I was taking a spin around the various blogs on WordPress, leaving comments here and there, just trying to get the old writing muscles working again. It did the trick a little too well I’m afraid. One of the reasons that blogging works for me is that it serves as an outlet for my rants without the awkward silences that happen in social situations. So I watched my comments go from a few sentences to a couple of paragraphs and nudge dangerously close to essays.
When my comment in response to minor post about last week’s “L Word” episode entered its 4th paragraph, I thought it wise to post it here and not commandeer Dyke In The City’s blog space. So here it is:
Ah, the eternal L Word struggle: How to balance the awkward writing, left-field plotlines, missed narrative opportunities and the producers’ torturous indulgence of the Jenny character with the chance to watch quality woman on woman sex scenes and those all too infrequent moments when the stars align and great television happens.
My issues with the show are numerous including the way this season seems to be preparing us for the show’s end. All of the stories so far seem like they’re rushing to some sort of hasty conclusion. This was only confirmed by the whole Bette and Tina kiss (side note: the song playing during that scene was Alice Smith’s “Dream”. I’ve been telling people to buy that album for a year now – open a window right now and download it.). While everyone who watches pretty much feels that all arrows point to them getting back together again, by doing it now you’ve shut the door on at least one whole season worth of storylines for those characters. I thought the same thing about the Dana/Alice hook-up and we see where that led.
And speaking of Alice. The writers handling the Tasha/Alice plotline are doing a great job. They are tackling an issue that could easily fall into cliche with skill and insight. Leisha Hailey and Rose Rollins have some of the best on-screen chemistry and can act their asses off.
Meanwhile, Shane continues to become a caricature of herself, Helena exits stage left and the great Foxy Brown continues to be written as a 21st century version of Aunt Jemima except the big house kitchen has been replaced by an upscale coffeehouse/club and and Massa’s family is now a group of self-indulgent glam dykes too busy navel-gazing to acknowledge Kit except when she’s blindly cheering them on.