Created by Ann Biderman
"Oh, I know who you are. You're a bagman for movie stars. You're also an extortionist, you're a wiretapper -- basically, you're an all-round piece of shit."
-- the LA director of the FBI has Ray's number
Ever since American television grew up and started airing crime dramas like The Sopranos, The Wire and Breaking Bad, I've hoped for somebody to really get serious about doing a private eye show of the same calibre.
And with the June 2013 debut on Showtime of Ray Donovan, it looked like my dreams had come true.
Or had they?
Because RAY DONOVAN isn't quite a private eye -- he's a Hollywood fixer, and as such operates as a sort of clandestine, high-priced spin doctor to the stars, not so much investigating crime as burying it.
But job classification is the least of this show's problems. This series is a far cry from the free-swinging almost-innocence of Turner or Lennox's pulps -- replaced with a pervasive and all-too-knowing cynicism that's not so much transgressive and bold as tiresome and predictable. We've seen this all before. Done better.
Yeah, Ray's pampered, callous clients should know better, but they have enough money not to care -- or to care how Donovan does his job.
Okay, so far, but this doesn't exactly make his clients very sympathetic, or even very compelling. But what's worse is that the way Ray solves their problems, he's not particularly likeable, either.
Granted, Ray is efficient. Unfortunately, he's efficient in the same way a great white shark or the AIDS virus is efficient. And neither of those is particularly likeable either.
And while Ray's certainly got himself some style, it's mostly in the glitzy accessories, not in the man himself. Sure, he lives the high life, all designer clothes, expensive watches, guns and cars and a downtown fuck pad. But while he's coming off as Mr. King of Hollywood, he's got his family tucked away in the see-nothing, know-nothing middle class anonymity of an upscale suburbia.
Although that may be a blessing -- ignorance in this case ensuring a sort of willing familial bliss. Because when it comes to protecting his clients, this daddy plays dirty. Arson, torture, blackmail -- you name it, Ray's up for it. And that includes murder.
The hypocrisy of the soul-searching, hand-wringing scenes where we're supposed to believe that he's a stand-up family man (despite the adultery and the lies and the fuck pad and the lack of any attempt or apparent desire to have any kind of actual relationship -- or conversation -- with his kids), just doesn't ring true. No matter how many post-calamity shots we see of Ray reaching for a bottle, which I guess is supposed to tell us that deep down he's hurting.
Instead, Ray comes off just as venal, self-obsessed and selfish as his clients. We're told he's struggling to do the right thing, but we're rarely given any evidence to prove it (arranging a play "date" for his son with a suspected pedophile? Really?). The truth is that the hairy, beady-eyed Ray seems like just another spoiled, brutal prick; a gorilla in a nice suit; a glowering, humourless thug whose favourite weapon isn't smarts or cunning or charisma, but a baseball bat.
Tony Soprano, by comparison, was a charmer -- and infinitely more compelling. He wasn't particularly likeable either, but at least he was interesting. A little humanity can go a long way.
Ray lies, he cheats, he kills. Sure, he has family issues. And some long buried psychological issues (yawn) dating back to his childhood are hinted at, with all the subtlety of a ballpeen hammer to the forehead. But they're all issues we've seen before -- and all done better. Nor did transporting the whole clan from South Boston (does Dennis Lehane get royalties?) and all their emotional baggage to LA doesn't really make any of it seem particularly fresh -- it seems more like an unintentional retooling of The Beverly Hillbillies for a newer, more jaded age; one that needs a daily dose of cheap shock-and-awe to stay focussed.
It's the release of Ray's father Mickey, played with punch drunk charm and a conniving, unpredictable brutality by Jon Voigt, that sets the series in motion, and adds a much needed burst of off-kilter menace to the proceedings, but most of the backstory reads off like a checklist.
Mickey's just out of prison (check) for a murder (check) he might have been framed for by Ray. One brother, Bunchy, was molested by a priest as a child (check) and is possibly gay (check) or at least sexually and mentally damaged (check) and a drug addict (check) and the other, fight trainer Terry, is a psycholigically ravaged cripple who's really a gentle soul (check). And just to make sure there's some good old Catholic grief and bursts of mawkish mourning to let us know these characters are "deep," there's a dead sister who killed herself as a teenager to feel bad about every now and then. Pass the Jameson.
Meanwhile, Ray's "other family" consists of his shrill, social-climbing wife, Abby, who is blinded, for the most part, to her husband's nastiness (at least as long as the cheques keep rolling in, presumably) but she shows stupefying levels of stupidity and duplicity herself, ignoring her husband's warnings and welcoming her father-in-law, just out of prison, into their home for a day with his grandkids, with little more than a few seconds hesitation. It doesn't help that her alleged working class Boston accent is more bray than brogue. As for the kids? The "good" daughter? The younger, messed up "bad" son desperate for a little paternal validation? Meh.
Sorry, but we've seen all this before. I'm not saying all antagonists need to be likeable, but there has to be something there, a speck or originality or humanity one can grab hold of emotionally. The template for Ray here may be more Walter White of TV's Breaking Bad than Philip Marlowe, but both were far more complex and better written.
It says something about the main cast that I keep wishing there was more of Ray's staff who, at least in the first season, are relegated to supporting roles for the most part. Both Lena, the short-tempered lesbian (check) office manager/researcher and the easy-going but lethal (check) Israeli muscle Avi (formerly with MOSSAD), are far more interesting and intriguing than Ray. There are hints of complexity and conflict in their past; but just enough to tantalize. Too bad the writers didn't use such restraint elsewhere. Ray and the other major characters are so overloaded with emotional baggage that you can't see the humanity for the luggage.
And oh, how the show-and-tell cynicism gets tiresome! And it's so all-encompassing -- not only in its past-their-due-dates plotlines and its mostly straight off-the-rack characters, but in the very way it treats its audience. The writers and producers constantly opt for button-pushing over compelling stories. It's like a prolonged car wreck, with the writers and producers reduced to highway patrolmen directly viewers around the weekly carnage. "Please, keep moving. Don't stop, don't try to get involved. This doesn't concern you."
Unfortunately, they're right. Sorry, guys, but in 2013, child-molesting priests, transplanted Southie thugs, slimy celebrities and blubbery Irish alcoholics are not exactly fresh and new and shocking, no matter how much moral dankness and bling you dress it up in. They're just plot device buttons that have already been pushed way too often -- and pushed better.
But what do I know? The show returned for a second season, and the writing seems more compelling, with far less all-over-the-place reheated family drama. Perhaps, now that they're so painstakingly laid out the ground floor, they'll actually start to build something.
The show's official site.
Paste Magazine nails the first two episodes to the wall.
Report submitted by Kevin Burton Smith.
| Home | Detectives A-L M-Z | Film | Radio | Television | Web Comics | Comics | FAQs | Search |