It's only Monday and I'm already...
It's only Monday and I'm already exhausted from all the great TV exploding from both fronts, network and cable. What a great relief, by the way, that the season finale of
Battlestar Galactica and the season opener of
The Sopranos are finally behind us. It has been hard beyond belief keeping my trap shut about these remarkable series, because (from my chair) spoilers are verboten.
First off, that audacious Galactica finale, with President Roslyn conceding the election after dabbling in fraud, only to be replaced by a debauched fraud in Baltar. A terrific, if controversial, twist in jumping forward a year, with our human heroes settling on the none-too-plush New Caprica, having been lulled into false security (at least the Baltar contingent) by the Cylon retreat. I imagine next season we'll get a number of flashbacks to fill in the gaps in the Cylon and human worlds, the better to explain how the humans got in such a fine mess that they're now nearly defenseless from the new Cylon occupation of a planet that now looks like a gulag.
Next season it's going to feel like a brand-new Galactica, a daring reinvention (not unlike reviving and improving the original show's premise) that promises only to deepen and darken the best adult sci-fi drama of my lifetime.
And then The Sopranos. The shocker of the season in the shot heard round the TV world, as demented Uncle Junior plugs Tony in his ample gut, proving once again that no good deed (here, baby-sitting a senile old man) goes unpunished in this unforgiving world. We all knew Tony was going to get clocked one of these days, just not this way. The bloody banality of it all.
A caveat here that the next few weeks' episodes may well test the patience of some Sopranos fans, as we plunge deep into Tony's subconscious (him being, understandably, unconscious) as his family and mob family scramble to keep order. The surreal detours into Tony's mind only serve to underscore the unflinching realism that otherwise defines the show. Getting shot on The Sopranos isn't an event to be shrugged off between episodes. It's ugly, painful and has long-lasting psychological and physical aftereffects.
Finally, how happy are the West Wing "shippers" now that Josh and Donna have finally acknowledged their long-smoldering mutual attraction and sexual tension. In the thrill of celebrating Santos tying Vinick in the national polls, they kiss, and kiss again, behind not-entirely closed hotel doors. "It was bound to happen sometime," Donna told Josh later, assuring him it was not inappropriate behavior (although she had to take her own informal poll of some of her coworkers to settle her own mind). Great moment when she slides her hotel key to Josh to take things to the next level. And how typical for a nosy staffer to intervene and return the key to her. Them's the breaks. But I'm betting the brakes are off, at last, where this relationship is concerned.
Some very strong political storytelling as well, with Bartlet's troop escalation in Kazakhstan threatening to put a damper on and upstage both Santos' and Vinick's campaigns, even as Vinick is forced to turn to the hard right, sacrificing his most trusted advisor (Patricia Richardson). Too bad these meaty stories are going largely ignored, as NBC continues to waste these final episodes of The West Wing on a night when most viewers are watching anything else. (There's a wide-open hole on Wednesdays, why not use it?)
