There are only two television series that inspired me to purchase the complete box set. Although I adore The Sopranos and never had the opportunity to see the epic HBO original – I only had access to the watered down but still insane A&E version – I somehow don’t feel the need to own every episode. If I had to choose, I’d take the ones where Ralphie is dismembered and Pussy is deep-sixed, along with the essential dream follow-ups detailing Tony’s guilt over the latter. On that shelf of single episodes, I would also stack the JFK hour-long Seinfeld with Kramer’s stadium spitter, and The West Wing episode entitled “Noel” with Adam Arkin playing the therapist to Josh Lyman’s post-traumatic stressed White House staffer. There are others that come to mind, like The Dick Van Dyke Show in which Laura Petrie tells the world that Alan Brady is bald, and The Mary Tyler Moore Show one about Chuckles the Clown’s funeral. Those and almost any Simpson’s I would pretty much never tire of.
A box set is a commitment though, of space and time and relevance. The first set I ever bought was two years ago with The Wire, and I got it piecemeal on eBay, previously viewed. I watched it ravenously and then lent it to Daughter, who almost refused to return it. For a while, she kept the last three seasons and left me with the first two. With her upcoming apartment renovation, however, she brought them back to me along with Casablanca, The Big Sleep, and the rest of my film noir classics. Paring down your belongings is a both a blessing and a bitch.
The only other complete series I own just arrived from Amazon and I’m knee-deep in it even as we speak. It’sPrime Suspect, a British import from the 90’s starring the brilliant Helen Mirren. In it, Mirren gives a gritty and realistic portrayal of Detective Chief Inspector Jane Tennison, a middle-aged career woman battling a very low glass ceiling at work on London’s police force, and self-absorption, commitment phobia, and an outright broken picker in her private life. Woven through it all is an assortment of engrossing murder cases, a revolving door of station house workmates, and an escalating personal addiction to alcohol. It is riveting, unsparing, and more than sometimes infuriating in its accurate portrayal of good old boys’ networks everywhere.
Not promoting a female officer because “she can’t take a joke” was commonplace in recent decades before sexual harassment laws were instituted, and departments set up to address those issues. Aside from the shudder of recognition those of a certain age and experience may feel watching familiar scenarios, the swell of gratitude for the real-life Jane Tennisons is just as powerful. Her motto could be ‘I don’t give anybody shit, and I don’t take anybody’s shit; I’m not in the shit business’. Standing in England’s unremitting drizzle in wool skirts and minimal makeup, Detective Tennison stoically takes on serial killing monsters and career killing superiors. It all depends on how you prefer your brutality; with a knife or a smile.
Daughter’s Fotos give us a taste of her life as an inner city school teacher
position statement
goals
countries with better education than us
one harlem morning