The Lawyers, the Inmates, & the Lone Gunmen
note: This review concerns four television series that are no longer on the air. In the world of DVD, I consider no review "out of date," so I shall proceed.
Last night, I saw two crossover TV episodes back to back. They were both entertaining, but only the first was entertaining in a good way; the latter was like watching a train wreck -- you want to stop watching, but can't keep yourself from staring at the whole damn mess.
A crossover, for those who may be unfamiliar with the term, is a television episode that involves characters from more than one series. The first one I watched last night was "Unusual Suspects," an episode of The X-Files (a show I've never been that into, despite some part of me admiring it) featuring a guest appearance by Richard Belzer, reprising his role as Detective John Munch. Sadly, most people now know Munch as a minor character on Law & Order: Special Victims Unit, but back when "Unusual Suspects" aired, he was a regular character on Homicide: Life on the Street, a show which allowed a lot more of Munch's personality to shine through.
"Unusual Suspects" is unusual for an X-Files episode, as it doesn't focus on the two usual main characters (perhaps the reason for the otherwise enigmatic title) of the series; instead, the focus is shifted on John F. Byers, Langly, and Melvin, three supporting characters collectively known as "the Lone Gunmen" (and yes, they are aware of the oxymoronic nature of such a name).
A flashback episode, "Unusual Suspects" explains the origins of the Lone Gunmen -- how they met each other, how they met Agent Mulder (David Duchovny), how they were first introduced to the concept of government conspiracies, and even how they got their collective nickname. All of this is probably immensely rewarding for fans of The X-Files, filling in gaps that even long-time viewers most likely didn't even realize needed filling. But here's the thing, it also works on another level: The episode is a damn good story in its own right. You don't have to know a single thing about Homicide or The X-Files or any of their characters or on-going story arcs, and yet you can still enjoy "Unusual Suspects" as an independent story about three strangers who form an unlikely friendship while agreeing to help an archetypal damsel in distress, only to discover that her initial story of being stalked by a "psychotic" ex-boyfriend is merely a cover for entangling them in a layered web of government conspiracy and intrigue.
"Unusual Suspects" is so entertaining that, if I were to grade it on a scale of 1 to 10, I'd be tempted to give it a 10. Unfortunately, I have to downgrade it to a 9, because it does completely fail to explore its potential as a crossover episode. Munch's role is so minimal that his appearance is almost more frustrating than titillating, and if the Lone Gunmen had really been arrested by the Baltimore Homicide Unit that included Munch, then Homicide would have interrogated all three of the geeks to compare their stories. Had the writers of the episode followed this logic, then viewers would have been treated with two more Homicide characters making cameos, although perhaps the writers felt that would distract from the episode's main story.
In truth, this one complaint I have for the episode is indeed a minor flaw, and one which was made for artistically valid reasons. Compare the entertaining, skillfully written "Unusual Suspects" with the grating, inconsistent "The Inmates" to see how quickly a crossover idea can go downhill.
On the surface, Ally McBeal and The Practice seem like two shows that were almost (and perhaps were) destined to exist in a shared narrative right from the moment of their debuts. Both shows are written by David E. Kelley, both shows are about Boston lawyers, and while Ally McBeal is a comedy with serious themes, The Practice is a drama with a sense of humor -- a seemingly thin line which Kelley turns out to stumble over completely when he tries to cross the Practice lawyers over into an episode of Ally McBeal.
The story involves Marie Hanson, a woman who hires the law firm Cage & Fish to defend her on a murder charge. Marie's been receiving psychiatric treatment for inexplicable black-outs, and claims to have no memory of the moments during which her husband was hacked to bits with an axe. In other words, she claims that she's not even sure if she's the culprit, and if she is, she wasn't responsible for her actions. Despite the client thus laying the groundwork for her own defense, the good lawyers at Cage & Fish realize that they're not cut out for grisly murder cases, and so hire outside counsel to help with the defense. That's where the lawyers from The Practice come in.
Right from the very first moment that brings in the Practice characters, director Michael Schultz and writer David E. Kelley start to sabotage their own work. Before they even have any reason to (and they will eventually have plenty of reasons), the Practice lawyers stare at John Cage and Richard Fish like they're from outer space, firmly establishing from the get-go that these characters, despite all surface appearances, don't seem to belong in the same reality. On the one hand, you've got the Ally McBeal characters, with all of their eccentricities and quirks which, combined, work (or don't work, depending on your comic tastes) in a comedy, but in reality would land many of them in the nut-house. On the other hand, you've got the Practice characters, essentially good people who have hardened themselves out of necessity, in their grim battle for justice.
Left to their own devices, each group of characters emerges as likable and sympathetic, but when placed in direct contrast, everyone becomes merely obnoxious. Everyone at the firm of Cage & Fish comes across as annoying, incompetent, and unprofessional, while Bobby Donnell and his associates, with their cold, steely resolve, come across as harsh, judgmental, and even sleazy. When Ally defends her firm, stating that she and her colleagues like the idea of being able to one day look into the eyes of their (hypothetical) children with clear conciences, Bobby rightfully fires back that they all may be nice people, but "if she's found guilty, it's not going to help our client to learn that her lawyers can hug and hold hands."
Ouch. No wonder these people can't play nice even when they try. When Bobby intimidates a potential witness into agreeing to testify, he then casually tells Ally, "now you can good cop him," and the Cage & Fish lawyers are appalled. Billy claims that their outrage is due to the fact that Bobby never let them in on the good cop/ bad cop strategy beforehand, but to the viewer, it's clear that the real reason Ally and Billy are uncomfortable with Bobby's tactics is because they view it as bullying. At this point, you start to see Bobby's point about how the lawyers at Cage & Fish are so concerned about being nice that they would make for crappy lawyers -- and yet he still comes across as a jerk and a sleaze when he later tells the client to dump Cage & Fish. It's a betrayal which makes sense, but a betrayal nevertheless.
The one character who suffers the most is Billy Alan Thomas. As the reliable straight man on Ally McBeal, he would seem to be the most likely candidate to fit in with the Practice characters, and in a key scene, he even complains that he should be operating on their level; he's talking about his skills as a lawyer, but there's an unintended yet clear subtextual claim that the character might be more at home on the other series. But no, he wouldn't. Here we realize that he's too ambitious and serious to fit in with his Cage & Fish colleagues, but too naive to fit in with the lawyers on the other show. "I'm embarrassed to work here!" he shouts to his bosses at one point, and while we can't blame him for feeling that way, we also know the law firm featured on the other show would have no use for him. Talk about the opposite of having your cake and eating it too!
The real problem here is that director Schultz and writer Kelley can't make up their minds about whether this is supposed to be funny or serious. (In later projects, Kelley would prove masterful at compromising between comedy or drama, but he certainly fails to do so here.) At first, it's funny to watch the Practice characters react to the wackiness of the characters from the other show, but Bobby and his colleagues take everything so seriously that said wackiness eventually comes across as simply unrealistic.
Example: Ally takes a prat-fall, her third in front of Bobby. So far, no problem, because prat-falls are typical for the comical world of Ally McBeal. But actor Dylan McDermott, who can be funny when given the chance, doesn't react comically, or even as a deadpan straight man, which would have supported the laugh that actress Calista Flockhart was going for. He instead just stares at Ally with confusion, so humorlessly that I fully expected him to observe "you fall down a lot." He just doesn't get it, because prat-falls are common in comedy, but completely alien to Bobby's world of heavy drama. Reality is somewhere in between; Ally might trip over her high heels, but she couldn't then fall flat on her face without getting hurt. And that's a perfect metaphor for this episode as a whole.
Last night, I saw two crossover TV episodes back to back. They were both entertaining, but only the first was entertaining in a good way; the latter was like watching a train wreck -- you want to stop watching, but can't keep yourself from staring at the whole damn mess.
A crossover, for those who may be unfamiliar with the term, is a television episode that involves characters from more than one series. The first one I watched last night was "Unusual Suspects," an episode of The X-Files (a show I've never been that into, despite some part of me admiring it) featuring a guest appearance by Richard Belzer, reprising his role as Detective John Munch. Sadly, most people now know Munch as a minor character on Law & Order: Special Victims Unit, but back when "Unusual Suspects" aired, he was a regular character on Homicide: Life on the Street, a show which allowed a lot more of Munch's personality to shine through.
"Unusual Suspects" is unusual for an X-Files episode, as it doesn't focus on the two usual main characters (perhaps the reason for the otherwise enigmatic title) of the series; instead, the focus is shifted on John F. Byers, Langly, and Melvin, three supporting characters collectively known as "the Lone Gunmen" (and yes, they are aware of the oxymoronic nature of such a name).
A flashback episode, "Unusual Suspects" explains the origins of the Lone Gunmen -- how they met each other, how they met Agent Mulder (David Duchovny), how they were first introduced to the concept of government conspiracies, and even how they got their collective nickname. All of this is probably immensely rewarding for fans of The X-Files, filling in gaps that even long-time viewers most likely didn't even realize needed filling. But here's the thing, it also works on another level: The episode is a damn good story in its own right. You don't have to know a single thing about Homicide or The X-Files or any of their characters or on-going story arcs, and yet you can still enjoy "Unusual Suspects" as an independent story about three strangers who form an unlikely friendship while agreeing to help an archetypal damsel in distress, only to discover that her initial story of being stalked by a "psychotic" ex-boyfriend is merely a cover for entangling them in a layered web of government conspiracy and intrigue.
"Unusual Suspects" is so entertaining that, if I were to grade it on a scale of 1 to 10, I'd be tempted to give it a 10. Unfortunately, I have to downgrade it to a 9, because it does completely fail to explore its potential as a crossover episode. Munch's role is so minimal that his appearance is almost more frustrating than titillating, and if the Lone Gunmen had really been arrested by the Baltimore Homicide Unit that included Munch, then Homicide would have interrogated all three of the geeks to compare their stories. Had the writers of the episode followed this logic, then viewers would have been treated with two more Homicide characters making cameos, although perhaps the writers felt that would distract from the episode's main story.
In truth, this one complaint I have for the episode is indeed a minor flaw, and one which was made for artistically valid reasons. Compare the entertaining, skillfully written "Unusual Suspects" with the grating, inconsistent "The Inmates" to see how quickly a crossover idea can go downhill.
On the surface, Ally McBeal and The Practice seem like two shows that were almost (and perhaps were) destined to exist in a shared narrative right from the moment of their debuts. Both shows are written by David E. Kelley, both shows are about Boston lawyers, and while Ally McBeal is a comedy with serious themes, The Practice is a drama with a sense of humor -- a seemingly thin line which Kelley turns out to stumble over completely when he tries to cross the Practice lawyers over into an episode of Ally McBeal.
The story involves Marie Hanson, a woman who hires the law firm Cage & Fish to defend her on a murder charge. Marie's been receiving psychiatric treatment for inexplicable black-outs, and claims to have no memory of the moments during which her husband was hacked to bits with an axe. In other words, she claims that she's not even sure if she's the culprit, and if she is, she wasn't responsible for her actions. Despite the client thus laying the groundwork for her own defense, the good lawyers at Cage & Fish realize that they're not cut out for grisly murder cases, and so hire outside counsel to help with the defense. That's where the lawyers from The Practice come in.
Right from the very first moment that brings in the Practice characters, director Michael Schultz and writer David E. Kelley start to sabotage their own work. Before they even have any reason to (and they will eventually have plenty of reasons), the Practice lawyers stare at John Cage and Richard Fish like they're from outer space, firmly establishing from the get-go that these characters, despite all surface appearances, don't seem to belong in the same reality. On the one hand, you've got the Ally McBeal characters, with all of their eccentricities and quirks which, combined, work (or don't work, depending on your comic tastes) in a comedy, but in reality would land many of them in the nut-house. On the other hand, you've got the Practice characters, essentially good people who have hardened themselves out of necessity, in their grim battle for justice.
Left to their own devices, each group of characters emerges as likable and sympathetic, but when placed in direct contrast, everyone becomes merely obnoxious. Everyone at the firm of Cage & Fish comes across as annoying, incompetent, and unprofessional, while Bobby Donnell and his associates, with their cold, steely resolve, come across as harsh, judgmental, and even sleazy. When Ally defends her firm, stating that she and her colleagues like the idea of being able to one day look into the eyes of their (hypothetical) children with clear conciences, Bobby rightfully fires back that they all may be nice people, but "if she's found guilty, it's not going to help our client to learn that her lawyers can hug and hold hands."
Ouch. No wonder these people can't play nice even when they try. When Bobby intimidates a potential witness into agreeing to testify, he then casually tells Ally, "now you can good cop him," and the Cage & Fish lawyers are appalled. Billy claims that their outrage is due to the fact that Bobby never let them in on the good cop/ bad cop strategy beforehand, but to the viewer, it's clear that the real reason Ally and Billy are uncomfortable with Bobby's tactics is because they view it as bullying. At this point, you start to see Bobby's point about how the lawyers at Cage & Fish are so concerned about being nice that they would make for crappy lawyers -- and yet he still comes across as a jerk and a sleaze when he later tells the client to dump Cage & Fish. It's a betrayal which makes sense, but a betrayal nevertheless.
The one character who suffers the most is Billy Alan Thomas. As the reliable straight man on Ally McBeal, he would seem to be the most likely candidate to fit in with the Practice characters, and in a key scene, he even complains that he should be operating on their level; he's talking about his skills as a lawyer, but there's an unintended yet clear subtextual claim that the character might be more at home on the other series. But no, he wouldn't. Here we realize that he's too ambitious and serious to fit in with his Cage & Fish colleagues, but too naive to fit in with the lawyers on the other show. "I'm embarrassed to work here!" he shouts to his bosses at one point, and while we can't blame him for feeling that way, we also know the law firm featured on the other show would have no use for him. Talk about the opposite of having your cake and eating it too!
The real problem here is that director Schultz and writer Kelley can't make up their minds about whether this is supposed to be funny or serious. (In later projects, Kelley would prove masterful at compromising between comedy or drama, but he certainly fails to do so here.) At first, it's funny to watch the Practice characters react to the wackiness of the characters from the other show, but Bobby and his colleagues take everything so seriously that said wackiness eventually comes across as simply unrealistic.
Example: Ally takes a prat-fall, her third in front of Bobby. So far, no problem, because prat-falls are typical for the comical world of Ally McBeal. But actor Dylan McDermott, who can be funny when given the chance, doesn't react comically, or even as a deadpan straight man, which would have supported the laugh that actress Calista Flockhart was going for. He instead just stares at Ally with confusion, so humorlessly that I fully expected him to observe "you fall down a lot." He just doesn't get it, because prat-falls are common in comedy, but completely alien to Bobby's world of heavy drama. Reality is somewhere in between; Ally might trip over her high heels, but she couldn't then fall flat on her face without getting hurt. And that's a perfect metaphor for this episode as a whole.
posted by Movie Man at
8:16 AM
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