I was a huge fan of Masterpiece Theater in the 1970s and a particularly huge fan of the show’s adaptation of Thomas Hughes’ novel, Tom Brown’s Schooldays.

Of course, I was a teenaged girl and the six-part series about Rugby, an English boys’ school, was all cute boys with English accents wearing foppish clothes. And the hair! My god, you’ve never seen such marvelous haircuts, straight out of an Urban Outfitter catalog, except the faces underneath them were happy and chipper instead of haunted and morose. I wish I could show you photos, but I can find none online except this on the website of the guy in the photo—cute little Anthony Murphy who played Tom himself. Now he’s a painter in France and good one, I think.

But anyway trust me. Cute boys, good hair, cool clothes and a morality play. What’s not to like?

I loved, loved, loved the miniseries when it ran and saw it a few times. I even wrote a fan letter to Anthony Murphy. Somewhere I have the photo of him I received in return (I can’t recall if it was autographed). Back then, before VCRs, I actually taped it on a cassette audio tape as my only way of preserving the joy.

I rented the series from Netflix recently, with some trepidation. Would it be good as I remembered?

Oh joy. It was every bit as wonderful as I remembered, maybe even more so. Twinkle-eyed Tom Brown is fair, honest and mischievous. His mate Ned East is as upright and loyal a buddy as you could hope for. Poor Diggs’ plain face fair glows with goodness, even though he hasn’t two farthings to rub together. Cutherbertson—oooh, that Cuthberston—is a squirrely little weasel with a lisp and a Little Lord Fauntleroy collar. And Flashman is an all-time great dastardly sexy villain. He is so bad, especially when he roasts young Tom over the fireplace. But when he laughs his wicked laugh, he has dimples to die for.

Tom Brown’s Schooldays is the testosterone version of the Victorian book that inspired the values by which I live, A Little Princess. That story took place in a girls’ school and the torture was poverty and mocking rather than the more brutal and physical torments the boys of Rugby inflict on each other. But the themes are the same: indomitable spirit, stoicism and dignity in the face of injustice (well, Tom did become a vomiting drunk for a while after Flashman framed him, but he got better) and the triumph of good over evil. Hokey as they are, Tom Brown and especially Sara Crewe are the heroes after whom I have always tried to model myself.

And all that aside, Tom Brown’s Schooldays is a ripping yarn. With great hair.

Labels: 1970s, books, television

So I was watching Mad Men the other night and a startling thought suddenly occurred to me: I’m tired of looking at beautiful people. Beautiful women in particular, all roughly the same age. Separate from the feminist issue of media images and the psychological issues of self-esteem and body image--all this beauty has become dull and predictable,

Specifically, it occurred to me how much more interesting the character Bobbie Barrett would be (she’s the comedian’s wife, Draper’s most recent dalliance) if she were a little more roadworn, a little less young and fresh under her hardened broad act. Give me a face that has lived a little, please. On a person who still manages to be sexy and sexual.

One reason British television shows and movies are so engrossing is that the Brits are unafraid of character actors whose faces are more interesting than strictly beautiful.

Which leads me, in a roundabout way, to an interesting campaign to get one of the women’s magazines to publish an issue in which the feature photo shoot and cover have no airbrushed imagines. If you join the campaign, you are promising to purchasing at least two copies of the first magazine to rise to the challenge.

Sure, it sounds like a very fat chance. But it’s worth a try, eh what? To join the campaign, click here.

Labels: beauty, feminism, pop culture, television

I rarely agree with conservative groups agitating over our degrading morals, but this bunch bitching about how marital sex doesn’t get nearly the bump adultery does on TV strikes a chord. Because it’s not just the sex that’s portrayed as dismal—it’s marriage itself.

To quote myself:

…long-term relationships are most often portrayed as stultifying, tainted by seething resentments and unspoken disappointments.

Granted, there is some truth to the challenges of keeping marriage fresh, but long-term does have rewards. They're rarely explicitly portrayed in pop culture, though. Instead, we get Frank and Marie Barone, lobbing insults at each other. Or, more currently, Don and Betty Draper, going through the motions while Don gets his kicks in the big city and Betty gets hers on a horse.

Where are my role models, please?

***

This USA Today story addresses what women already know—the dressing room is a terrible, terrible place. I was kind of relieved to read that I’m not the only woman who has ever cried in a dressing room. It happened at The Gap, where I discovered that I am grossly deformed according to the standards of their designers.

How ‘bout bathing suit shopping? Most bathing suit makers seem to have no idea at all how women are put together.

Once, after a particularly demoralizing 30 minutes trying on bathing suits in Dillard’s, a saleswoman noticed how depressed I looked when I stepped out.

“It’s not you,” she said. “It’s the clothes.”

I will love that woman forever.

***
I haven’t mocked press releases for a while so here are some excerpts that made me slump.

This one arrived today:

Holiday shopping, a busy travel schedule and dry winter weather. Feeling overwhelmed yet? Recharge and get in the spirit with the enticing scent of cranberries in XXXXXXX wash and lotion.

This refreshing duo provides the perfect pick-me-up for tired hands and feet. Integrate them into your daily beauty regime to soothe seasonal stress. Festive XXX puts the “happy” back in front of holidays.


I understand that they’re pitching in time to make it into magazine holiday round-ups, but no, I’m not feeling overwhelmed yet and I don’t want to get into the spirit. I want to make it through the last of summer.

I am of the opinion that press releases should never ask questions because when they do, my answer is almost always, "No."

How about:

2008 is a year all about POWER, the struggle for it (politically), the display of it (athletically), and the conservation of it (economically and environmentally). This fall, XXX launches its olfactive answer to the question of what is power and how is it being redefined by modernity.

In an unprecedented partnership with prolific Japanese designer and art director of XXX proposes a powerful new identity for masculinity, one centered on simplicity, honesty, and an imaginary flower.

I don’t know which I like better, the “olfactive answer to the question of what is power” or “simplicity, honesty, and an imaginary flower.” Actually, this release is so ludicrous, it’s compelling.

I have to leave the product name in here because it’s part of the joke. The lame joke:

If you have commitment phobias, Sircuit has a product that will make you say Eye Dew!

This also arrived today:

With the winter months beating down upon us, it’s crucial that we prepare, protect and hydrate to keep our skin healthy all year round.

I just realized that they probably meant bearing down not beating down. At least I hope so.

Nothing wrong with this pitch, it just gets a shout-out for the unnecessary quotation marks:

As you are probably are aware, one of the "hottest" topics in the health, family, youth and beauty arenas right now is the safety and performance of sun block products.

And here’s one working much too hard:

Whether you are climbing the side of a mountain, kayaking through a canyon, or snorkeling off the coast, outdoor adventures render picturesque moments that deserve to be displayed and remembered. Present the moments you capture along the journey in a XXX.

XXX has just recently announced the XXX, a premium, hard-bound digital photo book. By simply uploading digital photos, XXX technology allows users to organize photos and preserve memories—like the time the canoe flipped— in the form of professional-looking photo book.

If the canoe flipped, would you really have photos? Or would you have a ruined digital camera? OK, presumably someone else’s canoe flipped … I’ll allow it. But it seems such a non sequitur…

***

Thanks to FrontBurner for finding this video, of a drunk and giddy Kelly Clarkson at a Red Sox game:



I've always like Kelly Clarkson and now I like her even more.

And thanks to Very Short List for this oddly moving and simply odd little film that puts a balloon into famous movie scenes. I don’t know why I was compelled to watch all six-plus minutes but I couldn’t stop.

Labels: art, flotsam, marriage, pop culture, press releases, shopping, television

Did anyone catch Saturday Night Live this week—the rebroadcast of the first episode, starring George Carlin?

He was great, of course. He didn’t participate in skits but instead his stand-up was interspersed among the skits and musical performances by Billy Preston and his band of nattily dressed ‘70s hipsters, and poor, unhappy Janis Ian. Such a sad sack.

The ‘70s ... so long ago.

Carlin’s schtick about the irony of going through airport security and then being handed eating utensils was prescient. His joke about threatening a stewardess by cutting her throat with a piece of paper was disturbing.

And did you catch the TV commercial satire about a razor with three blades? Three blades! Can you imagine? Outlandish!

I think we’re up to five blades now. How high can we go?

My, how things have changed.

I’ve also been watching Maude on DVD again. Most disturbing: Maude is supposed to be 47 years old in the show. The disk I have includes an episode of Walter celebrating his 50th birthday.

I'm still waiting to feel older than Archie Andrews and now I learn I'm older than Maude.

Aside from that, this disk includes the episodes in which Maude gets pregnant. (Oy, she’s so upset, she needs a double something. Looks like Scotch.) She decides, after two episodes of discussion, to get an abortion. It was weird, just weird, to hear a discussion that frank and unburdened by politics or hysteria. Her daughter Carol (Adrienne Barbeau) was all over ditching that fetus. It’s hard to imagine any television show today touching this topic.

My how things have changed.

In another episode, Maude and her “housewife” friends decide to protest a young supermarket checker getting busted for pot by buying pot and all getting arrested.

The whole episode is like entering a parallel universe.

For example: Carol comes downstairs in the morning feeling groggy. Maude and Walter had kept her up fighting about the planned protest and so Adrienne finally had to give in and take a Valium, she explains. Oh, Maude can help--here's a Ritalin to wake her up. (“That’s what mommies are for.”)

Then, their doctor buddy Arthur stops by (with a hangover) and Walter hits him up for refills on their drugs--Secenol, Miltown, Librium.

Holy crap, Maude. You’re all hopped up on dolls! Who knew?

Yes, that’s the point—the hypocrisy of marijuana laws when people are taking all kinds of other drugs, but still… Can you imagine Ray Romano downing a Miltown after a bad day?

Maude was responsible for getting weed to get herself and her friends busted but Walter confiscates her $20 bag and she ends up going to the police station with a bag of oregano. The sergeant at the desk figures that out and won’t arrest anyone for that. He also complains of exhaustion and so Maude rummages in her purse and helpfully hands him a Dexamil.

I was sure the punch line would be that she would get arrested for distributing another kind of controlled substance. Nope. Blablabla, Maude and the women end up going home, free, and after she’s gone, the cop shrugs and pops the Dexamil.

Cue the music.

MY how things have changed!

Finally, last night Tom and I wallowed in VH1 Classic’s History of Rock episodes about 1970s rock and then punk. No particular insights about that here, except to note how deep the roots of the rock of our formative years run. It just sounds, looks and feels so right to me, so personal, in a way no music from before or after does. I still belong to the Blank Generation. That doesn’t seem to change.

Labels: 1970s, music, pop culture, television

Although I like both sex and the city, I don’t really get the whole cult status of Sex and the City. I used to watch it in reruns sometimes, BC (Before Cable) but found it more irritating than entertaining.

I was particularly annoyed to read a quote from a 45-year-old woman in today’s paper saying, “They were the first really powerful women” on television.

Wow. Can we define power here? Yeah, have good jobs, although except attorney Miranda, they all were in pink-collar jobs. (And, by the way, could Carrie really afford all those clothes on a columnist’s salary? She must work at the same place the friends of Friends worked to pay for all those nice apartments.)

But what they did most was talk about men, think about men, fret about men, sleep with men, pine for men, break up with men … I know sex is in the title, but where is the power in all that? Considering that the theme of the show seems to be we don’t need no stinkin’ men, we have each other! they sure seem boy crazy. Bo-ring.

And let’s talk about powerful women on TV. While she’s at the front of my mind--what with the death of Harvey Korman-—how about Carol Burnett? She was powerful as a professional and she was completely in control of her comedy. Maude was a powerful female character. The golden girls of The Golden Girls had a lot more on their minds than men, even though they were out there dating and getting laid plenty. I know that because the show has become one of my late night guilty pleasures. Believe it or not (I know you don’t) it’s funny.

Mary Richards was virginal, but she was out there makin’ it on her own. Actually, the girls of SATC are more like Rhoda, who was supposed to be the boy-crazy loser on the MTM show. Hot Lips Hoolihan wasn’t above a little extramarital hoohoo, but she was nothing if not strong like ox and she had lots more on her mind than shoes and penis.

Yeah, SATS brought a baby into the mix, and breast cancer. But in the shows I saw, all the other characters were self-congratulating when they tore themselves away from their sexual needs to pay attention to the enormous life challenges their dear, dear friends faced. Such sacrifice!

First strong women on television? I don’t see the characters of SATS as strong at all. I see them as needy, demanding and annoying. They might have been the first to talk openly about sex, but they also had the benefit of cable. The Golden Girls was pretty good at innuendo, working within network broadcasting codes.

Are the women who admire this gang of whiners as strong women to emulate the same ones who think a Hillary nutcracker is funny?

OK, I’ll give the show one thing: The catch phrase “He’s just not that into you” is incredibly useful and applies in various contexts. But even Dr. Phil has contributed to our society with “How’s that workin’ for you?” which is equally useful although he is equally annoying.

I won’t be getting a gang of gal pals together to partake in this particular pop culture nonevent. I’m just not that into them.

Labels: feminism, movies, pop culture, sex, sex and the city, sexism, television

I’ve spared the highbrow among you long enough. It’s time for a little American Idol chatter. Not a lot, just a little.

First of all, were we all SHOCKED and APPALLED when handsome Michael Johns was booted last week? Not that I voted, but I can’t imagine why he was sent home when Carly stayed on—I liked her tons in the beginning but she’s choking. Not to mention the bland little blonde, Kristy (who reminds me of Carrie Underwood, who I also think is a yawn) and the singing Smurf, Archuleta. Yeah, yeah, he’s got a great voice but he needs a few years of seasoning before he’s interesting. Or even Brooke, who was my first favorite but who appears to lack the stamina for stardom. At the moment I’m backing David Cook, who I call “the little Tom guy” because he reminds me of my favorite rock and roller. I like dredlockboy OK, too.

The guys outdid the girls last night but that doesn’t surprise me—they had to be creative with Mariah Carey songs while the girls would naturally suffer in comparison.

Which brings me to Mariah Carey. First of all, are those things real? They are a force of nature. I think Archuleta lost his virginity when he hugged her.

Second, Mariah has reached towering heights of fame without entering my consciousness at all. I knew she was out there but couldn’t tell you a single hit before last night, even though she’s out-hit Elvis (but it’s kind of apples and oranges when you consider the changed media landscape).

I did recognize Always Be My Baby which I actually don’t mind. And I know Without You, but the Nilsson version ‘cause I’m old.

Mostly, though, I struggle to find the song in Mariah Carey songs. I feel that way about a lot of modern R&B—it just seems to noodle and meander with a lot of layers and beats and heavenly choirs but with nothing for my brain to latch on to. Which might be a good thing, since it saves me from earworms.

Now, did you know Bulgaria has an Idol competition? Here (thanks to Vagabondish) is a notable audition:

Labels: american idol, mariah carey, music, television