Kate of Late

I think, therefore I watch TV

REMEMBER when TV demanded nothing from us except a submissive wish to be entertained?

There’s still plenty of that sort of television around – lowbrow fare like Two and a Half Men, TMZ, and any soap or reality show we can name. Depending on our tastes, we regularly pull up a sofa and barrel through some mental popcorn. Escapist trash has its pleasures.

The great thing is that there’s so much more on TV now. We don’t have to subsist on a brain-starving diet of ludicrous romance, sleazy gossip, or jokes about hookers. Fresher shows challenge our intelligence, our understanding of the world, and even our sense of morality.

Have you watched The Big C, for example? In it, Cathy Jamison (Laura Linney) discovers she has terminal cancer, which prompts her to turf her childish husband, crack down on her surly teenaged son, and warm to her obnoxious brother. This frequently comic series (W Network, Netflix) steers away from sentimentality and schlock, demonstrating that despite a dire diagnosis, joy and hope are possible. 

On TV’s best shows, the writing sings. While I sometimes get pettily distracted during AMC’s fabulous Mad Men by phrases people didn’t use in the 1960s -- like "Are you kidding me?" rather than "Are you kidding?" -- more often the dialogue bowls us viewers over. On a recent episode, the constantly droll ad firm partner Roger Sterling grills a colleague about some new Jewish clients who may hire the firm to promote Manischewitz wine. Jews are seen as weirdly “other” by the cynical wasps running Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce -- the series’ depiction of the period’s casual anti-Semitism is one of its more believable elements. “How Jewish are they?” Sterling asks his co-worker. “Fiddler on the Roof: audience or cast?”

Ignorance of all kinds, from racism to sexism, comes as naturally to the partners at Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce as knocking back highballs on the job. But the show was surely set during this period because it was such a time of transition in the U.S. In the ambitious copywriter Peggy Olson, the unhappy housewife Betty Francis, the aspiring actor Megan Draper, the jaded secretary Joan Harris, and the assertive Hari Krishna devotee Mother Lakshmi we can readily see the seeds of anger and frustration that allowed the feminist movement to take root.

Many of us are as transfixed by the look of this series, with its retro costumes and design and its attractive actors, as we are by what it says about advertising and how post-war America wanted to see itself. How wonderful that there’s so much meat here to devour.

I haven’t seen more than a few minutes of the popular Downton Abbey (Vision TV), although I’m sure I’d love it. There’s been too much else to chew on, some of it quite al dente. You can’t watch a show like Girls (HBO) – where a homely would-be writer and her equally clumsy friends muddle through various unfortunate relationships – and remain unmoved, at least, not if you’ve ever been a 20-something female.

This is surely what it’s really like to be young and single in New York, as opposed to the idiotic fairyland of Sex and the City. These young women make the kinds of moves we made ourselves – failing to read the signs of doomed entanglements, pretending to be the sorts of people we most definitely were not – all without the aid of designer shoes or smarmy voiceovers. We cringe as we recognize the inappropriate would-be seducers – flirtatious dads for whom the characters babysit, paunchy bosses with roamin’ fingers, pretentious lechers of every age – as the “girls” navigate through a modern world where raunchy casual sex is expected, whether they like it or not. This ain’t for the faint of heart.

Likewise, TV’s funnier shows no longer bash away at the obvious sitcom buttons but hone in on what prickles us acutely. On the Ricky Gervais-Stephen Merchant show Life’s Too Short (HBO), a little person (Warwick Davis) who fancies himself a film star constantly embarrasses himself by over-reaching -- sometimes literally, considering he’s 3’6” tall. Luckily, the project was Davis’s idea; otherwise, the humiliating situations in which his eponymous character’s arrogance lands him would come across as sheer bullying by his co-creators, Gervais and Merchant. As it is, one often gasps in horror as Davis is embarrassed by such luminaries as Helena Bonham Carter, playing herself with relish.

Meanwhile, the sharp-edged show Veep is like watching The West Wing on nitrous oxide. Sleek but inept U.S. Vice President Selina Meyer (an outstanding Julia Louis Dreyfus) terrorizes the toadies and wretches who assist her and get in her way. She’s not stupid outright – this is no Sarah Palin imitation – but her brash ego clearly supersedes her ability.  She’s constantly putting her foot in it, and although we never see the President (called POTUS, short for President of the United States), he’s a constant thorn in her side.  In every episode the Veep asks, “Did the President call?” The answer is always “No.”

Whether you find it amusing or agonizing, TV like this won’t bore you. If you’ve given it up for YouTube, maybe it’s time to tune back in.

We can't all be doctors, lawyers or bus drivers

ALMOST one in 10 American bank robbers is a woman. I’m not suggesting anything, per se, ye underpaid wipers of bottoms and writers of columns of the world. I’m just stating a fresh fact that makes all kinds of sense in trying economic times.

At the very least, you’ve got to admire their nerve. Among these Y-chromosome crooks, a Daily Beast reporter wrote recently, are the Barbie Bandits, a couple of strippers who held up a bank in Atlanta in 2006. Sadly, these young blondes seem to have lived down to their nickname, demonstrating Barbie-quality brainpower when they mistakenly hit the bank branch where they didn’t have an “inside man,” and, rather than lying low afterward, zipped off to a hair salon for highlights.

Equally indiscreet, the Cell Phone Bandit struck four banks in Northern Virginia in 2005 while babbling with her boyfriend on her cell-phone. CBS News reported that this quartet of robberies netted the 19-year-old community college student a mere $49,000 -- hardly the stuff of movie heist screenplays -- and financed such humble acquisitions as a 1997 Acura Integra.

Older doesn’t necessarily mean wiser, either, when it comes to female bank robbers. A 47-year-old former prison nurse, who was branded the Bad Hair Bandit, allegedly knocked over more than 20 financial institutions in four states while wearing an assortment of unbecoming wigs.

Male thugs aren’t publicly chastised for their fashion sense, but a female spokeswoman for the sheriff’s department of Placer County, where the Bad Hair Bandit was arrested, was clearly offended that in her final heist, the accused went wig-free. In fact, this time she showed up at the bank in notably casual style -- wearing a white shirt with a brown canvas hat.

“If she’d known it was her last one, maybe she would have dressed better,” said the sheriff’s spokeswoman. Who knew catty comments were a hazard of the job?

Frankly, I can see why this option would appeal to the mothers among us -- bankers’ hours coincide with school hours, so you don’t need a babysitter to rob a bank. The Daily Beast claims that a parent of five, dubbed the Mama Bandit, was able to accomplish her robbery en route to picking up a couple of her kids after school. That’s multi-tasking of the highest order -- we should at least give her that.

Experts blame a tough economy and women’s increased independence for the surge of female interest in this particular get-rich-quick-scheme. (We can’t all have our own reality TV show!) They also note that women tend not to rob banks for thrills, but for practical reasons, like needing to buy diapers. What a virtuous breed we are.

Besides the refreshing lack of actual work involved, evidently there are fashion advantages to this career choice. As is the case with many pursuits that women love, the opportunities to dress up are endless. We all know that Bonnie Parker (of the legendary gang led by Clyde Barrow) was a chic little number, but not all dress-up efforts are aimed at self-aggrandizement. Ohio’s Church Lady Bandit, for instance, seems to have outfitted herself nicely for many of her 12 stick-ups, sometimes even wearing a proper hat. The judge was not impressed, however, sentencing her to 51 years.

Of course, women encounter the same sorts of resistance and disrespect when they enter the arena of bank robbery as they’ve experienced in the past in other male-dominated fields. Boston’s Johanna Quish, 45, had a frustrating day earlier this year, incurring several obstacles when she allegedly tried to rob three banks in the space of a few hours. One teller simply refused to give her any money. Maybe Quish should have pretended her husband had written the demand note.

Once you set aside moral considerations and the risk of discovery, a life of crime’s got a lot of things going for it: freedom, self-employment, little actual toil. Of course, you might have the misfortune of a disloyal group of friends or a turncoat romantic interest.

I don’t think my family would turn me in, though I can think of a few friends who might. But I wouldn’t be productive enough in this job. It seems that female bank robbers rarely follow the gun-waving, “Freeze, #$%^&!” route employed by their hairier colleagues. Instead, they try to look threatening while shoving a demand note over the counter. For me, that last bit’s the obstacle. I’d spend so much time deliberating over my note’s stationery, ink colour, and calligraphic stylings, I’d never get around to pulling the heist.

This sort of message has to be delivered properly. I once read about a male robber whose note got pushed back across the counter by the clerk because she couldn’t read his handwriting. If I wanted to be humiliated like that in my work, I‘d continue to be a freelance writer. So I guess that’s what I’ll do. 

Talking about the big white telephone

I’VE had more glamorous shopping experiences; I’d just like to state that for the record. Heading out with my husband Stanley in search of a new john wouldn’t have been high on my priority list in calmer, less compelling times.

But we had a puppy whose leavings had to be scooped up and disposed of through the sewage system, and our aged toilet had started expressing hatred of this household newcomer in the most heinous ways possible. It had to be put out of its misery, pronto.

That meant touring the bathroom fittings stores, though I, for one, had no intention of discussing the nitty-gritties of toilet function with a salesperson. There are some things you don’t talk about in polite company, and I was determined to appear completely indifferent to our own personal needs.

We are not toilet gourmets; nor are we toilet gourmands. The fixture does not have to speak to us in Japanese or play the trumpet or serve as any kind of spa in its spare time. We only need one, not seven representing each of Snow White’s disparate dwarves. We’re not sultans, either – no gold is required, or even longed for. We simply wanted a white toilet, shaped like a toilet, that works like a toilet is supposed to work.

Unfortunately, the word “toilet” is sharp, bold, ugly and inspires graphic images of an unappetizing nature. And it doesn’t sound any more appealing if you pretend you come from some Real Housewives series where they might prance around calling it a “twa-lette.”

Upon entering the premises of the final fittings store, I made a beeline for one of those mile-deep bathtubs that’s big enough to submerge a family of manatees. I caressed its cool, smooth flanks. This was what I was used to, my facial expression implied – life’s better things. But Stanley was having none of it. He booted me unceremoniously toward the commodes.

There isn’t really much to a toilet -- at least, not much that you can see. Its entire raison d’etre is whisking unpleasant things out of view. So we walked over to the toilet side of the showroom and stared at the floor models for the couple of seconds each one seemed to merit. Almost instantly, a long-haired, greying 60-year-old man in what appeared to be flamenco pants tapped over to ask if he could assist.

I didn’t want to get into any in-depth discussions -- this was not my finest hour. “We’ll just take the closest one,” I was tempted to whisper. “Wrap it in brown paper and leave it out by the dumpster -- we’ll pick it up before sunrise.”

But Stanley doesn’t like to pussyfoot around. “We need a toilet with a big … capacity,” he boomed.

I went crimson. “We have a dog,” I added hastily.

I’m sure Mr. Conquistador had already heard every reason under the sun for purchasing a potty, including “country home door-stop,” “en-suite paperweight,” and “bric-a-brac for the children’s wing.” Riiiigggghhhttt, I could see him thinking – you’re buying a toilet for the dog.

He quickly established that we weren’t looking for the equivalent of a Ferrari 250 GTO but rather a workmanlike Honda Accord, and ran through the features of several models. They all had names like “Cimarron” and “Santa Rosa” -- not “The Turd-buster 3000,” the sort of frank branding Stanley enjoys.

The last thing the names of toilets suggest is the practical purpose for which they are intended. If I were a toilet manufacturer, I’d probably name my toilets after celebrities – the Chelsea Handler (practical), the Sharon Stone (brassy), the Ashton Kutcher (approachable), with the crème de la crème being the tough, resilient Tom Cruise.

We showed no interest in chatting about skirted trap-ways, bowl shapes, or advanced flushing technologies. After all, we weren’t planning to fly this thing to Iceland. We did know we wanted to avoid the kind of toilet that makes a terrifying sucking sound after you flush, the one that, on an airplane, makes you start feeling around in alarm for your rip-cord.

And we wanted something that wasn’t too short, because we’re a leggy family. We’re not such hillbillies, however – at least, I’m not -- that we were keen to sit on a “throne” right on the showroom floor, testing it out in front of other shoppers.

“Is there a standard, er, size?” I asked, with what I hoped was a posh little cough.

“Yes,” said Mr. Conquistador, whose actual name was Larry.

“Because we would need something taller,” I noted. “Our dog is a larger breed.”

He blinked in bafflement. Good God, this wasn’t getting any easier.

“In addition to the standard size, we also have ‘Comfort Height,’” he assured me, defining the difference in terms of inches from floor to seat.

That was plenty of information, as far as I was concerned. White, tall, and working sounded perfect.

“The Cimarron. Sold!” I shouted, and dashed out to the car, leaving Stanley to complete the transaction.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Isn't it romantic -- in a totally bogus sort of way

WE all have our guilty pleasures, the ones we don’t list as hobbies on any resume where we actually want to get the job.

Mine used to come with a heapin’ helpin’ of Sandra Bullock, Meg Ryan, Jennifer Aniston or Julia Roberts. Unfortunately, due to these actors steadily aging while popular culture remains youth-obsessed, I’m slowly being forced to  “transition” to Rachel McAdams, Anne Hathaway, Emma Stone and Emily Blunt.

Dabbling in Mila Kunis seems sadly inevitable.

Yes, I’m ashamed to say that I’m addicted to chick flicks. That’s right, go ahead and sneer. Props to you for noticing that they’re vacuous, unimaginative and, most disgracefully, they’re clearly not feminist fare.

In romantic comedies – for that’s what I’m writing about here, not masterpieces like The English Patient or even quirky charmers like Juno -- the characters’ ultimate fulfillment comes through love. With that in mind, the women in RoCos almost always have jobs that won’t threaten the men in their lives. They may be underemployed in something artsy, like gallery assistant Aniston in The Break-Up, or in something dead-end, like subway ticket collector Bullock in While You Were Sleeping, hotel maid Jennifer Lopez in Maid in Manhattan, mall clerk Kristen Wiig in Bridesmaids, or assistant to an arrogant womanizer -- Bullock again, in Two Weeks Notice.

They’re also given blatantly maternal positions, like kindergarten teacher Kate Hudson in You, Me and Dupree, Diane Lane in Must Love Dogs, and Jennifer Westfeldt in Friends With Kids; ex-baker Wiig in Bridesmaids; nanny Scarlett Johansson in The Nanny; florist Aniston in Love Happens; or lowly plant waterer Drew Barrymore in Music and Lyrics, although calling plant care maternal might be stretching a point.

Random journalism positions are also options, in the airy-fairy arenas of fashion (Kate Hudson in How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days), food criticism (Julia Roberts in My Best Friend’s Wedding), and TV fluff pieces (Renee Zellweger as Bridget Jones). Sometimes, as in the case of Ginnifer Goodwin’s character in He’s Just Not That Into You, the young woman has some vague office function that gives her a desk and thus  allows her to babble all day with a bunch of girlfriends but do little apparent work. Sigh.

The writing profession (cough) occasionally get a nod, though that’s usually when the protagonist is a more mature individual, like the romance writer Kathleen Turner plays in Romancing the Stone, the author Diane Lane impersonates in Under the Tuscan Sun or the playwright brought to life by Diane Keaton in Something’s Gotta Give.

On the rare occasion that these female leads are actually successful careerists, the RoCo makes sure to depict them as out-of-touch with their real selves. In The Proposal, Sandra Bullock’s character’s colleagues consider her to be a shrew before she’s cut down to size by her underling/love interest (Ryan Reynolds).  In No Reservations, Catherine Zeta Jones is a fearsome but gifted chef who alienates everybody but the handsome, easygoing sous-chef (Aaron Eckhart) who discovers the sweet core lurking inside her crusty exterior -- but not, of course, without a good, long, challenging chew.

Everybody in the theatre knows from the start of these flicks that the cute boy and the pretty girl will overcome some ludicrous, contrived obstacles but they’ll get together in the end. I guess it’s the very predictability of such films that I like.  Death will only rear its ugly head in terms of an old pet or a delightfully curmudgeonly grandparent. The heroine’s sidekick is likely to be feisty, mouthy and less attractive than she; the hero’s best friends will be awkward goofballs or obnoxious pseudo-studs.

Most of the time, we don’t have to fear the influence of vulgarian Judd Apatow, because Apatow isn’t really interested in romance. The crude director of The 40-Year-Old Virgin and Knocked Up comes at his films from the opposite of the typical chick flick perspective. Rather than seeing settling down with a loving partner as a reward for whatever unlikely conflict has preceded it, Apatow’s lowbrow comedies suggest that a guy puts up with pairing off in order to feel a part of something slightly bigger than his previously petty existence. His married male characters begrudge the compromises of coupledom and parenthood every step of the way, until those states are threatened. Then that same old wife/girlfriend and those bratty kids start looking pretty good.

This depressing philosophy may now be commonplace, along with schlumpy slacker heroes like Seth Rogen in Knocked Up and Jason Seigel in The Five-Year Engagement (a pitifully bad effort, produced but not directed by Apatow), but they’re not what I look for when I’m in the mood to be entertained.

I look to the movies to enlighten me – which largely dimwitted chick flicks certainly don’t do – but, equally importantly, to cheer me up. I’m embarrassed to say it, much less to write it, but I’m actually still a believer in the power of love. If a 10-buck ticket and a bag of popcorn remind me of that and send me smiling into the night, I figure it’s money well spent.