The Leftovers Is the Worst Show I've (Maybe) Ever Seen
Sunday night I may have watched the worst television program I've ever seen; if I had to kiss an old rat to get that hour back of my life I would pucker the fuck up, but because I can't, I'm going to have to settle for a digital rant.
While I'm no T.V. head (I don't own one and use my parents' HBOGO subscription to glean the crack when I need it), I'm no stranger to the joys of the flickering box. There was even a time when I looked forward to watching Rock of Love every Sunday night, so I've sullied my mind and free-time with the best of them.
Last night I was over at my pal Melissa's and she was all excited about the pilot for the Leftovers. The show boasts a powerful media pedigree, beginning with its adaptation from a novel written by Tom Perrotta coupled with showrunner Damon Lindelof, who worked on Lost. Oh, and the first two episodes were directed by Peter Berg of Friday Night Lights, who's no stranger to small-town misery.
I had already told her I felt at best lukewarm; the posters were all over the NYC subway, (like the one with hunky and miserable Sheriff Garvey (Justin Thoreux) plowing his fist into plaster.
It just felt so overwrought. (Not to mention I kind of hate the title altogether; it conjures up day-old greasy food you'll never eat again.) But I was sunburned and sleepy, and there was popcorn, a sofa and a cutest pitbull on my lap you've ever seen. I was in a convincible sort of mood. I suspended my judgment.
Let's start with the opening scene--which should have been the most terrifying thing on the goddamn planet (2 percent of the world's population simply vanishes!)--and instead, felt like the wet hiss of a miserable whistling kettle. Urgent, yes, but mostly because if you think you hear that woman scream for her vaporized baby one more time--sam! Sam! SAAAAAM!--you're going to break a window.
We soon meet the too-good-looking local sheriff, played by the painfully brooding Justin Theroux. His golden-hearted son seems to be a errand boy for a mysterious black mystique (the only person with some acting chops on the whole damn show). His daughter, Jill (played by the pretty if petulant Margaret Qualley) is a neo-Angela Chase (from My So-Called Life), all red pouting lips, plaid shirts and high school angst, without any of the charm or actual awkwardness that accompanies adolescence.
She and her father seem to be suffering over the loss of their wife/mother, and the tautness of their sorrow is explored--where else?--at the dinner table. Oh, and yes, Jill even has an "edgier" best friend--complete with a fringed halter top and ombred hair, a parred down, not-so-wise or compelling knock-off of Angela's free-spirited pal Rayanne Graff.
Moving on.
The two girls head to one of those, "everybody's invited!" high school parties where the viewers are supposed to be disturbed at the drug use and promiscuity--which includes a depraved game of "spin the iPhone" complete with commands like "fuck" and "choke." I'm not kidding. Our oh-so-detached Jill heads into a bedroom to choke a friend of hers while he masturbates beside her. And like a bad PSA, one single tear slides down her face as he ejaculates. Melissa and I turned to each other. "Wow. Did you ever attend a party like that in high school?" And we burst out laughing.
Then there's the whole cult thing happening in town, the "Guilty Remnants" or GRs. It's still more-than-nebulous, but it seems that in the wake of everyone disappearing, a particularly disturbed group of individuals decided to band together, dress in all white, take a vow of silence and chain-smoke. No, really. Like in every scene the entire silent cult is chain-smoking. And of course, we discover that Jill's mother didn't disappear . . . she joined the cult! The obligatory "reveal" scene is the sheriff quaffing too many beers before screaming her name outside the lawn of the cult's house. "Come home!" he begs. "No . . ." She stares. It's "riveting" stuff.
Then there's 'ol sexy puffer-lips Liv Tyler (the shell-shocked Meg Abbott), who's patented breathy lisp just isn't as sexy at 36. She sounds stunted or maybe a little drunk. Empire Records was her high point as far as I'm concerned.
And in the backdrop of all of this, there is a pending parade--Heroes Day--in which the town will honor those who have disappeared. The sheriff is convinced all hell is going to break loose and tries to convince the mayor--played by Amanda Warren--in an overly banter-y exchange to "call it off." (Oh. And this mayor seems to be one of two black women in the entire town. I'm sorry but one African-American woman in a pink power-suit does not diversity make.) And guys, you won't believe it but Heroes Day doesn't go well--in fact it devolves into a riot between the cult and the townsfolk. Can you believe it?! I mean, the foreshadowing was just so subtle.
Did we mention then there are also violent, jarring flashbacks including one with Sheriff Garvey in a bar? A woman asks, "So where were you when it happened?" (Which I suppose is some like clever nod to JFK's assassination or 9/11?) The camera flashes into Garvey's bedroom where he's sweatily pile-driving someone (hopefully his wife?). The camera flashes back and he mutters, "Oh, I was cleaning out a gutter." If that's not some latent women-hatin' shit, I don't know what is.
Between the abysmal (over)acting, the alternatively piano-laden/distorted guitar soundtrack, and the I'd-never-believe-this dialogue . . . there's no brilliant sci-fi plot on earth that could resurrect this painfully god-awful project.
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/katie-tandy/the-leftovers-is-the-wors_b_5547542.html