in the neighborhood doesn’t sounds like the most original idea, but it’s shot with style and acted with sincerity. The pilot airs again Thursday– watch if you missed it.
American Idol: After a staggeringly bad debut, a couple of the guys rebounded, like strangely-named Sundance Head. Some fell off the table – looking at you, Sanjaya. It’s quickly getting down to a few-horse race (Chris Richardson, Blake, maybe Phil), so it’ll be good to get to the co-ed shows, as many of these men are just grist for the pop music mill.
Veronica Mars: This season’s second case (who shot the Dean?) closed with a whatever. The campus rape case wasn’t great, but at least you cared about whodunit. The twist in this one unfortunately involved finding out that it wasn’t one unlikeable character responsible, but several. The Logan/Veronica relationship is the main thing keeping this show going. Here’s hoping the standalone eps help.
Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader? After an awkward intro on American Idol, Jeff Foxworthy re-emerged from redneck jokes to host a game show where stupid adults match wits with smarmy children. It’s marginally amusing to watch contestants struggle with grade-school questions, but mostly just points out that everything we learned at that age was worthless. I’d say Pass, but – Fail. And Worst. Theme. Song. Ever.
Amazing Race: All-Stars: After whipping around the world 10 times, this show went the retro route, bringing back teams you loved and teams you loved to hate. Unfortunately, it’s not enough to raise this show out of the rut it’s been in for years. It’s still a lot of waiting in airports and missing cabs, and exotic destinations don’t deliver much impact.
Why, Nathan Fillion, of course. Sorry, Ric Ocasek fans. The fanboy favorite of Buffy, Firefly and Slither stars in Fox’s new series called Drive. It’s like The Amazing Race, except the contest is called only “The Race,” and if you get eliminated, you don’t get a conciliatory hug from an affable Aussie… your wife gets killed. Or something equally bad happens. Maybe. 
