Andrew Tobias published the following thoughts from me last week (his influence may have contributed to the recent run-up), and I just realized I ought to put it up here, as well, in case any of you own a few shares.
A friend who’s also a SIGA investor tells me that an investment analysis firm hired a distinguished Delaware (retired) judge to look over SIGA’s supreme court appeal and to share his findings for their big-wig investors. The judge agrees that the lower court decision (which “split the baby,” awarding the plaintiff half the future revenue from SIGA’s smallpox drug) was overreaching. He’s confident that SIGA will be on the hook for a much, much, much lower amount (that’s been my expectation, as well). This came to light late on February 6th.
I listened to the oral argument before the Delaware Supreme Court last month, and one judge seemed overtly skeptical of the ruling against SIGA. It turns out that he’s the most powerful and respected judge in the state. This corroborates the likeliness that the Court will drastically lower the penalty.
SIGA has been playing possum throughout this legal dispute, doing everything possible to keep a low profile. That’s why we’re at $3 (even if the ruling stood, and SIGA lost half the billions in profits from their drug, they’d still be worth far more than $3). The Delaware Supreme Court prides itself on turning around decisions within 90-120 days (usually 90) of oral argument, so that puts a likely decision around mid-April.
Meanwhile, biological weapons, including smallpox, are very much in the news, particularly weaponized smallpox (thought to be held by Iran, North Korea, and Syria), which vaccines do NOT address, but which SIGA’s drug very likely does (depending on how novel the weaponization techniques are….i.e. if it’s anything like pox, SIGA’s drug is good).
It made curiously little news, but Israel has flown inside Syria’s borders to attack chemical and biological weapons stores. So smallpox is a big, big deal, and Israel has publicly included SIGA in its war scenario planning for several years. I expect an order there.
Also meanwhile, the FDA approved a drug called raxibacumab against anthrax, based solely on animal testing. This has been the hold-up for SIGA with FDA — it’s not possible to test smallpox on humans, so you must resort to monkeys, and that’s not standard for FDA. But it appears FDA has finally accepted the standard, which is very good news. (Either way, though, SIGA doesn’t require FDA approval to keep selling to the government for their emergency stockpile, and the government has explicitly stated its attention to acquire billions of dollars worth of this drug.)
I think it’s quite likely this could turn out well, although it could take time to shake out: the decision may remand back to the lower court to finalize, plus it will take time for SIGA to regain momentum and re-attract skittish investors. But I’m quite confident.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Monday, February 11, 2013
Ash, Dust, Darwin, Rome, St. Louis Ribs
Chowhound went wrong by becoming too big. It wasn't CNET/CBS' fault, it was mine. When an operation grows beyond the capacity for a personal touch to be felt across its entire range, and when kindred spirits are too thin on the ground to set tone and help acculturate newcomers, things quickly revert into less useful things. Founding principles are forgotten to the point where they sound like crazy talk.
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust" describes not just human lives, but also human pursuits. If you build something different and radical, odds are it will, over time, be subsumed back into status quo. The gravitational pull may be mild, but it's very patient, ceaselessly working to reabsorb change and progress (Darwin in schools, anyone?) and to denature whatever is new and different.
Have a look at this discussion on Chowhound's "Great Plains" message board. The participants have no idea who I am - which is fine, as the site's never been about me. But see how alien Chowhound's founding principles strike them.
It's not their fault. They're using the forum as their instincts tell them to, because no other example has been set. And, of course, aggressive, parochial know-it-alls are inevitable in online forums. But if the site's credo had been more evenly dispersed, chowhoundish assertions, though not shared by all, at least wouldn't seem so bafflingly new. And pushy folks, who repel newcomers and reject the unconventional, wouldn't be allowed to dominate. Even without me around, there'd still be cultural critical mass (as there still is on some of Chowhound's message boards).
It's the result of scaling. In the first installment of "Bubbles, Slogs, and Selling Out", the tale of Chowhound's sale to CNET, I linked to a goodbye page which we'd prepared to throw up to announce the site's demise. It reads, in part:
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust" describes not just human lives, but also human pursuits. If you build something different and radical, odds are it will, over time, be subsumed back into status quo. The gravitational pull may be mild, but it's very patient, ceaselessly working to reabsorb change and progress (Darwin in schools, anyone?) and to denature whatever is new and different.
Have a look at this discussion on Chowhound's "Great Plains" message board. The participants have no idea who I am - which is fine, as the site's never been about me. But see how alien Chowhound's founding principles strike them.
It's not their fault. They're using the forum as their instincts tell them to, because no other example has been set. And, of course, aggressive, parochial know-it-alls are inevitable in online forums. But if the site's credo had been more evenly dispersed, chowhoundish assertions, though not shared by all, at least wouldn't seem so bafflingly new. And pushy folks, who repel newcomers and reject the unconventional, wouldn't be allowed to dominate. Even without me around, there'd still be cultural critical mass (as there still is on some of Chowhound's message boards).
It's the result of scaling. In the first installment of "Bubbles, Slogs, and Selling Out", the tale of Chowhound's sale to CNET, I linked to a goodbye page which we'd prepared to throw up to announce the site's demise. It reads, in part:
The solution would be for a plethora of small communities to flourish, with kindred spirits sharing notes via email, Yahoo Groups, etc.. Small groups can ferret out much treasure, and participants will learn to trust one another. And small groups minimize expenses, headaches and nuts, and offer less incentive for opportunists to subvert. Small private groups would be better still. Resist the urge to consolidate. Eschew ambition. Keep things small and managable and in the spirit you value.In the second century, Rome conquered the furthest eastward region ever to be absorbed under its control. After the victory, the emperor stood for a moment, thinking. Realizing it was just too damned far from Rome to effectively administer, he granted them their independence and marched home. History judges the empire's decline to have begun at that moment. To some historians, he's the shmuck who let glory slip away. To me, he freaking nailed it.
Sunday, February 10, 2013
Rogers and Me
Apropos coming after a posting about neighbors...
I didn't like Mr. Rogers as a kid. I was a cynic from birth, developing wide-eyed innocence only later in life. But now I'm totally into him. Not out of some arch hipster impulse; it's just that after forty years of yoga and meditation, after the trippy mystical stages and the dark-night-of-the-soul stages, etc., I guess one eventually reaches stage "Fred", where the depths of Mr. Rogers become apparent. If I knew it'd all wind up so square, I'd never have gotten into that stuff.
The following Mr. Rogers quote went viral shortly after Sandy Hook. After a hurricane, a mass murder, a blizzard, and the closing of Sason Grill all in four months, I'm feeling a bit frayed around the edges, as I'm sure many of you are. This is pure salve, but only because it's so true:
The classic profile from Esquire Magazine
Here's the Emmy speech mentioned in the Esquire piece
"Mr. Rogers and Me" is a great documentary (available for $15 from Amazon). Background info here.
A NY Times review of "I'm Proud Of You, My Friendship With Fred Rogers". Another review.
Mr. Rogers wrote a book! Great reviews on amazon for "The World According Mister Rogers"
One final thing. Fred Rogers composed all the music for his show. And I can tell you, with a jazz musician's knowledge, that a lot of it is really quite hip. Apparently he'd blow off steam after tapings by sitting down and improvising at the keyboard. I wish I could have been there.
The more I learn about Mr. Rogers, the more I believe he had a full dose of the je ne sais quoi I wrote about in this posting (which refers to "the kindness of New Yorkers on 9/12/01", dovetailing nicely with his message about "helpers").
I didn't like Mr. Rogers as a kid. I was a cynic from birth, developing wide-eyed innocence only later in life. But now I'm totally into him. Not out of some arch hipster impulse; it's just that after forty years of yoga and meditation, after the trippy mystical stages and the dark-night-of-the-soul stages, etc., I guess one eventually reaches stage "Fred", where the depths of Mr. Rogers become apparent. If I knew it'd all wind up so square, I'd never have gotten into that stuff.
The following Mr. Rogers quote went viral shortly after Sandy Hook. After a hurricane, a mass murder, a blizzard, and the closing of Sason Grill all in four months, I'm feeling a bit frayed around the edges, as I'm sure many of you are. This is pure salve, but only because it's so true:
When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, "Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.' To this day, especially in times of 'disaster,' I remember my mother's words, and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers - so many caring people in this world."— Mister RogersIf that intrigues you, and makes you want to see more, here are some great Mr. Rogers links:
The classic profile from Esquire Magazine
Here's the Emmy speech mentioned in the Esquire piece
"Mr. Rogers and Me" is a great documentary (available for $15 from Amazon). Background info here.
A NY Times review of "I'm Proud Of You, My Friendship With Fred Rogers". Another review.
Mr. Rogers wrote a book! Great reviews on amazon for "The World According Mister Rogers"
One final thing. Fred Rogers composed all the music for his show. And I can tell you, with a jazz musician's knowledge, that a lot of it is really quite hip. Apparently he'd blow off steam after tapings by sitting down and improvising at the keyboard. I wish I could have been there.
The more I learn about Mr. Rogers, the more I believe he had a full dose of the je ne sais quoi I wrote about in this posting (which refers to "the kindness of New Yorkers on 9/12/01", dovetailing nicely with his message about "helpers").
Open Letter to My Neighbor
I'm starting to realize that a neighbor is paying a bit more attention to me than I'd prefer. I suppose it's a foregone conclusion that this person's googled me and found my blog, so I'd like to take a moment to set a few things straight.
I can't imagine this person bears me any ill-will. Our fleeting in-person encounters have been mostly polite. And I certainly don't mean this person any ill-will, either. I do realize I'm a strange fit in a conservative, family-oriented neighborhood, being a single middle-aged guy who keeps odd hours and plays weird music (never after 9pm, though). It's true that I'm not chatty, but I spent most of my adult life in NYC apartments, where you give neighbors their space. But if there was ever a problem or disaster, I'd surprise you with how responsive and helpful I'd be. I rise to occasions well.
I had some bad years (here's the story), and am still a tad post-traumatic. You may have noticed that I occasionally mutter quietly to myself. What I'm doing is reassuring myself. Loopy though that may seem, I believe it's saner than more "normal" inner monologues. I once explained it like this:
Anyway, I'll make you a deal. I'll quietly wish for your family's lives to turn out well, and maybe you can do the same for me. And we'll just keep living here in geographic parallel, you pretending you never saw this, and me pretending I never registered your disapproving gaze. There are evil people in this world, and neither of us is one of them. So we'll be just fine.
For those reading along: consider this outreach-via-proxy from the shy nonconformist in your realm.
I can't imagine this person bears me any ill-will. Our fleeting in-person encounters have been mostly polite. And I certainly don't mean this person any ill-will, either. I do realize I'm a strange fit in a conservative, family-oriented neighborhood, being a single middle-aged guy who keeps odd hours and plays weird music (never after 9pm, though). It's true that I'm not chatty, but I spent most of my adult life in NYC apartments, where you give neighbors their space. But if there was ever a problem or disaster, I'd surprise you with how responsive and helpful I'd be. I rise to occasions well.
I had some bad years (here's the story), and am still a tad post-traumatic. You may have noticed that I occasionally mutter quietly to myself. What I'm doing is reassuring myself. Loopy though that may seem, I believe it's saner than more "normal" inner monologues. I once explained it like this:
Human beings spend their lives in conflict with imaginary people: mentally rearguing old arguments, worrying about faceless attackers and detractors, reliving bygone humiliations, and generally using our imaginations to make our lives a living hell. That's considered "normal", but using the same faculty in positive ways to help us cope seems, for some reason, childish and loopy.You can read back articles here on the Slog for a good idea of who I am and where I'm coming from. Nothing so mysterious, though I may seem to have beamed here from another planet!
Anyway, I'll make you a deal. I'll quietly wish for your family's lives to turn out well, and maybe you can do the same for me. And we'll just keep living here in geographic parallel, you pretending you never saw this, and me pretending I never registered your disapproving gaze. There are evil people in this world, and neither of us is one of them. So we'll be just fine.
For those reading along: consider this outreach-via-proxy from the shy nonconformist in your realm.
Saturday, February 9, 2013
Ignore the Snark; it was a Freaky Blizzard After All
The meme on the Internet today is: It's winter. There was a storm. Snow fell. What's the big freakin' deal?
Indeed, the New York Tristate area did a lot better than predicted. This was merely a severe winter storm, rather than a catastrophe. New England, which got upward of three feet of snow, feels differently, of course.
The gist behind the snark is that authorities and media over-caution. And that's dangerous snark, because it fuels the cynical complacency that prevented people from heeding warnings prior to Hurricane Sandy.
It's the same willful snarky ignorance that makes climate change deniers sneer about global warming during cold snaps, and makes climate change proponents sanctimonious whenever there's a forest fire or flood. One event proves nothing. An underwhelming superstorm doesn't mean all storms will underwhelm, a cold snap doesn't disprove overall warming, and a given weather quirk can't be blamed on carbon.
But this was a crazy, crazy storm. Winds may not have been savage, and snowfall might not have broken records everywhere, but the following NY Times report, about a driver on the Long Island Expressway, illustrates the freakiness:
The wiper-snapping rate of snowfall, and the Sandy-ish massive size of the storm (neither obvious from day-after observation) were just crazy.
Indeed, the New York Tristate area did a lot better than predicted. This was merely a severe winter storm, rather than a catastrophe. New England, which got upward of three feet of snow, feels differently, of course.
The gist behind the snark is that authorities and media over-caution. And that's dangerous snark, because it fuels the cynical complacency that prevented people from heeding warnings prior to Hurricane Sandy.
It's the same willful snarky ignorance that makes climate change deniers sneer about global warming during cold snaps, and makes climate change proponents sanctimonious whenever there's a forest fire or flood. One event proves nothing. An underwhelming superstorm doesn't mean all storms will underwhelm, a cold snap doesn't disprove overall warming, and a given weather quirk can't be blamed on carbon.
But this was a crazy, crazy storm. Winds may not have been savage, and snowfall might not have broken records everywhere, but the following NY Times report, about a driver on the Long Island Expressway, illustrates the freakiness:
"Barbara Barkiano, 43, a housecleaner, tried to make her way along the highway behind the plows, but the snow snapped both windshield wipers on her Honda Civic hybrid."Snapped her windshield wipers as she was driving? Who ever heard of such a thing??
The wiper-snapping rate of snowfall, and the Sandy-ish massive size of the storm (neither obvious from day-after observation) were just crazy.
Heroes and Shmucks
Better to be a hapless shmuck who occasionally surprises than to be a hero who inevitably disappoints.
Thursday, February 7, 2013
The Stories We Tell Ourselves
Do we get miserable because bad things happen to us, or do we make ourselves miserable with the stories we tell ourselves about what's happening? The older I get, and the more I observe, the more convinced I become that Hell is a place human beings voluntarily condemn themselves to.
The big eye-opener for me came while watching my emotions careen between extremes one Christmas Eve. Nothing was changing in the real world; there was only my inner narrative flipping between interpretations. Ever since, I've noticed this mental maneuver literally everywhere.
A friend visited yesterday. Ray's 70, and is worried about a lump in his abdomen, so he's getting a CAT scan next week. As he sat sipping beer in my living room, I saw the resignation in his eyes as he mournfully said, "Well, at my age, this is what you have to expect." He was willing himself into decrepitude, but I couldn't help noticing the disparity between the sad story he was telling and his overall youthful vigor. He was perched jauntily on my couch, a picture of vitality, enjoying a terrific German lager. He wasn't old. He wasn't suffering. Nothing was actually wrong! Except, that is, in his internal monologue, where he's another person entirely: old, sick, and pitiful.
The CAT scan may, god forbid, bring bad news. But Ray will remain as youthful and as vigorous as he allows himself to feel. In reality, it won't be until things actually go wrong that anything goes wrong. But Ray's not living in the real world. He's living in Story World. And I realize that's considered completely appropriate. We assume that Story World is a valid place to live, even if the story's horrific and leaves us dejected even though we are, to any neutral observer, feeling fine and simply enjoying a nice beer.
"Hey, Ray!" I interrupted. He looked up, startled, from his woeful reverie. "Here you are!" I pointed out, with a bright smile, "Same as always! It's still you!" He looked startled for a moment, as if woken suddenly from a dream. And he laughed. He got it. He saw what he was building.
Another example. I met a bass player who I hadn't seen for 25 years, and asked how things were. He recounted a horrific tale of hardship, betrayal, and loss. When he was done, he stared into the distance, his face a knot of aggrieved suffering. I felt badly for him; I really did! Just as I pray for Ray's lump!
But while he was certain his life had been ruined (because he'd undergone the sorts of things one is taught to deem ruinous), I, noticed that standing next to him in 2013 felt a lot like standing next to him in 1988 (he wasn't exactly brimming with joy back then, either!).
"But, Phil," I urged, "after all that stuff....here you still are! Still the same guy! Here we both are, still us, same as ever!" Phil was startled out of his dream. He realized, viscerally, that the story isn't real. Reality's what's really happening right here, right now. The rest is just a story.
Final example. My friend Paolo recently had his company nearly ruined by a disreputable accountant. The situation was particularly perilous, because the company's debt was pinned on him, personally (it was the only way he could get credit). Back in December, he'd been at risk of losing everything. We had dinner a few nights ago (at an incongruous Ghanian restaurant in the sprawl of Suffolk County), and Paolo was a basket case, barely able to follow conversation. Every few minutes, he'd randomly utter a deep "oy" from deep in his chest, even though he's not Jewish (everyone turns a little Jewish when things go wrong).
Poor guy, right? But wait. He'd patched the accounting, and was navigating his business back into the clear. If he works hard for a few months - while drawing a nice salary - the business will survive. The worst peril's been avoided, and there's not much to decide or to worry about; just proceed to Point B. In the real world, he's doing fine. But in Story World, he's living a nightmare.
So we have Ray, who's not sick yet, and who may never be sick, but who's talking himself into being old and sick against all evidence. He's pre-suffering. And we have Phil and Paolo post-suffering, though their lives are completely normal. The question is: if you shave off the pre-suffering and the post-suffering - if you drop the storytelling - how much suffering was ever necessary?
Very little. The suffering is in the stories we tell ourselves. When bona-fide bad stuff happens, you don't suffer. There's no time. You deal with the problem, as best you can. If someone started shooting a gun in your room right now, your impulse wouldn't be to bemoan your lot in life. You'd be diving under your chair! Problems spur action. The suffering, which is optional, comes later. The mind always lags behind reality, and sometimes gets stuck there.
Pain in life is a given. And results seldom align with expectations. But pain is pain, and expectations were whimsical in the first place. Suffering's different. It's entirely in the storytelling. Consider my favorite book title: "What's Wrong with Right Now...Unless You Think About It?"
Old Zen Joke (visualize accompanying koto music):
Old Jewish Joke (visualize a thick Yiddish accent):
The big eye-opener for me came while watching my emotions careen between extremes one Christmas Eve. Nothing was changing in the real world; there was only my inner narrative flipping between interpretations. Ever since, I've noticed this mental maneuver literally everywhere.
A friend visited yesterday. Ray's 70, and is worried about a lump in his abdomen, so he's getting a CAT scan next week. As he sat sipping beer in my living room, I saw the resignation in his eyes as he mournfully said, "Well, at my age, this is what you have to expect." He was willing himself into decrepitude, but I couldn't help noticing the disparity between the sad story he was telling and his overall youthful vigor. He was perched jauntily on my couch, a picture of vitality, enjoying a terrific German lager. He wasn't old. He wasn't suffering. Nothing was actually wrong! Except, that is, in his internal monologue, where he's another person entirely: old, sick, and pitiful.
The CAT scan may, god forbid, bring bad news. But Ray will remain as youthful and as vigorous as he allows himself to feel. In reality, it won't be until things actually go wrong that anything goes wrong. But Ray's not living in the real world. He's living in Story World. And I realize that's considered completely appropriate. We assume that Story World is a valid place to live, even if the story's horrific and leaves us dejected even though we are, to any neutral observer, feeling fine and simply enjoying a nice beer.
"Hey, Ray!" I interrupted. He looked up, startled, from his woeful reverie. "Here you are!" I pointed out, with a bright smile, "Same as always! It's still you!" He looked startled for a moment, as if woken suddenly from a dream. And he laughed. He got it. He saw what he was building.
Another example. I met a bass player who I hadn't seen for 25 years, and asked how things were. He recounted a horrific tale of hardship, betrayal, and loss. When he was done, he stared into the distance, his face a knot of aggrieved suffering. I felt badly for him; I really did! Just as I pray for Ray's lump!
But while he was certain his life had been ruined (because he'd undergone the sorts of things one is taught to deem ruinous), I, noticed that standing next to him in 2013 felt a lot like standing next to him in 1988 (he wasn't exactly brimming with joy back then, either!).
"But, Phil," I urged, "after all that stuff....here you still are! Still the same guy! Here we both are, still us, same as ever!" Phil was startled out of his dream. He realized, viscerally, that the story isn't real. Reality's what's really happening right here, right now. The rest is just a story.
Final example. My friend Paolo recently had his company nearly ruined by a disreputable accountant. The situation was particularly perilous, because the company's debt was pinned on him, personally (it was the only way he could get credit). Back in December, he'd been at risk of losing everything. We had dinner a few nights ago (at an incongruous Ghanian restaurant in the sprawl of Suffolk County), and Paolo was a basket case, barely able to follow conversation. Every few minutes, he'd randomly utter a deep "oy" from deep in his chest, even though he's not Jewish (everyone turns a little Jewish when things go wrong).
Poor guy, right? But wait. He'd patched the accounting, and was navigating his business back into the clear. If he works hard for a few months - while drawing a nice salary - the business will survive. The worst peril's been avoided, and there's not much to decide or to worry about; just proceed to Point B. In the real world, he's doing fine. But in Story World, he's living a nightmare.
So we have Ray, who's not sick yet, and who may never be sick, but who's talking himself into being old and sick against all evidence. He's pre-suffering. And we have Phil and Paolo post-suffering, though their lives are completely normal. The question is: if you shave off the pre-suffering and the post-suffering - if you drop the storytelling - how much suffering was ever necessary?
Very little. The suffering is in the stories we tell ourselves. When bona-fide bad stuff happens, you don't suffer. There's no time. You deal with the problem, as best you can. If someone started shooting a gun in your room right now, your impulse wouldn't be to bemoan your lot in life. You'd be diving under your chair! Problems spur action. The suffering, which is optional, comes later. The mind always lags behind reality, and sometimes gets stuck there.
Pain in life is a given. And results seldom align with expectations. But pain is pain, and expectations were whimsical in the first place. Suffering's different. It's entirely in the storytelling. Consider my favorite book title: "What's Wrong with Right Now...Unless You Think About It?"
Two monks were traveling together, an older monk and a younger monk. They noticed a young woman at the edge of a stream, afraid to cross. The older monk picked her up, carried her across the stream and put her down safely on the other side. The younger monk was astonished, but he didn't say anything until miles later. "Why did you carry that woman across the stream? Monks aren't supposed to touch any member of the opposite sex." said the younger monk. The older monk replied "I left her at the edge of the river, are you still carrying her?"
Sol and Shmuel are riding a train. Sol keeps moaning, "Boy, am I thirsty." He does this mile after mile, driving Shmuel crazy. Finally, Shmuel jumps off the train at the next stop, returning with a soda which he hands to Sol, telling him "Here! Drink, for gods sake!" For the next mile or so, Sol is quiet. But then he starts in again: "Boy, was I thirsty..."
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
"A cloud of critics..."
"A cloud of critics, of compilers, of commentators darkened the face of learning and the decline of genius was soon followed by the corruption of taste."-- Gibbon's "Decline of the Roman Empire"
Saturday, February 2, 2013
Arepa Lady Neglect
The Arepa Lady has only 386 followers on her Twitter feed (I love her new logos, by the way). Meanwhile, Mario Batali has 420,517 followers.
That's just deeply wrong. You're following her, right?
That's just deeply wrong. You're following her, right?
Friday, February 1, 2013
More TV Rapture
My conviction continues that TV's where the culture is flourishing these days. I've been paying nearly as much attention to my idiot box as I devoted to restaurants in the 1990's. It's not that everything on TV is great now, or even good. Nor was all jazz great in 1953, or films in 1971, or lasagnas in 1996. It's not a universal thing. It's just a matter of reaching a tipping point with a migration of inspiration into a particular realm. At that point, the human flocking instinct kicks in and quality can soar. I'm not a big fan of flocking humans, generally, but in this sort of scenario, it's downright thrilling. Remember how once Roger Bannister ran the first four minute mile, everyone else could suddenly do it?
Film people are recognizing this, and are flooding into TV en masse. Movies have become increasingly formulaic and cliched; it's hard to get much depth in two hours, and the industry's in a state of creative stagnation. The best television series are now akin to really long movies (here's how that came about), and the longer form offers freedom - the opportunity to fully develop characters, and to engage in fine subtleties.
Consider "Luck", the HBO series directed by Michael Mann and starring Nick Nolte and Dustin Hoffman. You've heard about this as "the show about horse racing where horses died so they had to cancel it". That outrage was a publicity stunt trumped up by PETA (the Westboro Baptist Church of animal rights). For what it's worth, here's the real story with the dead horses.
I just voraciously viewed the series, and I think Luck's a masterpiece. Its ratings were microscopic, because it demands a lot from viewers. First of all, writer David Milch ("NYPD Blue", "Deadwood", etc.) is quirky as all get-out, and plies a syntax all his own. But that can be a great boon for actors this good. Just as negotiating the tricky linguistic terrain of Shakespeare can bring out an actor's best, Milch makes his players work deeply. Also, Luck plunges viewers into the arcane rituals of horse racing without much hand-holding (this helpful tutorial is de rigueur, and I recommend studying the great Alan Sepinwall's episodic run-downs after you see each show, and perhaps Todd VanDerWerff's, as well).
The first four episodes can be maddeningly confusing, the language is hard to parse (I watch with the subtitles on), and you'll need to rewatch certain scenes (and want to review whole episodes), but it's all chewy-rewarding rather than chewy-opaque. By the middle of the season you'll find yourself drawn in as with a great novel, and by the end, you'll be mourning the show's premature cancellation. Quality's so high that, as I viewed, I kept flashing back to the Shakespeare analogy. The first season doesn't always hit "for-the-ages" heights, but it's certainly headed there. It's a tragedy that there'll be no second season.
Nowhere near the same league, but still damned good, is "The Americans", on FX. It's a new espionage thriller that premiered this week, set in the 1980's, about a Russian sleeper cell in the American suburbs. It's a seemingly normal American couple under such deep cover that they don't even speak Russian, or reveal their earlier lives, to each other, even in private moments. And the show's as much an exploration of their sixteen year marriage (even they're not sure what's "cover" and what's "real") as of their spycraft.
There are little flaws - e.g. an FBI counter-espionage agent just happens to move in across the street (wince). And it's become popular on the Internet to dissect and excoriate a series' flaws. But in spite of our massively networked culture of criticism (which, god help me, I helped start), here's an essential truth, which I hope to write more about: the best stuff isn't stuff with the fewest flaws. The best creations are created with great love and care and talent. Flawlessness, in and of itself, is worthless. The pianist who makes no mistakes is, more than likely, a boring pianist who takes no chances. What matters - all that matters - is the magic.
Also, big news: did you know David Fincher's "House of Cards", starring (speaking of migrating film people) Kevin Spacey, is available, starting today, exclusively via Netflix streaming? I haven't seen it, but it sounds terrific, according to my go-to television critic, the aforementioned Alan Sepinwall (here's his rundown). Per Netflix's business model, they released the whole season at once, so you can "binge view" to your heart's content. This could be the start of something big.
Finally, three great series few people know about: "The Hour", Britain's "The Sandbaggers", and CBC's "Intelligence" (dubbed "The Canadian Wire" by Slate).
"Game of Thrones" third season begins March 31, and season two of "Veep" airs in April, and, best of all, "Breaking Bad" is back for the final arc this summer.
Film people are recognizing this, and are flooding into TV en masse. Movies have become increasingly formulaic and cliched; it's hard to get much depth in two hours, and the industry's in a state of creative stagnation. The best television series are now akin to really long movies (here's how that came about), and the longer form offers freedom - the opportunity to fully develop characters, and to engage in fine subtleties.
Consider "Luck", the HBO series directed by Michael Mann and starring Nick Nolte and Dustin Hoffman. You've heard about this as "the show about horse racing where horses died so they had to cancel it". That outrage was a publicity stunt trumped up by PETA (the Westboro Baptist Church of animal rights). For what it's worth, here's the real story with the dead horses.
I just voraciously viewed the series, and I think Luck's a masterpiece. Its ratings were microscopic, because it demands a lot from viewers. First of all, writer David Milch ("NYPD Blue", "Deadwood", etc.) is quirky as all get-out, and plies a syntax all his own. But that can be a great boon for actors this good. Just as negotiating the tricky linguistic terrain of Shakespeare can bring out an actor's best, Milch makes his players work deeply. Also, Luck plunges viewers into the arcane rituals of horse racing without much hand-holding (this helpful tutorial is de rigueur, and I recommend studying the great Alan Sepinwall's episodic run-downs after you see each show, and perhaps Todd VanDerWerff's, as well).
The first four episodes can be maddeningly confusing, the language is hard to parse (I watch with the subtitles on), and you'll need to rewatch certain scenes (and want to review whole episodes), but it's all chewy-rewarding rather than chewy-opaque. By the middle of the season you'll find yourself drawn in as with a great novel, and by the end, you'll be mourning the show's premature cancellation. Quality's so high that, as I viewed, I kept flashing back to the Shakespeare analogy. The first season doesn't always hit "for-the-ages" heights, but it's certainly headed there. It's a tragedy that there'll be no second season.
Nowhere near the same league, but still damned good, is "The Americans", on FX. It's a new espionage thriller that premiered this week, set in the 1980's, about a Russian sleeper cell in the American suburbs. It's a seemingly normal American couple under such deep cover that they don't even speak Russian, or reveal their earlier lives, to each other, even in private moments. And the show's as much an exploration of their sixteen year marriage (even they're not sure what's "cover" and what's "real") as of their spycraft.
There are little flaws - e.g. an FBI counter-espionage agent just happens to move in across the street (wince). And it's become popular on the Internet to dissect and excoriate a series' flaws. But in spite of our massively networked culture of criticism (which, god help me, I helped start), here's an essential truth, which I hope to write more about: the best stuff isn't stuff with the fewest flaws. The best creations are created with great love and care and talent. Flawlessness, in and of itself, is worthless. The pianist who makes no mistakes is, more than likely, a boring pianist who takes no chances. What matters - all that matters - is the magic.
Also, big news: did you know David Fincher's "House of Cards", starring (speaking of migrating film people) Kevin Spacey, is available, starting today, exclusively via Netflix streaming? I haven't seen it, but it sounds terrific, according to my go-to television critic, the aforementioned Alan Sepinwall (here's his rundown). Per Netflix's business model, they released the whole season at once, so you can "binge view" to your heart's content. This could be the start of something big.
Finally, three great series few people know about: "The Hour", Britain's "The Sandbaggers", and CBC's "Intelligence" (dubbed "The Canadian Wire" by Slate).
"Game of Thrones" third season begins March 31, and season two of "Veep" airs in April, and, best of all, "Breaking Bad" is back for the final arc this summer.
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