This year’s rendition of acclaimed television series Californication has colossally fucked with the show’s credibility. As a standard, C-cation focused largely on loss, self-loathing and the self-inscribed tenets of Bukowski’s life philosophy, elements which are delinquent from the outset of Season 4. For a show about a writer, the writers of Showtime’s Californication are seriously lacking in production.
Why we liked Hank:
Although we had consistent access to Hank’s dreams, thoughts and the encircling satellite influences upon his actions, Hank remained as enigmatic to us as he was to the rest of the Californicated world. One thing we knew, given two paths in a yellow wood, Hank generally trailblazed his own (which usually led him further and further into self-abuse and depression).
In my favorite appraisal of Hank’s character, (I believe this was in an episode of season one, [one of the Crazy Little Thing flashbacks]) Karen accuses Hank of being “The biggest cliché of all.” Her accusation resounds with the appeal of Hank: his hatred of the cliché (best demonstrated with his nonstop mockery of the author of The Artist Within). The rejection of the cliché represents the charisma of Hank Moody, his dedication to his wayward principles and his unflagging allegiance to his friends, his craft and his women (or woman).
Season 4 has commenced with a paradigm shift into the cliché. I suspect the writers, at least at a subconscious level, are somewhat cognizant of this derailment. This suspicion confirms itself in the premiere, when the stoned director of Hank’s in-the-works film brazenly gaffs that he is “a fan of gratuitous nudity.” Thus far, the T’'n’A' appeal is the calling card for S. 4, with little thought to content and dialogue. I can’t help but wonder if the writer’s expected a resounding “Hell Yeah!” from the supposed unseen, beer-swilling audiences that people the core C-cation fan base to the director’s admission. The writers of Californication, finding their creative element depleted, have embraced the Entourage model, debasing audience intelligence and maintaining ratings through fast cars, big tits and gratuitous amounts of casual fuck and suck. The subterficial Californication-ite watches the show with little thought to the prevailing nudity within the show. Nudity is incredibly ubiquitous within our American bacteria culture. With enough perseverance and perversion I could probably locate nude photos and potentially videos of every well-endowed woman within my one mile radius. The more intelligent viewers (which I believe to be a large sample of the show's demographic) do not tune in Sunday nights to see someone famous fuck woman or envision what it would be like to fuck fame, we’re watching Hank’s interaction with his world and wincing when his noble intentions are constantly skewered by his id. That conflict is representative of the battle we all face, the superego vs. the id, and makes us sympathize with Hank, and how Sisyphean his efforts have become as a result of the burdens he places on himself: a human set to self-destruct.
In Season 4 Hank’s id dominates his character. Forget the incredible intelligence of Hank or his Grail-esque quest for household harmony with Karen and Becca and welcome unnecessary fucking and Rob Lowe. Forget the avante garde writing and in-your-face jabs at religion, Scientology, the plastic nature of LA and contemporary art/music, say hello season 9 of Entourage.
Sadly, I’ll still place myself in front of my Advertising Box Sunday night because I’m intrigued by Hank’s character and his quagmire. But how many episodes until I become disillusioned? When a television show fails to deliver to its core constituency and decides to petition the semi-invested through the vehicle of 19-year-old DD and tried and failed crudisms, when do we become burned out on Hank Moody? As aforementioned, the true irony and entertainment thus far in S. 4 revolves around Hank’s new-found writing talent, and the diminishing writing talent on the show. Are they intentionally negatively correlated?
7,000,000 stray cats were drowned in the typing of this post.
-Mozart
No comments:
Post a Comment