Alan Ball, "Six Feet Under- Season 1"

There are certain consumer choices and behaviors that seem to mark individuals as members of the American mainstream. An almost unwholesome obsession with sports (mostly in a strictly voyeuristic sense) is one of them. Another is an addiction to cable television. Every once in awhile someone who I don't know very well will assume that I share these proclivities, and launch into a subject using names and terms that are unfamiliar to me. When this happens I have a few options. I can quickly change the subject to something I do know about. I can remain relatively silent and nod my head as if I understand completely. Or I can explain that I don't participate in these "activities" in any meaningful way.

Usually, if I respect the person I'm talking with, I'll opt for that last choice. I'm always prepared for a quick end to such a conversation. And it's often a relief to me when that expectation is realized. I find most of the programs (and sporting events) that the average media consumer prefers boring. I can't exactly trace the development of my attitude. When I was a kid, I watched all the popular shows. But at some undefined point in my early 20's, most of the stuff on television ceased to compel me to continue watching. It just didn't seem relevant to the things I was experiencing in my life. A lot of material that I would have once laughed at or been excited by seemed contrived. I suppose I lost some friends when this happened.

After awhile I discovered ways to find things that did resonate with my life. The internet came around at the ideal time, and access expanded to a point that I could identify films, books, and music that challenged and intrigued me. For years I built collections of items that I felt would be essential. Over time I had to cast my sights further afield to ferret out the gems. Through a strange and circuitous inverted path, I have recently found myself buying DVDs of television programs that I missed along the way. The latest series I've been exploring is the HBO production Six Feet Under. It was a quirky show broadcast between 2001 and 2005. Alan Ball, the writer of American Beauty, created the concept.

Six Feet Under garnered a lot of critical acclaim and many awards. Some have made the claim that it was one of the best dramas ever made for television. While I tend to avoid that type of superlative- after watching the first season I can recommend it as a quality show. It concerns a family that owns and operates a funeral parlor. Ruth Fisher (Frances Conroy) is a middle-aged widow with three (mostly) adult children who all have a tendency to keep their inner lives repressed. The oldest (Nate, played by Peter Krause) has been brought back to his childhood home by the death of his father, after casting about in a Northwestern slacker existence for a decade-and-a-half. His reluctant reintegration is facilitated by a developing relationship with Brenda (played by Rachel Griffiths), a brilliant but troubled young woman raised under the close scrutiny of two eminent psychologists.

Middle child David (Michael C. Hall) is the presumptive head of the family business. He's inherited his tendency to be a control freak from his mother, and is struggling to come to terms with his repressed homosexuality. And then there is Claire (Lauren Ambrose), the baby of the family, who has her own adolescent difficulties dealing with being the high school "freak". All of the principles are competent (if not outstanding) actors, and their performances benefit from the quirky plot threads and dialog written into the show. Obviously death plays a large role as an organizing theme. There is ample dark humor included to temper the constant background of tragedy that permeates the narrative arc.

Perhaps the most admirable aspect of Six Feet Under is its unflinching willingness to confront controversial subject matter in an apparently honest way. There are certainly elements of magical realism threading through the episodes, but they never distract from the impression that the viewer is watching an essentially truthful depiction of an unusual American tableau. Ultimately that's what attracts me to the show- I find it insightful enough to keep watching, even when it hits the occasional awkward note. I don't know whether or not I'll make it through the full run, but what I've seen so far has justified its existence.

Jeff Stimmel , "The Art of Failure: Chuck Connelly Not for Sale" (2008).

About a week ago a friend told me about an HBO documentary called The Art of Failure. The subject of the film is a Pittsburgh native named Chuck Connelly, who found success in the New York arts scene in the 80's alongside such names as Basquiat and Schnabel. Truthfully I despaired of having the opportunity to see it, since I don't have cable. Fortunately on my recent trip to Eastern PA my host had plenty of channels. Although I kept myself busy with other stuff, I did get an hour here and there to surf the tube. One night after returning from a long walk I plopped down on the sofa and started scanning the program guide. I was pleased by serendipity when I discovered that I would get a chance to watch The Art of Failure from the beginning.

Right from the start it was clear that Chuck Connelly was a bit unstable. He paced through the screen nervously, ranting and raving against his perceived enemies and the injustices of his life. He was shown haranguing a woman who I soon figured out was his ex-wife, and it was clear that being around Connelly must be a trial. He is the true manifestation of the artist as L'enfant terrible. He drinks incessantly, and becomes increasingly agitated until the point of violence. This isn't surprising as he is said to view himself as a Jackson Pollock-type, outside the realms of polite cultured society. Apparently he learned quite early that he would be allowed a certain amount of self-indulgence, given his profuse talent.

But evidently Connelly miscalculated the reception his act would generate. At one point he looked assured to attain the lofty ranks of art-stardom. He was represented by Annina Nosei, and courted by collectors and celebrities. He sold millions of dollars in paintings. Martin Scorcese even used him as his subject in his segment of New York Stories. According to the tale that director Jeff Stimmel spins, this tribute actually led to his downfall. After New York Stories (starring Nick Nolte as the infamously truculent artist) was released, Connelly was asked for his reaction to the film by The New York Post. He called the portrayal mundane and cliché, and made a rather unflattering comparison to Scorcese's masterpiece, Raging Bull.

While Connelly's remarks about New York Stories were obviously impolitic, this viewer found the premise that they singlehandedly sabotaged his career a bit implausible. Connelly had clearly built a track record of being recalcitrant. No matter how things were going for him, he seemed to have the belief that he deserved better. But there were other factors that may have kept him from being as prominent as he would have liked. It's clear that from the many examples of his paintings shown in The Art of Failure that his style was far from consistent. His subject matter and aesthetic approaches were all over the map. No doubt his talent was prodigious, but there doesn't seem to be any real cohesion that would tie his work together.

Nonetheless I would certainly love to get my hands on a few of his artworks. His expressionist brushwork lends an undeniable charm to the most challenging of subjects. One specific piece has a portrait of a particularly ugly Santa Claus overlaid with the word "Ho-mo". There are also post-apocalyptic cityscapes and a cavalcade of freaks. No doubt the exposure that The Art of Failure is likely to bring to Connelly will go some length in reviving his career. He has alienated a lot of people, but his most grievous sins are now buried in the past. The current media environment has a very short memory. Reportedly Connelly is achieving a measure of success now. Who says there are no second acts in the Twenty-First Century??

Continuing in "Oz".

M. and I have now worked our way through the fourth season of Oz. That's a total of forty different episodes that we've watched since late Spring. I've also watched Seasons 1 and 2 twice. I realize how obsessive a quest this is, but its a viewing pattern M. and I have repeated now with several different television series. There's just something appealing about watching one show after another. You really get a sense of the continuity of the story. While I was considering taking an extended break before we finish Oz- we still have Seasons 5 and 6 to watch- I'll probably break down and order them soon. I do want to keep the events fresh in my mind.

This last set of sixteen episodes was a pretty wild ride. From what I understand, HBO was hesitant to extend the show past the third year. So when the producers were finallly given the go ahead, they took the liberty to make twice as many segments as usual. Season 4 defies a lot of expectations, and tends to be a lot more sensationalistic than the previous runs. It's as if its creators knew they had to up the ante and create a lot of hype. Certainly they had reached the point where they risked losing viewer interest. We see several major shake-ups to both staff and the inmate hierarchy. In addition we lose a few of the most charismatic characters in the show's history to both death and attrition. For sure there are no lack of surprises.

But at the same time, the seasoned OZ viewer should have developed a fairly deep understanding of the logic of the show by this point in the series. Simply by musical cues alone, I could often accurately predict the eventual fate of many of the minor characters. Perhaps this is why the writers felt the need to stir things up with unlikely scenarios. Season 4 brings us Adibisi's realization of an all-black "utopia" in Emerald City. That plot arc not only strained credibility, but actually crossed the line into the ludicrously unbelievable. Another show introduces a television news magazine crew to the unit. As one might imagine, few of the inmates are on their best behavior. For me though, the absolute worst premise introduced in Season 4 is a subplot involving Dr. Nathan's administration of an experimental drug to inmate volunteers. Mercifully the show's creators let that idea die a quick death.

It's a fact that any worthwhile series is going to present certain consistent emotional and atmospheric tones, and exhibit some consistency of philosophy. In this respect OZ is certainly no exception. This is a darkly brutal and cynical show. In making a commitment to viewing it in its entirety, I knew I was setting myself up. Ultimately I have developed the notion that nothing good is ever going to come for these folks, whether they are on staff or among the convicted. Even in a universe as immoral as OZ we start to see patterns of subtle justice running through the treatments of these characters. Season 4 seems to go out of its way to reinforce the reality that its principals "got nothin' coming". There were a few occasions where I found myself wishing (in futility, as it turned out) for just one good thing to happen to my favorite characters. No doubt there is satisfaction in seeing a long-hated inmate utterly destroyed, but it might be heartening once in awhile to see a good guy get rewarded by a good turn.

Regardless I have to give the show's creators credit for trying to keep viewers guessing. While they didn't always succeed with their more adventurous experimentation, I was not bored. I was also pleased by the unconventional casting choices of some of the minor characters- David Johansen, Ally Sheedy, Method Man, John Lurie and Luke Perry make appearances in Season 4. While its soul-crushing tenor may be levying a subtle toll on my spirit, I'm determined to see this through to its conclusion.