The Giacchino Challenge

Hey there, LOSTies! As listeners of my LOST rewatch podcast (also available on iTunes) know, I use different theme music every season--and for season 6 of the podcast, I need YOUR help to pick the music.

There are only three rules:

1) It must be written by LOST composer Michael Giacchino.

2) It must NOT be from LOST.

3) I haven't used the source movie/TV show before.

If there's a fourth, unwritten (until now) rule, it's that the track has to be on iTunes. It's only fair.  Besides, while I'm sure Michael Giacchino is a lovely guy, he's got an Oscar on his desk and I've got a microphone. We know who has the bigger lawyer.

Here are the tracks I've used so far.

Season 1 -- "Enterprising Young Men," Star Trek
Season 2 -- "Three Dog Dash, " Up
Season 3 -- "Give Her My Budapest," Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol
Season 4 -- "Grand Ol' Prix," Speed Racer
Season 5 -- "The Evacuation of Lilian," Super 8

The general idea is to have 10-20 seconds of lead-in (usually achieved by slowly crescendoing harmony, then about a 5 second melodic statement, then something with which to fade out.  The MI:GP track is a particularly good example.

Have any ideas?  Email me at LookingBackAtLOST@gmail.com or tweet me @LookingBackLost.  Namaste!

House of Cards: Chapter 1--Men and Women

Though I argued in my previous post that Netflix was wise to stay out of the creative/production end of House of Cards, this much is certain: the company has an incredible amount of data concerning how long someone will stick around to check out a program.  Just as my "recently viewed" section of the website tells me where I left off, so too does it tell Netflix that if I click away after, say, two minutes then I'm gone for good.

Thus "Chapter 1" has an incredible burden in its first scene: sell the whole damn thing.  Sell the idea of the Netflix Original Production, sell the concept of the series, and indeed sell the sale (it's not being made on charity, of course).  Some series spend too long in a pilot episode to set up the world before setting up the idea--not with House of Cards.  The neighbors' dog, a victim of a nameless, faceless (and arguably mostly insignificant) hit and run lies dying--and is wisely unseen.  Spacey's Frank Underwood is commanding and concerned... and then addresses the camera.  I know it's a dramatic conceit lifted from the BBC miniseries but it works, and wonderfully so.  Our being drawn into the show by his acknowledgment of his audience, in Iagoian style, is done while he kills the dog.  Or is he euthanizing the dog? Is he hurting an animal (the universal dramatic symbol for "this is a bad guy") or is he helping it?  Do the ends justify the means? 

The scene is the tension of the series in a nutshell--and, I suspect, the central question for the series.  On first viewing, the dog's death was harsh, forcing us to watch the villainous lead who will take us through the scum-filled town. On my second viewing, the "cruelty to animals" was less shocking, and the notion of making hard, dirty choices for the (possible?) greater good was more evident.  It's a fun dichotomy with which the show can play: asking if we are seeing how the sausage gets made, or seeing the brutality of the slaughterhouse.

From there, the show moves breezily through the necessary pilot episode exposition: the New Years Eve party, coupled with Underwood's direct narration, introduces the President-elect, Chief-of-Staff Linda Vasquez, and the seemingly-insignificant Vice President who, we are told, is happy to merely have the bigger chair (i.e. of that office).  Similarly, the show is expeditious with its introduction of "Zoe--Zoe Barns!" who must introduce herself accordingly to her editor as she is that low on the totem pole.  

The show quickly moves to fill out the cast, again deftly using exposition that matters.  For example, Congressman Peter Russo is sold on face value in one second: he's late for work.  He's clearly a bullshitter's bullshitter--and his attempt to wow the rube from back home with a call from the President-elect doubles as in introduction for his relationship with his secretary Christina.  Corey Stoll walks the line wonderfully, perfectly, between Russo's grown-up frat boy mentality and someone competent enough to be a congressman. (The reader may determine the baseline for congressional competence on his or her own.) As the puppet that Underwood needs, Russo will bear watching--can he operate seriously without the strings?

But beyond the opening strides of the show is its early dedication to certain themes. Sure, the ideas of power and corruption, goals and the road to get them, morals and ethics: it's all there, and the show wears them on its sleeve.  What caught my eye, however, was the episode's treatment of women.

Clearly we're meant to root for Kate Mara's Zoe. She's the underdog every(wo)man, she's being blocked implicitly by those at the Washington Herald, and she's the go-getter who--for better or worse--straps herself in with a (the?) real center of power in DC.  The show's treatment of her sexuality is curious, particularly from the lens of other networks (if we're to treat Netflix as a network). Her push-up-bra-and-v-neck-tee attempt with Frank probably wouldn't have flown at an 8 pm network drama--bosoms beware! I suspect a basic cable network (perhaps with the exception of AMC) would have read the scene and asked for someone more Maxim-ish than Mara. HBO would have had the scene rewritten to include both breasts made naked--of this I am sure.  Yet it's played with realism from a woman who is desperate to move up in the world, but not desperate enough to go the HBO route. As an appreciator of strong women, I'm a but unsure how I'm supposed to take Zoe's cleavage attempt: crass use of sexuality on her part? A smart opening move with little downside and little promise for more? Bottom line is that it worked and, if you'll pardon the male point of view, little female independence given up for it. The scene in which her editor commands that her 3,000 word article move quickly with a little help from Janine is one that gleefully and effectively plays to the audience, making us say, "She's our girl!"

Someone who isn't "our girl" is that pesky secretary Christina, though her worries of being used as a pretty... face, and being at risk of being passed up for a prettier face one day, does give her a wonderful depth. And speaking of depth, the creators are to be commended for their use of her nudity. It was, I think, a message that Netflix isn't opposed to such things in an original production, so long as they make sense. Actress Constance Zimmer's (splendid name!) nude scene is not the stuff of the afore-mentioned Maxim, but I appreciate the show all the better for it.  House of Cards is grounded in a very, very real reality, and Christina need not be post-plastic surgery to be an attractive, if not confident, woman.

Last, but certainly not least among the women, is Robin Wright's Claire Underwood. Others have noted her Lady Macbeth quality, particularly when Frank comes home, dejected at having lost a cabinet position; Claire revs her dejected husband up, reminding him essentially to be himself.  The line that he apologizes to no one, not even his wife, is equal parts masochistic and sexist and equal. She knows him--is she the power behind the throne? Claire is a curious character--another shade of gray who moves beyond the Lady Macbeth trope. Being the head of her charity, she both wants to help the world further, and is willing to cut jobs to do it. It's a sign that she is a strong woman in her own right... though after this episode, I'm left wanting to know more about the line between her operating in and out of her husband's world.

All told, "Chapter 1" is an engaging start to the series, and one that tells the viewer that this is no show to listen to while doing the dishes.  It's communicated in the final scene, in which the hit-and-run driver (guilty of a saddening but ultimately small fry crime, given his age), is visually boxed in by the police. For all the (dog) blood on Frank's hands, justice was served in this episode.

Will we continue to think that?

Chapter 2 awaits.

House of Cards: An Introduction

It's been said, perhaps in excess, that the premiere of the entire first season of House of Cards represents the television of the future.  

That Netflix has ponied up some serious (though not wildly serious) dough in paying $100 for 26 episodes of the series isn't the headline; it's that the company-turned-studio has done what most television fans want: put long-term money behind long-term talent.  (I almost wrote "long term tv talent," but with the hiring of David Fincher, Kevin Spacey, and Robin Wright, the only way they are tv is in the "it's-not-TV-it's-HBO" sense.)  

Add to that the stated desire of Netflix to stay out of the show's production.  I think that statement comes with the added caveat of "we'll see." When talent with Oscars and Oscar nominations shows up, Netflix is right to get out of the way.  As for their involvement with the other series in or to-be in production, or series yet undreamed... "we'll see."  Nonetheless, my focus is House of Cards, and as a television watcher I am grateful to hear that Netflix as a scrappy, new production studio is blissfully keeping the hell out.  On my ongoing podcast Looking Back At LOST, I chronicle the greatest drama of this century's first decade--a series both sparked by a soon-to-be-fired network head hoping to give an "F you" to ABC and conceived with declining network interest until it became a hit.  Similarly, I and two compatriots had a podcast about FOX's Alcatraz--a great, dreamy concept marred, terribly so, by over-involvement from the network and other suited folks.  

Lastly, the "future of television" has brought the "novel" approach of releasing the entire first season at once.  Those who think it's novel don't understand: it's already here.  Even prior to Netflix, studios would release the previous season of a show on DVD a few weeks before the new season started.  Why?  To encourage all-you-can-eat viewing, albeit ostensibly to cause a frenzy in traditional viewing. In more recent years, Netflix and its content partners have released prior seasons well in advance of the new season; for the content producers, the ostensible reason remained the same.  For Netflix, the realization was that people enjoy watching serial shows at a personal pace.  Perhaps too they've noticed people like me, people who are fed up with the network schedule.  I like Hell on Wheels so much that I skipped the entire second season on AMC, and I'll catch it on Netflix.  I like, even more so, the rather consumer-empowering notion that Netflix is putting their money where their collective mouth is and saying, "No really, watch when you want."  The HBO model is to put on great shows at different times of year, so most viewers keep the subscription year round.  While there is a bit of that with Netflix (it seems none of their new series are debuting at the same time), one could also spend $8 this month and get all of House of Cards, then return in May for Arrested Development.  Heck, the same person could just wait until May and pay the 8 bucks for both series.  Does Netflix care?  I'm sure their accountant says yes, but Netflix offers no block against that.

So what does money for talent, a hands-off network, and one season up front result in?  In my next entry, I'll cover the first episode, Chapter 1.