I have a not-very-important thing to say about Homeland's first season, which aired about five years ago and is no longer of much interest to anyone.
What I am going to say does not, oddly enough, relate to the fact that Claire Danes seems to be the worst spy ever ("I just know he's bad! Did you see him play imaginary piano with his fingers?" "But do you have any evidence?" "Screw you, Mandy Patinkin!" Then repeat this exchange every five minutes while Claire Danes fails to discover any actual evidence and grows increasingly agitated).
It relates instead to my almost-forgotten, violent, uncontrollable hatred of instrumental jazz. And of all those people who believe that making a character listen to jazz in a tv show or movie will clearly and incontrovertibly communicate to the audience that this character is interesting and crawling with all kinds of unfathomable depths.
The credit sequence is bad enough: it's like something produced by a grade 12 student who elected to do a video essay instead of a real essay for her final project on the fragmented psyche of 21st-century America and how it relates to some dreams she had once. (I fast-forward it now, so all I remember is that at some point, a young girl in a sun dress is stuck in a garden maze and maybe there's a mushroom cloud--or something like that.)
But the worst is when Claire Danes is (a) riding in her car listening to jazz and pensively grooving it up, or (b) preparing to try to romance a secret Muslim she should really still be suspicious of by pouring some wine and putting on some smooth Miles Davis. I feel like every time she listens to jazz, I myself am listening to someone yelling "SHE IS COMPLICATED, DAMAGED, AND SUPER COOL." And instead of believing that, or thinking of smoke-filled rooms and musical innovation, I immediately imagine an affluent, middle-aged white man with a cottage.
This man is not the handsomest to have appeared on Murder, She Wrote (that was George Clooney), or the coolest (that was Bryan Cranston), or the Christian Bale-iest (that was actually Jim Caviezel) - and yet, he is the awesomest.
First, there was the role of Rick Rivers in 1989's "Fire Burn, Cauldron Bubble." An unscrupulous writer (played by Brad Dourif - Wormtongue. WORMTONGUE!) descends on Cabot Cove to drum up interest in his book about a long-dead Cabot Cove witch (Cabot Cove had witch trials, just as it had the Battle of Cabot Cove during the American Revolution). He has employed a sneaky, unscrupulous, ferrety young media consultant - Rick Rivers - to stage mysterious events in order to make people care more about witches and snooty authors in hats. Someone dies; people are extremely perplexed; Jessica notices something and later remembers noticing it; she identifies the murderer; the murderer inexplicably confesses.
Then, there was the role of Frank Albertson in 1990's "Good-bye Charlie," an episode I've already discussed, because Bryan Cranston was also in it. Frank Albertson is a sneaky, unscruplous, ferrety young man who decides to identify a random corpse as his uncle in order to claim an inheritance. Someone dies; people are extremely perplexed; Jessica notices something and later remembers noticing it; she identifies the murderer; the murderer inexplicably confesses.
Both roles, as I have already suggested, required an actor capable of conveying a particular kind of sneakiness, unscrupulousness, and ferrety-ness. Both roles also required an actor capable of cultivating a particularly luxuriant, era-specific hairstyle. As Dean Stockwell was too old and shunned mullets, both roles went to Bill Maher.
We know him now as a controversial, atheistic, free-thinking talk-show host, but then, he was simply an atheistic free-thinker who was forced to makes ends meet by appearing on Murder, She Wrote. Twice.
Here he is in action on Murder, She Wrote, saying only "wallet."
I am not posting anything here this week, in part because I feel Murder She Wrote–related anticipation could use more time to really hit a fever pitch, and in part because I recently said some really nuanced and thoughtful things about literature, and they're now posted on my friend's excellent website. I use the word "douchebag" only once.
I realize this countdown is trying the patience of those who would be more excited about Murder, She Wrote if Jessica Fletcher had started, say, making and selling meth during a strangely dark sixth season. I realize that I now have fewer readers than this ACTUAL WEBSITE dedicated to itemizing and appreciating Jessica Fletcher's wardrobe choices (my thanks to Stripes for venturing into the dark heart of the online Fletcher fan community and returning with that link—and, presumably, a more sophisticated aesthetic sense). But if there's one thing, one thing, I start and then successfully finish in my life, it will be this list of magnificent Murder, She Wrote guest stars.And we're almost there, because we're at number 2, and this list will absolutely end at number 1. And #1 is even better than #2--which is amazing, considering #2 is Andy Garcia.It was the very first episode of Murder, She Wrote, and Jessica, suddenly thrust into the spotlight and a murder investigation after publishing a bestselling book, takes to wandering the streets in search of malefactors. And because this is 1984 in New York City, she ends up being menaced by thugs. And because every actor celebrated in 1990 had to have been somewhere in 1984, one of those thugs was played by Andy Garcia. [I did not take or write on that photo: I got that photo from YET ANOTHER BLOG ENTIRELY DEDICATED TO MURDER, SHE WROTE.]His name was "1st White Tough"  The man with the less thuggish hat is Ned Beatty. He offers, in a VERY MENACING WAY, to give Jessica a "free blood test," but she is rescued by "Black Youth" before he can do so. You'll note that Garcia is sporting the very same hat he will later wear in The Godfather: Part III.
And "2nd White Tough" also made something of himself, in that he recently appeared in a film called Mansion of Blood with both Gary Busey and Robert Picardo.
I spend a lot of time on imdb.com. That's how I know whom the guy who played Fritz on The Closer was once married to (Teri Hatcher), who Rachel Weisz parents are (mother Edith = Austrian psychoanalyst, father George = Hungarian inventor), and who was unexpectedly vegetarian (Dennis Weaver). I don't even have to be particularly interested in someone to imdb him or her—it's a reflex action now, like blaming my parents for not being Hungarian inventors.
And it's my imdb habit that resulted in my knowing about the obscenely successful secret life of a one-time Murder, She Wrote guest star. I watched an episode from 1989 called "Class Act" a while ago and decided to see whether anyone who appeared in it had ever worked again. A number had gone on to play roles with more descriptive credit lines ("Santa Fe woman"), or to become Rashida Jones's uncle, or to continue to be Robert Pine, but one of them, whom I had unfairly and prematurely consigned to "Santa Fe man"-ness in my mind turned out to have made a not-too-shabby life for himself.
I could find not one photo of him from Murder, She Wrote, despite the fact that this role is one of the least impressive of his career. So I'll have to show you an up-to-date one:
And here is another photo that better illustrates what he's been up to since playing "Bernard 'Bernie' Berndlestein" opposite Angela Lansbury:
So, yes. He directed The Men Who Stare at Goats. He is close friends with George Clooney and produces movies with him (Argo-like movies along the lines of Argo).Imdb also tells me: "On the DVD commentary for Good Night, and Good Luck. (2005), George Clooney says that shortly after he met Grant Heslov in 1982, Heslov loaned Clooney $200.00 to buy his first set of headshots, and they have been friends ever since (and later writing and producing partners)."Which means that Grant Heslov and George Clooney were already friends when they filmed their respective Murder, She Wrote episodes--so they can remind each other that when they said things like "I feel my artistic potential is not being fully realized through the role of Bernie Berndlestein, but I have faith that I will someday make something of myself," or "I dislike my raincoat and Buddy Hackett is all hands, but I have faith that I will someday make something of myself," they were absolutely justified in doing so.
This will doubtless be the least surprising entry on my still-not-keenly-anticipated list, because this poor man (kind of like Cranston) had a whole other television career before the second television career that launched his movie career. I speak, of course, of the Facts of Life-gracing, Roseanne-enhancing George Clooney—or "Kip Howard," as nobody calls him despite the fact that that was his name in the Murder She Wrote episode "No Laughing Murder" (1987).
 So. Handsome. But when else in his varied, storied career has he appeared in a totally original reimagining of Romeo and Juliet? (Totally original in that no one else before or since has thought of replacing Montague with Buddy Hackett.)
He and his girlfriend (played by a woman likely so overwhelmed by George's audacious pairing of plaid shirt and taupe raincoat that she soon after retired from acting) are completely in love, but their fathers (one is Buddy Hackett, the other Steve Lawrence) are comedians who were once partners but are now estranged...and someone is killed...and Jessica gazes piercingly at things...and the murderer confesses after being confronted by the kind of evidence that would absolutely hold up in court...and the warring comedians are reconciled...and George tells everyone that in the years to come he will become only more handsome and successful...and Angela Lansbury hisses "you handsome, smirking son of a bitch—I was in Gypsy!"
And then in real life George left to shoot an episode of The Golden Girls.
I was not planning to include this person in my list of the awesomest people ever to appear on Murder She Wrote, but I just watched his episode again, and to overlook it would be to do a great disservice to all hour-long mystery shows that dealt with the possibilities of virtual reality in the '90s.
So in "A Virtual Murder" (1993), Jessica, who is obviously just the kind of author every teen boy wants writing video games, goes to Silicon Valley at the behest of a Cabot Cove wunderkind programmer to write what is obviously just the kind of video game a company would develop in order to exploit the possibilities of a ground-breaking technology: "A Killing at Hastings Rock."
When you try to think of the kind of actor with the credibility and hair to play the role of project manager for this game, I'll bet only one name springs to mind: Sorbo.
You can tell he's not Hercules here because he's wearing glasses and standing next to Angela Lansbury.
Sorbo's undeniable all-round awesomeness has deadly consequences, though, when a lady programmer (I'm pretty sure she was a programmer) kills an unpleasant computer genius for love of him.
This is what a message made by an unpleasant computer genius and then hidden inside a video game looks like, by the way:
And this is what Jessica Fletcher looks like using the technology of the future:
One more.
Really, I suppose it's the episode as a whole I have great affection for and not Kevin Sorbo in particular (although both his voice and massive chest are incredibly soothing).
It's impossible not to have great affection for any show that features a character saying (after Jessica has sensibly and plausibly suggested removing a character from the game in order to avoid a "cascade" of mysterious computer-y glitches poised to delay the launch), "Elegant...a literary solution to a binary problem."
I tried hard to think of a snappy title. And that's why I got. Damn it—that's what I got.
I've been thinking about my friend Tim a great deal this week because he's had about the worst week a person can have. He is also literally the only person in the world with whom I have ever had a serious discussion about how the same actors regularly appeared on both Star Trek: TNG and Murder, She Wrote. So today seemed like a fine day to kick off my long-planned and not-at-all-awaited list of my top five favourite least-appropriate Murder, She Wrote guest stars of all time...
5. Bryan Cranston
Bryan Cranston damn well deserves all the success he now has, seeing as how he spent the 80s and 90s in the goddamn network tv trenches. CHIPs. Airwolf. Matlock. Walker, Texas Ranger. And, inevitably, Murder, She Wrote. THREE TOTALLY DIFFERENT TIMES.
First there was...
"Menace, Anyone?" (1986)
Bryan Cranston is engaged to a professional tennis player (played by Linda Hamilton) and is tragically killed when her car explodes. Is Linda Hamilton insane? Why does she think her dead sister is still alive? And why is a mystery writer the guest of honour at a tennis tournament?
and then...
"Good-bye Charlie" (1990)
Bryan Cranston is involved in an attempt to falsely identify a dead body. We will return to this one in a later post, because in it he is tragically upstaged by the ludicrousness of one of his co-stars.
and finally...
"Something Foul in Flappieville" (1996)
I confronted and was defeated by the prospect of summarizing the plot of this particular episode. I decided it was simply un-summarizable, but then found this glorious attempt on imdb:
All is not well on the set of a children's puppet show. Jessica is there because the shows latest puppet character, Inspector LeChat, is based on a character from one of her novels. Jessica is delighted at the idea and the general consensus is that the new puppet will likely get its own show. The show's creator, Darren Crosley, finds himself being pulled in a number of opposing direction however. Parker Cranston feels the show is losing its edge and its audience and let's it be known that it may be canceled altogether. What he really wants is to line his pockets. One of the producers thinks his wife may be having an affair while those in the creative department are fighting over credit for creating the new puppet. When a security guard is killed and someone breaks into the locked case where the new puppet design is being kept, it's up to Jessica to find the murderer.
I'm probably fondest of this Cranston episode, because it so perfectly captured the spirit of the first Clinton administration.
Also, "Parker Cranston" is actually Bryan Cranston playing someone called Parker Foreman.
"Menace, Anyone?"
I have been swallowed by school and sunlessness, so this post will be especially furry and fatuous.
When I have been swallowed by unpleasant things, I sometimes find myself committing very small acts of defiance in order to prove that I will ultimately be indigestible (I will pursue this analogy no further).
I have been surrounded by books balanced on other books balanced on empty bags of chips. Recently, I decided to salvage old pairs of earrings by redecorating them in odd and unpromising ways, so my coffee table is covered in jewelry and foam brushes and mod podge. My cat knocked over some books the other night, and I have not yet reshelved them.
So the other day, I decided to damn well take a little pride in my appearance and actually remove the cat hair from my pants before going across the street to the Loblaws. I got my little sticky rolling thing, and after some sticking and rolling, my pants were BEAUTIFUL. I left the room to get something, and when I returned, this is what I found:
And here's another angle (from which he look even more smug):
And the worst of it was, I wasn't even all that irritated. It's like I thought the fact that he'd sat on my newly hairless pants was further proof of his resourcefulness and precocity. I said things like, "You're a terrible boy," in the most sickeningly encouraging and indulgent voice, and then he went to sleep on my pants, and I didn't move them until the next day because I thought he might want to sleep on them some more.
POLITE DISCLAIMER: This site is intended for entertainment purposes only. If you're not entertained, fair enough.
It's very tempting, when you're alone on Valentine's Day, to turn to your cat and say, "You're all the Valentine I need," before reading stories in the paper about elderly people who've loved one another since high school and then weeping quietly about how your old high-school boyfriends would probably think you've grown bitter and plump, and how people actually in high school would think you're implausibly old.
And because Valentine's Day is kind of like Facebook en-holidayed, it's also easy to spend the day firmly believing that every other person IN THE WORLD is happily married, gainfully employed, and totally and completely appreciated.
When I'm inclined to dwell on how my Valentine spent most of the afternoon ignoring me and staring raptly at a pigeon (and how I spent most of the afternoon staring raptly at him staring raptly at the pigeon), I remember a Simon and Garfunkel song my father drew my attention to when I was a child and he was teaching me about how people were unfathomable and appearances were deceiving:
Richard Cory
They say that Richard Cory owns one half of this whole town,
With political connections to spread his wealth around.
Born into society, a banker's only child,
He had everything a man could want: power, grace, and style.
But I work in his factory
And I curse the life I'm living
And I curse my poverty
And I wish that I could be,
Oh, I wish that I could be,
Oh, I wish that I could be
Richard Cory.
The papers print his picture almost everywhere he goes:
Richard Cory at the opera, Richard Cory at a show.
And the rumor of his parties and the orgies on his yacht!
Oh, he surely must be happy with everything he's got.
But I work in his factory
And I curse the life I'm living
And I curse my poverty
And I wish that I could be,
Oh, I wish that I could be,
Oh, I wish that I could be
Richard Cory.
He freely gave to charity, he had the common touch,
And they were grateful for his patronage and thanked him very much,
So my mind was filled with wonder when the evening headlines read:
"Richard Cory went home last night and put a bullet through his head."
But I work in his factory
And I curse the life I'm living
And I curse my poverty
And I wish that I could be,
Oh, I wish that I could be,
Oh, I wish that I could be
Richard Cory.
Obviously I'm about to make the message of this song apply to self-pitying 30-somethings on Valentine's Day instead of poverty-stricken factory workers.
I'm sure many people are happy and in love and not taking each other for granted and weathering misfortune together with cheerfulness and understanding. But many people are also getting dressed up and going out for dinner with people they resent or overlook or compare unfavourably to the younger, thinner, happier-looking people at the next table. And many of those younger, thinner, happier-looking people are wondering where the passion went and when their boyfriend/girlfriend got so fat and depressed.
I highly recommend feeling better about one's own life by learning to fear the worst about everyone else's.
POLITE DISCLAIMER: This site is intended for entertainment purposes only. If you're not entertained, fair enough.
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