Multitasking
On the way home from a laundry-detergent run this evening, I passed by a bus with an United States of Tara ad plastered onto the side of it, just as I had finished listening to Louis XIV’s “Pledge of Allegiance.” This was undoubtedly a sign telling me to stop living and start updating my blog once in a while. It is also a sign that I apparently don’t own enough underwear and listen to the music of very bad men.
Technically, United States of Tara premiered on Showtime tonight, but I took a look last night, courtesy of Netflix, and was pleasantly surprised. When first I learned of the premise of the show — a woman and her family learn to function with her dissociative identity disorder — and that Juno-scribe Diablo Cody would be writing and Steven Spielberg producing, I thought gimmick. It’s not that I dislike those fine people — I don’t – it’s just that the combo struck me as too … something. Plus, I get very uncomfortable thinking about mean-spirited critics shoehorning Cody into some sort of cranny when she’s only just begun.
So, I watched, even though half of my brain was counseling, “If you don’t watch, you won’t have to feel all protective.” The other half reminded me how much I love to see what people are able to do with their bodies (ahem) — like, how magical it is to realize that Catherine O’Hara was just holding her face to look post-op at the end of For Your Consideration. I’m constantly undone by how many people, male and female, Amy Poehler was able to be on Saturday Night Live and with the Upright Citizens Brigade.
In Tara, Australian actress Toni Collette plays four very different roles — a “normal” mom, a housewife, a reckless teenager, and a somewhat backwoodsy dude — in 29 minutes. (OK, so actually it’s three “alters” in the first episode; we’ll see from here on out.) Collette, to me, is a bit like the female Ed Harris in that she’s been in everything, and yet, because she is such a generous and non-showy actor, she’s seldom remembered. Playing all over her range in Tara, I really believe she’s got a shot at the household-name status that she’s probably more or less uninterested in. That’s if she can continue to chew all she’s bitten off, and if the pathos generated continues to meet the level of acting gymnastics performed.
I wouldn’t buy a TV and subscribe to Showtime based on the pilot, but if you happen to have those things, and you like to be told stories, take a peek.
A friend in ‘Weeds’
Critical Darling arrives at her LA suburb just as Nancy Botwin leaves
hers. No milfweed for me. Such is life.
After 19 hours straight of driving cross-country — perhaps broken up
by one nine hour stint at a Super 8, three hours of which were spent
watching Project Runway marathon-style (whoever thought Tim Gunn could
be so comforting?) — Critical Darling has arrived in Pasadena. And has
she unpacked? No. Did she proceed to blow through every single episode
of this season of Weeds that her new British roomie had blessedly
Tivo-ed? Hell yes. Hell, hell yes.
I liked seasons one and two very much (I mean, this is the show where
a secondary male character was willingly pegged by Meital Dohan in
order to consummate his lust [love?] for her) but as things became
evermore absurd in season three, I realized I was enamored.
I wondered how season four was going to work out, because (ugh, you
know, if you haven’t seen three yet, you really don’t deserve this
spoiler alert), as of the fire taking out the Botwin family home,
Nancy no longer had a standard of life to try and perpetuate by
growing and selling weed.
Turns out the classy U-Turn symbol she had tattooed on her ass last
season is a lot more literal than it seemed. (As you remember, she got
the ink after the drug tycoon U-Turn was murdered.) Major changes
include location — Botwins & Co. now dwell so close to the border
Jenji Kohan can address immigration issues — and the absence of
beloved LA-based characters Helia and Conrad (sob!).
The profounder change, though, is that Nancy’s gone from being a
frickin’ hero — an enterprising mom who’d do anything for her kids’
welfare, a beacon for single parents and women trying to recreate
themselves after the loss (by death or divorce) of a spouse — to a
tragic character. Down the slippery slope she’s had to cross — and was
sometimes pushed over — so many lines, there’s no going back. At this
point, she’s answered the hypothetical question (that no one ever
actually posed (I don’t think …), but it’s been on our minds all
along): What if you could put the past behind you and work a blah
9-to-5 that paid you plenty and kept your children out of the
crosshairs of punks and evildoers?
N. O.
It’s Nancy “Danger” Botwin to you, and if you think she’s going to
give up the accoutrements of the drug business — the adrenaline, the
hordes of chiseled and willing men — any time soon, you’ve got another
thing coming. Our Nancy’s a gangsta.
