Hello everyone! I missed you while I was away. Did you get my postcards? My letters? My care package?

If you did get the care package, would you mind returning the Whoppers? I actually bought them for myself.

Anyway, now that I’ve returned from a fantastic writer’s retreat, I’m ready for action.

But first… let me  thank my amazing guest critics. Their posts were thoughtful, funny, and perceptive, and I loved reading them from afar.

Now back to business: Keane. Glorious Keane. Do you know this band? I mean, beyond “Somewhere Only We Know?”

They’re an assault of musical goodness, and with their new album Perfect Symmetry, they do something that has confounded many, many artists: They expand their sound without losing their identity.

Intrigued? Me too! Let’s keep rocking… after the jump.

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[I'm on vacation until November 18, so my friends are looking after The Critical Condition. Today, please put your hands together for Joe Reid, whose writing appears everywhere from SoapNet to Television Without Pity to his very own awesome blog. Joe will be scaling the trailer for Frost/Nixon.]

The Movie: Frost/Nixon (opening December 5)

The Buzz: Ron Howard adapts the Tony-winning play by Peter Morgan, which dramatizes the real-life series of televised interviews that former President Richard Nixon granted to upstart Brit journalist David Frost. Depending on who you listen to, this is either a shoo-in or has zero chance for a Best Picture Oscar nomination.

The Trailer:

Let’s get scalin’… after the jump!

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[I'm on vacation until November 18, so my friends are looking after The Critical Condition. Now it's time for Adam Roberts, who runs the amazing food blog The Amateur Gourmet and who wrote the book of the same name. Today, Adam describes the pleasures of watching "Pippin" on DVD.]

On page 54 of my book The Amateur Gourmet (now in paperback), I write: “I can’t shake off my Jewishness any more than I can shake off my wholehearted love for Pippin on DVD.”

How this sentence survived the scrutiny of my editor, my copy editor and my agent, I don’t know—it is a food book, after all—but there the sentence is, flaunting what some would consider my bad taste to all the world.

But here’s the thing: I stand by that sentence more than any other sentence in the book. Not only can’t I shake off my love for Pippin on DVD, I absolutely refuse to: it’s one of the greatest things I own. If my apartment were on fire I’d save my computer, my cat and Pippin on DVD.

After the jump, I’ll share the reasons  I love Pippin on DVD (and why you should love it too).

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[I’m on vacation until November 18, so my friends are looking after The Critical Condition. I'm thrilled to welcome Sarah D. Bunting--who describes herself as the "chief cook and bottle-washer at TomatoNation.com"--as she celebrates the return of "Unsolved Mysteries."]

Unsolved Mysteries is back.

You probably didn’t know that. You may not have known that it went away in the first place, because for the 15 years that it aired on and off on various networks and in and out of syndication, it did seem like the JAG of documentary television, in that you didn’t watch it, and you didn’t know anybody who did, and yet it just kept airing as though the executives had forgotten it even existed until flipping through TV Guide reminded them to cancel it.

You felt that way; I loved the show. I used to TiVo the syndicated reruns on Lifetime (shut up), because despite the show’s baseline crappitude — the wedding-video graphics; the dry-ice fog longtime host Robert Stack had to walk through in his melodramatic Stackum PI trench coat; the high-waisted light-wash Levi’s 550s and community-theater acting that sullied every re-enactment — it occasionally offered up a truly creepy segment. And you’ve got to give the late great Stacksie credit: He never let the frumpiness of the production get to him, and he intoned “s/he was never…seen…again” with the same solemnity each and every time.

When I found out the show had made a comeback (on Spike, basically Lifetime’s diametric opposite, which is kind of odd), I couldn’t wait to see it. I have a rather unhealthy obsession with various unsolved cases as it is, stuff like the Lindbergh kidnapping and Bambi Bembenek, and one of my favorite parts of the old-school Unsolved Mysteries was hearing “…Update!” Here in the age of the interwebs, I figured, many more of the cases would get solved — and the producers had probably “solved” most of the lo-fi presentation problems as well. Plus: Dennis Farina hosting! Love the Farina!

The Farina, new technology, an updated slate of kooky/creepy cases…you couldn’t have cared much less before, but maybe I sucked you in with the promise of a bright new Unsolved day, right? Maybe you reached for the DVR remote? Well, the thing is…don’t bother.

The new version does try, mixing together overviews of famous cases (D.B. Cooper, Resurrection Mary, the Black Dahlia) with updates of segments from the original show, and many of those do have “…Update!” at the end, which is satisfying (if somewhat depressing; invariably the missing turn out to be “the murdered”). The show looks a lot better, too, although in that respect it tries too hard, doing a lot of migraine-y PowerPoint nonsense with grainy old mug shots.

What hasn’t gotten an upgrade is one of the joys of the original: the drama-club reenactments, ported over nearly untouched from the eighties and nineties. Every awful perm, scraggly mullet, poorly thought-out orange lipstick, sleeveless-plaid-over-a-thermal grunge-by-numbers outfit, and run-down Chevelle has stayed the same, and every reenactment actor is still as anonymous as the day of filming — with one notable, and wonderful, exception.

That wonderful exception is revealed… after the jump!

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[I'm on vacation until November 18, so my friends are looking after The Critical Condition. I'm happy to welcome the fantastic Tara Ariano, who co-founded the websites Television Without Pity and Fametracker and also wrote three awesome books. Today, she's breaking it down about comedian Brian Regan.]

Before this year, I had known of Brian Regan from his standup specials on Comedy Central. But it wasn’t until recently that I became aware of his status as a comic’s comic. This spring, I started listening to the podcast “Comedy And Everything Else,” featuring comics Todd Glass and Jimmy Dore. About half a dozen episodes covered their midsummer trip to Regan’s show in Los Angeles — several before, about how excited they were, and a couple afterward, when they were still enjoying its afterglow. Even “C&EE” co-host Stephané Zamorano — not a comic herself — was so impressed by the end of the show that she asked the woman sitting next to her what she thought; although the woman sighed that it was great, Stephané couldn’t help opining that this anonymous woman couldn’t appreciate what a display of comic mastery she’d just seen.

And that’s not the only comedy podcast enamoured of Regan: Late in Season 3 of “Never Not Funny,” Jimmy Pardo also admired how prolific Regan is and said he should have a special on HBO every year.

For most of the biggest stars in the world of comedy, an audience that include parents with pre-teens would be unthinkable. (In fact, if you knew a mother who brought an eleven-year-old to see Chris Rock in concert, you might call the state on her.) But as I was leaving Regan’s show last weekend at Avery Fisher Hall, I saw quite a few kids who might have even been under ten, and who were probably just as entertained as their parents were by Regan’s bits about nearly getting into a fight in Dallas while wearing a Miami Dolphins t-shirt.

It wasn’t even until that moment, actually, that it occurred to me: Not only hadn’t Regan used any curse words, but I’d seen racier material in network sitcoms airing in 8 PM time slots. He did mention Mrs. Regan, but not to complain that she’s frigid or a nag or any of the usual married-comic hackery. I recall her having to show him how to work his cell phone to get a text message, and choosing, for his entrance music at a comedy club, the Bee Gees’ “More Than A Woman.” (Tee hee hee.)

Don’t get me wrong — I fucking love to swear, and I virtually always find it hilarious. But the marvel of Regan’s act is that it’s PG-rated without seeming bowdlerized. And when he came out for his encore, the early-twenties-aged goombas hollering “Pop-Tarts!” and “spelling bee!” at Regan (who, amused, expressed how flattered he was that anyone even knew his act so well) clearly didn’t feel they’d been ripped off by sanitized material.

It’s not an easy thing to impress both the most jaded, critical audience — fellow comics — and ordinary people who might never see another standup in their lives. Brian Regan does both, and if there were any justice he would be filling Madison Square Garden while Dane Cook was forced to subsist on Pop-Tarts.

*** This would be from a Regan bit about the guy who invented the blank greeting card. “He’s selling a crease!”

[I'm on vacation until November 18, so my friends are looking after The Critical Condition. Today, I'm happy to welcome Maulik Pancholy, star of both "30 Rock" and "Weeds," as he shares his election week adventures, including when he took that picture of Diddy up there]

A week into Obama! It’s been a week, and I’m still dancing for joy. The tyranny is over.

OOOOOW! That was me pinching myself. REALLY HARD.

On Election Day, after standing in line for over two hours, I finally entered the Brooklyn courthouse to vote. The couple in front of me asked their young son if he knew what kind of building we were in. “An airport terminal?” he asked. No. “A hospital?” No. “Barack Obama’s house?” Mmhmm.

Here’s the voting line:

Before entering the archaic, curtained booth with the guillotine-like lever (I imagined squinty little W getting the axe as I cast my vote), I got hit by a wave of real emotion – the kind where your eyes get wet and your lower lip trembles. This is history. I could feel it in the making.

Later that day I went to work on “30 Rock”, where I play Jonathan, Alec Baldwin’s character’s assistant. On the way to my dressing room, I had to pass by the two HUGE security guards that had recently shown up on set. They were there because Tina Fey had become such an important piece of the political puzzle. Crazy.

The adventure continues… after the jump!

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After e-mailing with Times critic Jason Zinoman and reading this post on New York‘s Vulture blog, I’ve realized that when it comes to the recent Corpus Christi controversy, I haven’t been parsing the difference between a review and a feature.

Here’s what I mean: Clark Hoyt’s suggestion that the Times could have clarified why Corpus Christi would offended Christians is perfectly valid for a feature like the one I wrote. As a news item that deals with the original controversy surrounding McNally’s play, the arguments in my piece can be  refined by acknowledging why all Christians (and not just Bill Donohue) might have a problem with a play about a gay Jesus.

In referencing possible offenses, there’s an opportunity to make the offended parties feel respected. If they know they’re being heard, people on either side of the debate are more likely to hear each other. And then maybe everyone can discuss the play’s actual purpose, which is less about turning Jesus gay than about welcoming gay people into the great narratives of spiritual life.

But again, all this pertains to a feature.

Looking again at Mr. Hoyt’s piece,  I realize he only made his suggestion to Mr. Zinoman. I was not mentioned until the next paragraph.

I somehow inserted myself into that part of Mr. Hoyt’s column, perhaps because I thought his point pertained to my writing.

But with regard to a review, Mr. Hoyt’s assertions are unfair. Again, since I was writing a news item that included the controversy, it’s reasonable to expect I would approach it from multiple perspectives.

As a critic, however, Mr. Zinoman is under no such obligation. As a critic, he doesn’t need to mention the controversy at all if he doesn’t want to. (Though he did.) A critic is only required to analyze what he/she feels is worth analyzing. Critics deserve that leeway from the their readers, and readers need to remember that no review can address everything. To overburden a review with the responsibilities of a reported story is to deny it the freedom for creative critical thought, especially when a review has about 550 words to play with.

Mr. Hoyt’s column, however, tells Mr. Zinoman how he should have couched his subjective responses. That doesn’t do anyone any good.

Now that I’ve had a few days away from this controversy–and I’ve stopped feeling so worked up about it–I can see how the distinction between feature writing and criticism should have been drawn all along.

Were Journey the stealth geniuses of eighties music? It seems like everybody likes them, or at least nobody hates them, which is saying a lot.

There’s just something about Steve Perry’s voice that defies mockery, you know? You can joke about his tight-tight jeans and his mullet, but his voice? Don’t do it, homeslice. That shit is gold.

Journey has worked miracles in my own life. In 2002, despite being deathly ill, I went to my friend Katy’s wedding, swung her around the dance floor to “Open Arms,” and didn’t pass out. And I mean, I was swinging Katy around, launching her off the floor like a bridal airplane.

Granted, I was also busting moves during “Tubthumping” just a few minutes later, so it’s possible I just had a lot of will power that day. But I believe Journey made me especially impervious to sickness.

However, I’d say “Don’t Stop Believin’” is the band’s masterpiece.

Consider this evidence:

(1) That video has been viewed over 11.5 million times. And that’s just one of many versions available on YouTube.

(2) The final episode of The Sopranos, which featured this song in its final scene, aired 18 months ago. At the time, that sent the 17-year-old track into the iTunes top ten. It has been in the top 100 every week since. As I write this, it’s nestled at number 86, meaning it will probably be a top seller for weeks to come. No other song in iTunes history has managed such consistency. In fact, it’s the only “classic track” to sell over 2 million copies online. Eat that, “Thriller.” 

(3) The Off Broadway musical Rock of Ages closes with “Don’t Stop Believin’,” which got the crowd going crazy both times I saw the show. 

Clearly, the song owns a room in our hearts. But why? Let’s discuss… after the jump.

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I just got around to watching last week’s Ugly Betty, where Amanda moves in with Betty, Wilhelmina falls for the new CFO, and Betty submits to her massive crush on Val Emmich.

Near the end of the episode, I realized I was  revisiting one of my favorite scenes from My So-Called Life. The one where Jordan sings “I Call Her Red,” and Angela totally thinks it’s about her. You remember, right? Ricky eggs her on about it, pointing out that her hair is red, so obviously Jordan’s in love.

Only the song is about Jordan’s car, not Angela, so she does her patented cry-with-the-trembling-lower -lip.

Such good TV!

It was almost as good on Uggs, when Val (or Jesse, as his character is called) sings a song about snow days, and Betty thinks it’s a reference to their conversation from earlier in the week. Just like Ricky, Hilda is there to stoke Betty’s flame, insisting that the boy wants her bad.

Except… whoops! He’s hot for Amanda.

The episode ends well, with Betty and Wilhelmina sharing a tender moment and Marc cheating on Cliff, thereby giving Michael Urie something to do other than shriek and be queeny. However, I’d have enjoyed it even more if I hadn’t predicted the “song twist” so early.

Of course, I’m sure there were lots of people watching who don’t remember My So-Called Life, so maybe they got swept away.

And hey… that plotline probably got used on a character before Angela Chase. But you identify with the one you see first.

A few weeks ago, I wrote an article in The New York Times that marked the tenth anniversary of both Matthew Shepard’s death and Manhattan Theater Club’s premiere of Corpus Christi, a play by Terrence McNally that reimagines the story of Christ as a modern-day parable performed by gay men.

My story (and Jason Zinoman’s review of a recent Corpus Christi production) prompted an angry press release from The Catholic League, an organization that protested the play when it premiered in 1998. 

Here’s what Catholic League president Bill Donohue said about my work:

On October 19, Mark Blankenship said those who protested the play in 1998 offered ‘stark reminders of lingering homophobia.’ So when anti-Catholic homosexuals like McNally feature Jesus having oral sex with the boys, and Catholics object, it’s not McNally who is the bigot—it’s those protesting Catholics. One wonders what this guy would say if a Catholic made a play about Barney Frank showing him to be a morally destitute lout who ripped off the taxpayers. Would he blame objecting gays for Catholic bashing?

Spurred largely by the Catholic League, over 150 people complained to Clark Hoyt, public editor of The New York Times, about my story and Mr. Zinoman’s review. Today, Mr. Hoyt reflects on this response in his weekly column. 

Mr. Hoyt called me on Thursday to alert me that his piece was going to run, and he gave me the chance to respond. As you see in his column, I clarified that I was only asserting the homophobia of people who threatened violence against Mr. McNally and Manhattan Theater Club.

To expand on my response, let me provide the context for the quote that offended Mr. Donohue. In my story, I wrote:

For American gay culture this month marks a doubly somber anniversary

Ten years ago, on Oct. 12, Matthew Shepard, a gay college student, died in a Colorado hospital almost a week after two men viciously beat him and left him tied to a fence near Laramie, Wyo. That same night Terrence McNally’s play “Corpus Christi,” about 13 gay men who perform the story of Jesus, had its final preview performance at Manhattan Theater Club; due to weeks of protests and bomb threats, ticket holders had to pass through metal detectors before taking their seats.

In retrospect the events seem linked. Beyond the coincidence of timing, both were seen as stark reminders of lingering homophobia, and like Mr. McNally’s play the events in Laramie eventually found life in the theater. 

 

I feel it’s clear that I’m calling the protests and threats homophobic, and not simply dismissing all offended Catholics. Frequent readers of this site will know I get offended by things all the time, and I acknowledge anyone’s right to be outraged by a piece of art or journalism, on whatever grounds they choose. But when metal detectors are required to shield us from a person’s offense, it has become hateful and dangerous.

I respect Mr. Hoyt’s suggestion that Mr. Zinoman and I could have mentioned the reasons a Christian might be offended by Corpus Christi. Because it notes the grounds for legitimate dissent, Mr. Hoyt’s column adds a valuable dimension to the discussion of the play.

Mr. Donohue’s press release does not. By taking a small snippet of my story, erasing its context, and escalating it to grotesque proportions, he promotes anger instead of mutual understanding. By calling Mr. McNally anti-Catholic and referring to supposed “blow jobs with boys,” he proves he still hasn’t read or seen Corpus Christi.

I wrote my story for the same reason I created The Critical Condition: I want to spark conversations about relevant issues in popular culture. If Mr. Donohue (or anyone else) wants to debate me about anything I’ve written, then I’m happy to participate. But I can’t react to rage. We learn things when we talk to each other, not when we yell. 

Note: After writing this post, my opinions about some of these things changed. For continued discussion of this topic, please go here.