Armistead Maupin’s series TALES OF THE CITY — which started off as a series of reads in the -San Francisco Chronicle- — is an array of a queer found family to be jealous of. The first collection, aptly named TALES OF THE CITY, follows the antics of naive, very straight 25-year-old midwesterner Mary Ann as she moves to San Francisco.
Mary Ann takes up residence at 28 Barbary Lane, a quaint apartment building overseen by kindly weed-aficionado Anna Madrigal. Living under Ms. Madrigal’s roof is Michael “Mouse” Tolliver, a gay man with commitment issues, free spirit Mona Ramsey, and others who help to weave Mary Ann into the fabric of San Francisco.
As you might have surmised from the title and significant cast of characters, TALES OF THE CITY is extremely Dickensian, even down to adopting some of Dickens’ predilection for the outrageous. Maupin doesn’t go as far as incorporating spontaneous human combustion into the works, but the residents of 28 Barbary Lane often do find themselves in outlandish melodramas fit for a soap opera. (It’s telling that the extreme primetime TV soap MARY HARTMAN, MARY HARTMAN is mentioned in the first fifteen pages.)
Yes, the sensational and lurid elements of TALES OF THE CITY are effectively titillating and propulsive, it’s the sense of time, place, and relationships that hooked me: Mary Ann grows more and more comfortable with counter-culture — queer or otherwise —; Mouse’s mood shifts as he longs for a substantial and fulfilling relationship, but instead fills his days with club nights and numerous hook-ups; Ms. Madrigal’s back-story and how she juggles it as well as the needs of all around her. They’re all heartfelt tales, all deeply rooted in San Francisco at the times Maupin was penning the installments for the paper: mid-70s for TALES OF THE CITY, late 70s for MORE TALES OF THE CITY, and early 80s for FURTHER TALES OF THE CITY.
As the TALES OF THE CITY books are being published to this day — although only the first five were previously published in weekly newspaper installments — it remains a fascinating document of cultural shifts, generational schisms, mores, moods, urban changes, and perceptions of societal, sexual, and gender norms. Not to mention reading about the San Francisco imagines it to be — artsy, extremely left, very weird — instead of the dudetechbro nightmare it’s become.
An aside: I’ve only read TALES OF THE CITY, MORE TALES OF THE CITY and FURTHER TALES OF THE CITY. It’s one of those series that I’m trying to slowly dole out, as its emphasis on ever-shifting culture. However, you can certainly feel the specter of AIDS looming over FURTHER TALES, ensuring that I need to emotionally gird myself for BABYCAKES, the fourth volume.
The series was wildly popular for years, was turned into a TV adaptation in the 90s which was resurrected by Netflix for a mini-series, and is one of BBC’s Top 100 Most Inspiring Novels.
However, like how MARY HARTMAN, MARY HARTMAN burned so bright in the mid 70s and is almost entirely forgotten today, it wasn’t until recently that I discovered the series. I’m certain that’s partially because some the situations and perspective and language is dated, but that’s a feature — not a bug. As we as society are rather cyclical, it’d be wise to not let the series collect cultural dust.
Lastly? Now more than ever, we need to hear liberating and enlightening and life-saving finding your own family can be, that you can find safety and security and form lifelong bonds with others.
28 Barbary Lane is fictional, but 28 Barbary Lanes exist all over. I’m currently living in my own 28 Barbary Lane, in a queer and weird slice of Chicago that I wouldn’t trade for the world. If you still haven’t found your 28 Barbary Lane, well, let Armistead Maupin pen you a map.
One of those eps is “Jose Chung’s ‘Doomsday Defense’”. Penned by Darin Morgan, ‘Doomsday’ sees profiler Frank Black investigating the murder of an excommunicated ‘Selfosophy’ church member, a man who died wearing a Selfosophy visor and a forced, teeth-clenched grin on his face.
Beloved, aging cult author Jose Chung — previously seen in Morgan’s acclaimed THE X-FILES ep “Jose Chung from Outer Space” — enters the picture. Chung is a ’Selfosophy’ expert, as he was friends with Onan Goopta, the creator of the barely-disguised take on Scientology. Goopta was an aspiring writer under the literary umbrella as Chung, and heavily inspired by his work.
It features a number of Morgan’s creative tics: unreliable narrators, absurd antics, real-life riffs, and double-negatives. In other words, it’s the same sort of inventive, off-beat, singularly satirical work you expect from him. It’s also brilliant complimented by another beloved cult figure, Charles Nelson Reilly, who infuses Chung with an irreverent but melancholy air.
While I frequently come back to this episode for how unique and nuanced it is, there is one scene that has haunted me:
Chung is alone, sitting at his desk scribbling away at his latest novel and musing to himself.
CHUNG (sighs): “This book will be the death of me. I just can’t write any more. What possessed me to want to be a writer, anyway?”
CHUNG pours a shot of whiskey.
CHUNG: “What kind of life is this? What else can I do now with no other skills or abilities?”
CHUNG drops two Alka-Seltzers into the shot and stares at the fizzing glass.
CHUNG: “My life has fizzled away. Only two options left: Suicide, or become a television weather man.”
CHUNG picks up his pen and commences writing again.
CHUNG: “…like television weathermen, getting information one could gather simply by looking out the window, forensic profilers provide little of practical matter. Mr. Blork, however…”
This scene perfectly captures both being a writer — or any vastly interior profession — and the act of writing. Sneakily, it also provides the crux of the episode, all about writers and readers. Chung and Goopta being two-sides of the same published coin, both seeking readers in their own way, both finding readers seeking meaning in words, and Frank following the impact of those words.
“Jose Chung’s ‘Doomsday Defense’” could be a navel-gazing work about one’s craft, but instead it a ruminates on why we create and how your creations resonate once they’re out in the world, how your works can be celebrated, misinterpreted, abused, used for good or for evil, or all of the above.
Now that, dear reader, is a writer’s horror story.
ADDENDUM
Finally, there’s a single line of dialogue that I also frequently return to. I wish more folks were familiar with this episode so I could use it as a contextual joke. In a scene that segues into the above internal monologue, a Selfosophy member is in a coffee shop, seated in front of his laptop, writing a scene detailing how he thinks Chung goes about his process. To showcase to use Selfosophy’s emphasis on positivity, he declares to himself:
“Boy, my writing has really improved since I got this software!”
Late night television is prone to cult fandom. It’s the sort of programming that is almost exclusively consumed and created by misanthropes, insomniacs, unbridled misfits and those who live on the cultural fringes. From your macabre cult films introduced by a costumed host to your off-beat alt-comedy, what is deemed unfit for mainstream consumption is scuttled to almost-morning time slots.
Watching THE CHRIS GETHARD SHOW was like attending an event a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend in an artist collective’s loft. An event where the antics of weirdos and misfits and live music was worth the trek up a six-floor stairwell littered with cigarette butts and empty fifths of Fireball.
(Given that the studio was in a NYC building six floors up with no freight elevator, and the show has its roots in live UCB productions and public access TV, all of the above is entirely possible.)
GETHARD — yes, the show leaned heavily on the comedic value of Chris’s last name — was awkwardly shoehorned into the now-defunct Fusion channel before finding its home at truTV, a.k.a. the IMPRACTICAL JOKERS network, which is where I discovered it.
GETHARD quickly became appointment television for me. I’d thrill to an hour of frenzied slapstick and weird but heartfelt and human interactions. Cult comedian Chris Gethard (who helms the BEAUTIFUL/ANONYMOUS podcast) was surrounded by a stable of quirky characters, such as The Human Fish and Vacation Jason, as well as his acerbic sidekick Shannon O’Neill (who you may recognize from appearances on number of cult shows like HIGH MAINTENANCE and THE OTHER TWO) plus house band THE LLC. Shit got messy in more ways than one, laughs and commiseration ensued.
Oh, and the stunts. So many stunts. The most emblematic episode of GETHARD — and one of the finest hours of modern television — was ‘One Man’s Trash’. If you have not seen it? Do not read any further. Just watch it and you will agree that it is an episode of late night that manages to top itself minute-by-minute.
Now, six years after the last episode aired, Gethard got the band back together for one more live event. While tickets sold out immediately, you can still buy tickets for the livestream! If you miss it, hopefully you’ll be able watch it even after they exit the stage.
The bulk of the public access and Fusion eps are also available on YouTube, so you have hours and hours of some of the finest, weirdest, off-the-wall late night programming you’ll ever see.
Way back in the early dark days of 2022, in my ‘Favorite TV of 2021’ post I very briefly wrote about the first season of the UK’s Channel 4 TV show WE ARE LADY PARTS, solely comprised of two lines from the show:
“A confused mix of hash anthems and sour girl power. […] It was kind of like therapy, but with a lot of screaming.”
“I’m the lamb, by the way.”
Obviously, that does a disservice to such a uniquely brash and singular punk show, so I’m here to right some wrongs and rave in more exacting ways about the show.
WE ARE LADY PARTS centers around LADY PARTS, a punk band comprised of three Muslim women musicians and Momtaz (their ever-vaping manager) and they are seeking a lead guitarist to bring their sound together. They find one in Amina, an microbiology PhD student who used to performing but her nerves caused her body to violently react against her. Regardless of Amina’s unsavory bodily expulsion, LADY PARTS’s lead singer Saira is insistent that Amina is the one who will musically complete the circle. What follows is a lot of doubt, a lot of insecurity, and yes, some bodily fluids.
While WE ARE LADY PARTS feels very modern in that it’s still a pleasant surprise to see such a varied collection of characters, but I feel it’d be at home on 80s network TV or even a film. Creator/writer/director Nida Manzoor has gone on record citing the anarchic cult 80s BBC show THE YOUNG ONES as an inspiration for WE ARE LADY PARTS. I also can’t help but see a bit of LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THE FABULOUS STAINS! in it.
Given that this show is centered around a fictional band, you’d better hope that the songs are fucking appropriately punk and makes you want to throw fingers, and Manzoor delivers. She took on song duty along with siblings Shez and Sanya Manzoor and Benni Fregin, plus all of the performers actually play their instruments! (I’ll note that Nida has gone on record that it helps that they’re punk, so they can be a bit sloppy musically and lyrically.)
Here are just a few of their numbers:
Bashir With the Good Beard:
Ain’t No One Gonna Honour Kill My Sister But Me:
Voldemort Under My Headscarf:
In November 2021 — a handful of months after the first season aired — WE ARE LADY PARTS was renewed for a second season. Then 2022 rolled around, and no second season. 2023? No second season. I’d given up hope but here we are! It’s 2024, a tad over three years after the first season premiered, and the second season dropped on peacock on May 30th!
I haven’t been able to watch the second season yet but if you’re extremely online like I am, you have probably heard of a surprise appearance from a very exceptional person. (I will not spoil who it is, but I am very excited to see it unfold.)
It’s shocking that the CBS/Paramount+ show EVIL exists.
On paper, it reads like a spiritual version of the X-FILES: psychiatrist, ex-climbing enthusiast and mother to four daughters, Kristen Bouchard (the flinty Katja Herbers) is enlisted by the Catholic church to investigate potential demonic circumstances.
The church pairs her with priest-in-training David Acosta (the always solid and endearing Michael Colter) and science skeptic Ben Shakir (played by the fantastic dramatic actor/ex-Daily Show correspondent Aasif Mandvi) — as the voice of reason. Each week they investigate a new ponderous negative spiritual incident, while trying to navigate their own wants and needs and also dodging the dark, deft steps of occultist Dr. Leland Townsend (Michael Emerson, clearly having the time of his life chewing the dialogue and the scenery).
While that does sound very X-FILES, even down to the chemistry between Kristen and David. It even features its own Smoking Man later on in the series and similar institutional hurdles via Vatican members.
It’s the emphasis on religion, of angels and demons, of seeing all sorts of matters that others cannot that make it more MILLENNIUM than X-FILES.
If you aren’t familiar with MILLENNIUM, you can read my prior posts but in short: ex-FBI Frank Black can see demons and he’s tapped by a Christian sect that may or may not have the best interest of humanity in mind, all while trying to juggle the weight of his family and his responsibility and need to help others.
It’s not difficult to draw parallels between it and EVIL.
I digress.
While on paper, EVIL sounds bleak and dispiriting — and yes, the characters do suffer a number of very traumatic, difficult situations — the show is often thrilling and has more than a few moments of levity. Laughs come from the absurdity of calling out a predator in a kids social MMO, the amped-up energy of Kristen’s four daughters, constantly cross-talking in a way that realistically and genuinely portrays large groups of siblings, Leland’s twisted laugh and cavalier attitude towards those who want him out of everyone’s life, Ben’s cynical quips, or even pop-up books like The Pop-Up Book of Terrifying Things or The Pop-Up Book of Demons that introduces the theme in the second and third seasons. (We can expect The Pop-Up Book of Angels in the fourth!)
Also? Andrea Martin as Sister Andrea’s dry sense of humor as she slyly but enigmatically peppers knowledge towards the group.
Visually it’s sumptuous. Dark, foreboding, but still very visible — no murky shots here! The use of color and vibrant liquids of all types make each shot striking and creepy. The creature designs are remarkable and often appear to be practically executed, and each has their own visual look to them. There’s one scene late in the third season where you see a cluster of demons huddled together that underscores just how distinct all of them are.
The season three title sequence is a real stunner, all stark black and white and red all over, the cello and cymbal crashes escalating faster and faster like a tarantella until you’re left breathless. It’s one of my favorite title sequences since HANNIBAL.
EVIL is certainly an overlooked gem, primarily because it’s a CBS/Paramount+ show. (As of the second season it went Paramount+-only and now everyone swears a lot more.) It does have a rabid fanbase, but it’s hard to imagine CBS’s core demographic of boomers glomming onto something so batshitcrazy and off the wall and relentlessly horny.
That’s exactly why I’m shocked that EVIL does exist. It doesn’t fit the network — especially given how starting with the third season it became a Paramount+ exclusive — however? It’s from Robert & Michelle King, the creators of THE GOOD WIFE, THE GOOD FIGHT, ELSBETH, and the equally batshitcrazy BRAINDEAD.
My guess is that CBS wanted to appease the Kirk’s because I find it difficult to see how it’s lasted this long, despite near-universal critical acclaim. However, their decisions have given us four seasons of immensely entertaining, scary, and humanly substantial emotional and spiritual heft and for that I thank both CBS and Michelle & Robert King.
The fourth and final season kicks off on May 25th, 2024, leaving you plenty of time to catch up and still make it in time for the last few episodes!
I thought a TV adaptation of the video game TWISTED METAL would be garbage.
I never had any interest in the games, which indulged all of the worst video game tropes that teen boys latch onto: fast cars, a modicum of plot, outlandish but surface-level characters, and lots and lots of guns and dumb violence.
I was wrong. It’s smart, savvy, sexy, bloody, funny, surprisingly emotional, and full of verve and amazing quips. It’s not the great and disgusting and filthy genre-fuckery that is BLOOD DRIVE but it’s pretty goddamn close. It’s all about cars and cross-country adventures and being pursued and hunted and betrayed, all while bonding with others.
It’s DEATH RACE 2000 and DRIVE (remember DRIVE?!) and ROUTE 66/SUPERNATURAL with a smattering of Frank Miller’s GIVE ME LIBERTY (before he went all right-wing).
It may or may not be canceled, but I’m pretty sure we will not see a second season.
Anyway! We got one season with a very talented cast! Anthony Mackie as the deliverer! Stephanie Beatriz as the sidecar character ‘Quiet’ who spends a number of episodes without saying a word, which is wild when you have such a versatile voice actor in the cast! (Seriously, people often freak out when they hear Beatriz’s natural voice!) Will Arnett as the voice of the absurdly violent clown Sweet Tooth! Thomas Haden Church as the psychotic sheriff! Jason Mantzoukas as an unbridled preacher! Neve Campbell as the overseer!
Also? Holy hell, the set-pieces?! I can’t imagine how much time and money they spent on some of the absolutely physical and cataclysmic driving scenes, but the races and road-based bouts are absolutely thrilling and amazing, and for the most part embrace practical effects and real people!
And? They eat a lot of Skittles. There’s even a ballpit that the leading characters — spoiler alert — fuck in, and it’s 100% a Skittles riff.
I know it’s product-placement, but I fucking love me my Skittles. Favorite non-chocolate indulgence! Taste the rainbow! Hell, I have a bag in our cupboard and now I want to break it open! (And that’s not post-related product placement!) Candy is paramount in a post-apocalyptic future! (And Sweet Tooth obviously, uh, has a sweet tooth.)
I know TWISTED METAL on-paper looks like trash, but it’s smarter and more engaging than you’d think. Set that aside, make it a Sunday viewing, and revel in the violence as well as the downtime. It’s one hell of a ride.
Historically, fourth seasons of shows are lackluster; the writers are often running on fumes and have done all they set out to do. Producers either bring in new blood or the show gets canceled. The best example of this is probably ANGEL whose fourth season was abusive and very problematic and, from a writerly or viewer perspective, very fucking boring and insulting. However the fifth (and final) season was fucking gangbusters, partially due to the smart and comedic injection from THE TICK’s Ben Edlund. (Yes, I do have a Puppet Time Angel puppet.)
This is not the case with HARLEY QUINN: THE ANIMATED SERIES.
Look: I love every season of this show. I endlessly rewatch it; probably too much. It has been one of the most affecting shows I’ve seen in years, and I realize that’s incredibly embarrassing to say about a show that has its roots in a Joker sidekick dressed like a clown.
(I’ll note that, after she quit the traditional harlequin get-up, I’ve never thought of her as looking clown-ish — especially in THE SUICIDE SQUAD — but I am goth and routinely paint my face and have an actual Harley BIRDS OF PREY armband tattoo on my right arm, so who am I to say?)
That said, my favorites are the first season and the Valentines Day special (which I will now only refer to the V-Day special) which bridges the third and fourth season. As I’ve previously posted, one episode from the first season moved me so much that, thanks to my wife, I have a watercolor recreation of a scene. I love the V-Day episode because it’s so honest and heartfelt and they really lean in on the ancillary characters while also paying tribute to WHEN HARRY MET SALLY which …is something I never expected to type.
The fourth season is incredible. It is one hell of a wildly high-concept swing that also manages to weave so many emotions and romantic interactions between Harley and Ivy, while also conveying the push-and-pull and combativeness that comes with relationships.
It is so tightly plotted!
Also, Harles and Ives go to the fucking moon!
NORA FREEZE: “Shit, I hope the clouds don’t have a gag reflex!”
I swear, Nora is the most underrated character on this show. She is the fucking hedonistic worst and — like everyone on this show, so fucking trauma-laden — which also means? I fucking love her!
They also recreate Michelangelo’s iconic Pieta. I will not spoil how.
And the rapport between Harley and Batgirl, and Batgirl’s neediness? So hilariously sweaty.
OH! And Ivy as — as Lex Luthor puts it — is now a ‘she-e-o’! The writers know how to advance their characters while never losing track of the spirit of the show.
The in-jokes are amazing but never get in the way of the story, and I am positive I missed a number of them just because I haven’t been reading many mainstream comics as of late.
Oh, and not to spoil matters but Harley finds a moral equilibrium. As Amanda Conner put it when interviewed about her BIRDS OF PREY work: Harley is an anti-villain, which I think just about every misfit can identify with.
One minor hint as to where season five — as apparently there will be a season five — will go: Gotham City Sirens! Personally I wish it were the Gang of Harleys but I’ll take what I can get.
I implore you to watch this fucking show. It’s heartfelt, it’s hilarious, it’s smutty, it’s kind; it is the total package and I cannot fucking wait for the fifth season.
HARLEY: “Strap yourself in for more sex, more drama, and more Bane! …being Bane.
“And also? More Harlivy! Like, a lot more because you weirdos are kinda obsessed with us.
“Anyway! Love ya! Byeee!”
(I love the ‘Anyway’ tag, because? Well, I don’t want to further spoil matters, but that is definitely a nod to a Bane exchange in the V-Day special.)
RIDDLER: “…does anyone know that?”
BANE: “They do now!”
HARLEY: “Jugs out! Rugs out!”
Goddamn myself and this show are two hella pieces of filth.
Look. I love romantic works. Yeah, I know. I’m weird for …someone who is who I am. I have literally penned more than a few very fucking queer romance novels and screenplays. Maybe someday you’ll read one of ’em? (I’ll warn you? It often doesn’t end well! I’ve been through some shit and if I have to? So do my characters!)
Consequently? Yeah, I’m totally reposting this amazing special focusing mostly on Harley and Ivy — colloquially known as Harlivy — because? Well, because it’s fucking Valentine’s Day and it’s adorable and I love it and they are so fucking good for each other and, while they have their issues, they’re the best match and I cannot get enoughof that.
I’ve rewatched this so many times. If I remembered to count, I’d probably be embarrassed, but I stopped counting so fuck it!
It is an absolute delight. (Except for the weird Clayface assplay? Not really sure what’s up with that but that’s what ‘skip forward’ is for!)
(Also? I may or may not have rewatched it halfway through penning this post.)
So, yes, here we are, here’s my take on HARLEY QUINN: A VERY PROBLEMATIC VALENTINE’S DAY SPECIAL .
Also? I love Ivy’s hair here! And I love how the illustrators don’t use the same staple buxom body type for women! And I love that Ivy actually dressed up instead of wearing her bingin’ sweats! The end is so heartfelt and poignant, with Ivy’s reveal about her best Valentine’s Day ever!
Harley: “…yeah, I think the orgasm matters.”
Ivy: “Yeah, I didn’t totally buy that either when I said it, but I needed like a third example for the structure of the speech so…”
Goddamn this show is so much fun and so smart while also being so enjoyably and non-judgmentally smutty! Just fucking watch it already! Happy VD, everyone!!
This post mentions several early plot points regarding MR. MONK’S LAST CASE. It also details the ending of Agatha Christie’s CURTAIN.
MONK was a USA network TV procedural featuring the very nuanced Tony Shalhoub as Adrian Monk. Monk is a brilliant, married San Francisco detective who struggles with obsessive–compulsive disorder.
In the opening episode Trudy, an accomplished journalist and Monk’s wife, is murdered via a car bomb and Monk finds himself confronting what he sees as an unsolvable case which flares his OCD to unsociable levels. He leaves the force and holes himself up in his apartment, fastidiously dusting and wiping and fussing over his living space, attempting to enact order, at least until SFPD comes knocking at his door and pull him back into the real world.
“It’s a jungle out there.
Disorder and confusion everywhere.”
MONK certainly falls in the realm of cozy, non-threatening murder mysteries. There is no omnipresent sense of dread and little in the way of heightened emotions. However, unlike many other cozy murder mysteries, the heart of the show is its melancholy. Adrian Monk is haunted by his wife’s death for years and burdened by his many compulsions and fears. Shalhoub never plays Monk overly serious or nihilistic but instead portrays him as a petulant man-youth with a bit of hurt behind his eyes.
“No one seems to care; well I do! Hey who’s in charge here?”
The series finale let Monk solve Trudy’s murder, allowing him to move on with his life, to live with answers instead of questions. At least, that was the goal.
14 Years Later…
From out of nowhere — and at no one’s request — we have MR. MONK’S LAST CASE. Monk is no longer a consultant for the SFPD. He’s been working on a memoir of his cases which is deemed uncommercial thanks to being overly verbose and concerned with anything but his cases. He’s off of — and stockpiling — his meds, flaring up his OCD.
I will not spoil anything about the case apart from stating that why it pulls a reluctant Monk back into detective mode is surprisingly cruel, especially for a show like MONK but, as it’s a full-blown made-for-TV film, stakes are expected to be raised, and MR. MONK’S LAST CASE certainly raises them.
If you noted the stockpiled pills and immediately thought: ‘Oh, Monk is contemplating suicide.’ then give yourself a pat on your back. There’s also a scene very early out of the gate where Monk longingly stares out of a high-rise window at the sidewalk below, and his fingers inch close to the window clasp. Also, he’s literally counting down the days on his paper calendar to a day with the name ‘Trudy’.
Solving Trudy’s murder didn’t bring Adrian the solace he had hoped for. Instead, coming out the other side he felt unmoored, unnecessary, a ship without a sail, and in his mind the only solution is to join Trudy in his idea of the afterlife. Dark? Sure. Too dark for MONK? Not at all as it feels organic to the character. Post-Trudy, Monk is a man who is never content, driven to placate himself but never finding peace.
“Poison in the very air we breathe.
Do you know what’s in the water we drink? Well, I do and it’s amazing.”
While Adrian Monk certainly shares DNA with a number of other murder mystery/detective fiction protagonists — MR. MONK’S LAST CASE has a number of blatant riffs, especially a very not-so-subtle insertion of an adoptable dog named ‘Watson’ — he mirrors Agatha Christie’s fastidious and fussy Belgian ex-policeman-turned-private-detective Poirot more than others.
Putting aside recent adaptations of Poirot mysteries, Hercules Poirot is an overly neat and tidy man, a man who is very proud of his perfectly coiffed mustache, of his immaculately shined shoes, of the fabric that lines his coat. Like Monk, Poirot becomes very agitated when anything disrupts his sense of order, be it mussing his attire or imperfectly sized eggs.
Also, like Monk, Poirot has an bit of an ego, is very aware of his talents and — as he himself puts it — his ‘little grey cells’, and is steadfastly stuck in his own ways. However, Monk and Poirot couldn’t differ more about their deduction techniques:
Monk’s technique is in the Holmes-ian mould in that he pieces together the murders utilizing precision knowledge of items and dates and scuffs and cigarette ash which inevitably result in comedic moments where Monk is disgusted by having to get down and dirty and then he throws a childish fit.
Nonetheless, Poirot is in every which way a Christie protagonist. While she was a relentless researcher and certainly knew of many ways to physically enable someone to kill someone, she was always more interested in the circumstances, the emotions and motivations and flawed humanity that drove one to commit such an act. While, yes, Poirot does ask suspects to detail their time and place around the murder, it’s not just the time and place he’s making note of, but the words and body language in-between those bullet points.
Like Arthur Conan Doyle’s frustration with how wildly popular his Sherlock Holmes creation had become, after having published far more Poirot novels than she thought she ever would she found herself tiring of the character. However, like Doyle, she came to the realization that for as long as she lived, Poirot would live alongside her.
To cope with this, she did the next best thing. In the midst of WWII she penned Poirot’s final novel, CURTAIN: POIROT’S LAST CASE. While it starts like so many other Poirot novels — countryside inn, an ensemble of suspects, unexplained deaths — the circumstances are different this time around. Poirot and his affable sidekick Hastings are older. Times are changing. The world is different. The old guard is ailing, reduced to a number of medications to keep the heart beating. Tried-and-true techniques no longer guarantee the same results.
Part of Christie’s impetus was to ensure readers would receive proper closure regarding Poirot’s life and contributions, as it was also written with bombs falling around her and she was very unsure about the future.
Upon completion of CURTAIN, Christie locked the manuscript in a bank vault and continued to pen Poirot adventures, the last of which was ELEPHANTS CAN REMEMBER, published in 1972.
After penning the Tommy and Tuppence mystery POSTERN OF FATE in 1973, Christie knew that would be her last work so she unfurled CURTAIN and it was published in September of 1975. She lived to see the world react to Poirot’s literal end, but passed shortly after on January 12th, 1976.
It’s on record that Christie was a rather secretive person. Her ‘lost 11 days’ where she just up and vanished from her home and family, leaving behind numerous oddities that were construed as ‘clues’, including three envelopes handed out to staff only to be opened upon her death has the grist of a private joke. She was later found residing at a spa and she claimed to have no memory of the past 11 days.
What occurred between those 11 days, as well as the reasoning for leaving in the first place, has been the source of endless speculation, including several films and a Doctor Who episode.
“People think I’m crazy, ‘cause I worry all the time.
If you paid attention you’d be worried too.”
A brief aside: It’s been widely speculated that Christie was suffering from Alzeimers late in life. If you read her novels as they were published you can see her prose turn, leaning more into terse bouts of dialogue, characters often repeating or even contradicting themselves in non-writerly ways. Certain narrative twists don’t land or even make much sense. Hell, even the title of her last Poirot novel — ELEPHANTS CAN REMEMBER — seems to underscore that she was aware of her ailments.
The upside of this is that CURTAIN, a novel Christie wrote thirty years prior, a novel so rich and complex, a novel that reckons with one’s worth and ability and aging and expectations, reads thirty years later like nothing she has published in decades, but also reads like everything she’s wanted to put into words for so, so very long.
(I swear this is Eddie Campbell’s work! I wish I would have asked him when I met him!)
CURTAIN closes with Poirot murdering his suspect, despite the fact that he has no tangible evidence to link him to the five murders he’s investigating. Then, before bed, Poirot intentionally neglects his heart pills and he passes away in his sleep due to a heart attack. He dies torn between his actions to dole out justice, but also with the knowledge that he has enacted justice but can no longer be trusted to do so. He is tired; so tired.
He pens all of this to his sidekick Hastings, who receives Poirot’s scribed ‘drawing room speech’ several months after Poirot has been buried. Envelopes beget envelopes.
“And last of all, the pistol shot. My one weakness. I should, I am aware, have shot him through the temple. I could not bring myself to produce an effect so lopsided, so haphazard. No, I shot him symmetrically, in the exact center of the forehead…”
Poirot, CURTAIN, in a letter he penned for Hastings. [pg. 222]
MR. MONK’S LAST CASE leans heavily on all of the above, from the formal queasiness of asymmetry to feeling adrift from modern society, seeing one’s self as abnormal, the desire to kill one’s self to quell the madness around you, to be the sole person who can instill order no matter the cost, to hope for some kind of peace and solace that you’ve known in the past, to put a name and a date on it, to send envelopes containing words hedging around what all of this means, why one needed to see this through to the very bitter end…
“You better pay attention or else this world we love so much might just kill you.
(I could be wrong now, but I don’t think so!)”
I can’t say for sure that MR. MONK’S LAST CASE used Christie’s CURTAIN as an influence, a template, and — or — a springboard, but the pieces fit in a way that suits both protagonists, as well as for the viewers who are mystery nerds.
Despite having penned hundreds of words above about how MONK pays tribute to the detective fiction of the past, the show itself never calls attention to it or makes it the centerpiece of a scene. In other words, you don’t have to have read every Christie mystery or every Hammett potboiler in order to enjoy MONK. It’s a series that stands on its own two legs, while also acknowledging works that have inspired those willing the show into existence.
I should know. I started watching MONK a few seasons into its run and was smitten, despite having never glommed onto detective fiction in the past. I had barely read any of Doyle’s Sherlock tales, the only Christie works I saw were adaptations aired on MASTERPIECE THEATRE, which I mostly watched for the Edward Gorey animated opening sequence. I was into noir, but mostly for the moral ambiguity and the misfit characters and the grime and nihilism.
“‘Cause there’s a jungle out there.
It’s a jungle out there.”
Was MONK cozy? Sure. However, that general sense of melancholy, of feeling like you were a burr on society but also that society was a personal burr for you resonated deeply. Monk, the character, the persona, was one of a damaged individual just trying to get by. While he thought highly of himself, the world around him literally suffocated him. It may sound like a minor character tweak, but for the time — hell, even now — it’s far headier than the usual ‘oh I’m just a drunk with mommy/daddy issues but I’m also brilliant’.
MR. MONK’S LAST CASE is not just a shadow of CURTAIN. After all, this is a proper film — albeit made-for-streaming and all of the baggage that entails — and fills up two hours (with commercial breaks, naturally). Every facet of the show is dialed up to 11, including explosions, manner of deaths, almost all of the gang is back together and hell, even the number of exterior shots instead of bland offices and over-utilized Warner Bros. lot buildings have increased! They’re playing with a far larger budget than pretty much any TV-centric detective fiction fan is familiar with.
Also, simply because of Adrian’s germaphobic nature, the show handles COVID and the collective lockdown and repercussions far better than just about any other mainstream media work I can think of. Fittingly, the populace’s embrace of safety and awareness of infectious issues only serves to depress Monk further.
MR. MONK’S LAST CASE looks great: it no longer has its odd vaseline-ish patina, drones have been deployed, and the editing pushes and pulls where and when it should. The suspect? Well, let’s just say I wish the real-life counterpart faced the same sort of justice.
MONK was a certain type of show that is sadly going extinct; a crowd-pleaser of a collective effort that knew how to entertain, but also indulged itself in substantial and thoughtful riffs. It was show the whole family could watch, but each member would delight in vastly different facets of an episode.
MR. MONK’S LAST CASE manages to return to that form, to toe that line: it’s funny, it’s quippy, it’s smart, it pays homage to the past, it has a lot of spectacle, it explores the interiority of its namesake, it has a great villain, it’s not copaganda — I could go on and on.
Yes, MR. MONK’S LAST CASE is more open-ended than CURTAIN. However, I do hope it is how we leave him: in a better state than when we first met him.
“Eh bien.”
Hercule Poirot
“It’s a gift… and a curse.”
Adrian Monk
Addendum
Yes, I know. MONK has so many quotable moments, so why, why?! did I choose to only quote the Randy Newman song that serves as the title sequence, and wasn’t even part of MONK’s first season? ‘It’s a Jungle Out There’ is that succinct and, despite the fact that it was a song that pre-dates MONK, it perfectly encapsulates the show. That’s why. Best of luck getting that earworm outta your head now!
I missed out on a ton of stuff this year because of …reasons. Here are just a few works that I regret falling through the cracks.
TV
THE CURSE
I will watch anything that Nathan Fielder is a part of. One of the best moments of 2017 was seeing a screening of NATHAN FOR YOU’s series finale — Finding Frances — with Fielder for a post-screening Q&A with John Teti and Fielder calling up Teti’s mother.
So, yeah, I feel I let myself down by not watching this as every episode unfolds.
DEAD RINGERS
This is one of those shows that I simply cannot sidewatch, which I quickly found out after starting the first ep. However, I also haven’t been able to find the time and — most importantly — the right mood to singularly focus on the show.
As one might expect given that I love Cronenberg, plus it reminds me quite a bit of Soderbergh’s THE KNICK, I’ll certainly be prioritizing it in 2024.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FA_XOruRFfU
DOOM PATROL Season 4
I’m woefully behind on DOOM PATROL — halfway through the second season, sadly — but I have no doubt that if I had been caught up and found the time to watch the fourth and final season that it would have made this list.
HOW TO WITH JOHN WILSON Season 3
I did start the third and final season, but quit more than one of the episodes because it was too squicky for me. I’ll return to it, as this show is brilliantly executed, but haven’t watched enough to call it a 2023 favorite.
Videogames
BALDUR’S GATE 3
This one was intentional, as 1) I never got into the prior BALDUR’S GATE games and 2) given the scope of the game, waiting seemed to make sense and 3) I knew I didn’t have the time to invest in it in 2023. Perhaps in 2024, or even 2025 (if the world still exists).
THIRSTY SUITORS
I love me my personal narrative games, and this quirky and extraordinarily stylish one which seems like it’s course-correcting SCOTT PILGRIM — yes, I know the new Netflix series also tackles that, but I haven’t watched it yet — combines facets from every one of my favorite games, from COOKING MAMA to JET SET RADIO. I do not know why I am not playing it right now.
STRAY GODS
…an epic, mythic musical RPG that makes me think of Kieron Gillen’s THE WICKED AND THE DIVINE. Why am I typing these words instead of playing this right. the. fuck. now?
There are far too many others to list, but those are the highlights. So little time, so many works to enjoy. Here’s to diving into them in 2024!
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