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Date Posted: 16:55:14 11/29/02 Fri
Author: JM
Subject: Letter to the Not Editor

In light of our cancellation fears I intend to send the following to the critic at TVGuide. He answers questions on Mondays. Maybe he'll address mine. It's got a lot of flaws but I'm tapped out. Would appreciate suggestions.

Dear Mr. Roush,

Thank for your intelligent and informative reviews of many things television. You are clearly a not-elitist fan of the medium. Television is to me an obviously important and vital art form, perhaps the apex of Western cultural achievement. (I’m actually serious about this, I just haven’t finished working out my justification. It involves the energetic and democratic interaction of commerce and creativity tracing back to the Renaissance. And the acquisition of several graduate degrees. I’ll get back to you in about ten years.)

I always thought your reviews in TV Guide were at the least interesting and at their best piercingly insightful. I became a permanent fan of yours last spring with your review of “Angel.” Thank you for helping to welcome it back from the hiatus wilderness with an unforgettable affirmation. It’s good to see that the critical mainstream is appreciative of the original and daring story telling that Mutant Enemy and Joss Whedon seem recklessly determined to provide.

My main purpose in writing you in this forum is to inquire about the mechanics of TV Guide’s annual “Best Shows You’re Not Watching” campaign. My new, heart-stopping, just-about-favorite show is “Firefly.” You are probably aware that it has had a challenging existence thus far and is currently heading into hiatus. TV Guide is an admirable and influential vehicle for impassioned and quality promotion. I was wondering about the timing of the special issue (e.g., winter or spring) and how the recommendations are determined. (Basically, if the highly mobilized Firefly fans start a massive letter writing campaign to your publication, will that have any effect?)

I realize that you have given positive attention to “Firefly” in the past. I thought you would therefore be receptive to an exposition of the reasons why it is one of the best television shows currently on the air, if not the best. (Or you will be forewarned in time to destroy this letter before you are bored out of your gourd. Remember I have no way of knowing.)

Why “Firefly” Rules

Quick review for the uninformed (that’s not you): “Firefly” is a not-quite-epic tale set five hundred fifteen years in the future. The protagonists are the crew and motley combination of passengers on a transport ship, think tramp steamer, running just outside the law. A little smuggling, a little drug running, a few legal jobs. The setting is post-war, making do, and passively resisting as the dust settles and order comes to the border-lands. When it can be bothered to make the effort.

Genre: Bending, Blending, or re-Birth?

As I have read too many times to count “Firefly” is a western in space. And we’re not kidding this time. It’s not a metaphorical examination of the final frontier, it’s cowboys with hick speak and six shooters flying through the vacuum, set 500 years in the future. Yes, it’s self-ironically aware, but it’s not a campy joke. Critical responses have ranged from intrigued and cautious curiosity, to dubious and skeptical forbearance, to outright ridicule and revulsion from the purists.

Mutant Enemy has made a career of embracing, exploring, and subverting genre expectations. “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” melds the horror and teen-comedy-drama genres. Mapping the familiar metaphors of the one to the issue-oriented concerns of the other. Spin-off “Angel” fuses the comic-book super-hero tale to the noir detective mystery. It’s been done before, but “Angel” uses the combination for more than just enhanced atmosphere and excused moral grayness. The focus is on the attenuated existential angst and isolation of the urbanized, turn-of-the-millennium adult.

With this background, I feel confident contending that the juxtaposition of the Western and space opera genres is more than a clever gimmick. It has at least two functional qualities. Science fiction is almost always an exploration or at least projection of current issues and realities into the unknown future. Speculating on possible resolutions and attempting to identify those things that are the immutables of the human cultural condition. The Western patina gives structure to this exploration. Instead of creative and complicated conjecture, with the danger of alienating the uninitiated, the confines of the Western genre provide a set of common and familiar metaphors for investigating individuals in the context of the wide-open, untamed, and unknown. The sci-fi trappings also provide the author a much needed freedom in working with the rich, familiar, but historically actual Old West. The Western has ever been less about faithfully reproducing a historical time period than articulating current cultural realities and concerns. By transferring the setting from the past to the future the creators have released themselves from the difficult need to balance the demands of period-piece historical authenticity and anachronistic receptiveness to current audience concerns. Because this is our future, not our past, the author is free to include such elements as racial diversity and female empowerment without qualifying them.

The greatest triumph achieved by joining the two genera, though, is a quintessentially American dialogue. The Western and the science fiction are two of the most American available. There are few more appropriate languages for discussing the pull between freedom and civilization, manifest destiny and jealously guarded autonomy, exploration of the unknown and adherence to the reassuring and anchoring known, the potential and perils of centralization and standardization, logic and efficiency versus the local and sentimental. The creators are establishing a space for talking about where we are and where we are going by pretending we’ve already been there. Plus there’s all the hi-larious visual jokes.

Characterization, the refutation of stereotype but not archetype

I think that “Firefly” is great and clever just for the aforementioned unique genre blending. However, the area where it really shines is its ground breaking triumphs of believable and complex characterization. No one is quite who they thematically ought to be, and often much more than we expect them to be. The other stereotype-defying achievement I’m most reminded of is one of entirely comedic and adorable variety, “Third Rock From the Sun.” The super-model hottie was actually a ruthless, no-nonsense warrior, the object of her heated affections a portly ineffectual cop. Their balding, aging captain was as self-assuredly vain as any Rock Hudson clone has a right to be. The teenager was a suffering old soul. The most classically handsome and witty actor was a bizarre, low-wattage boob. The epic, torrid romance was between two middle-aged professors at a mediocre Mid-Western college. Every scene was at the very least a splendid visual joke. “Firefly” performs a similar, if less comedicly broad, inversion of stereotype. And on top of that lades a riveting emotional complexity.

The captain of the starring vessel is seemingly a mild mannered, blandly attractive guy’s guy. Quicker with a quip even than a gun. Quite able to be rattled by his nearly insubordinate crew’s teasing. Nearly hamstrung by his streak of decency. The protagonist and boss of a show ain’t supposed to be this way. By rights he should be either unimpeachable noble or at the least imposingly impressive, or alternatively darkly tortuous and conflicted. Essentially either Jack season one of “24” or season two, not this nearly-prancing lightweight. The stunning secret we only gradually uncover is that he is actually all those things. It’s not that the gentle joker is a deceptive mask, but merely that these are the outward trappings of a man who wears neither his dangerous nor his damaged emotions on his sleeve. From the very beginning we are given clues that the measure of the man is revealed not in what he says but in what he does. He may say “darn” instead of “damn,” but he also just kicked a potential intractable enemy into the engine. His crew may tease and rib, but even the toughest and the most fondly indulged understand that his word is instantly law and the consequences of defying it are not to be contemplated. We’ve seen him tenderheartedly return booty to a needy community and gently council an apparently confused stow-away. We’ve also seen him rip a grieving husband from his ailing wife’s side and credibly threaten agonizing death to his most difficult crew member. We’ve enough indicators to believe that this ship is a walking-wounded veteran’s last attempt to bear the vagaries of a cruel universe and to know that he will do anything to preserve it.

Our other stock characters are nearly as full of surprises and contradictions. The black female second in command is neither the tragic mulatta or the comedic side kick. She’s a dangerous and serious, and apparently unconflicted, warrior. And the most faithful of supporters, and least respectful of subordinates. She’s an unsentimental reviewer of her captain’s most impassioned flights of fancy. She the muscle to his word, the practical consideration to his drive. And she’s also a devoted and loving wife in a ground-breaking and utterly un-remarked interracial romance.

Our competent mechanic is not only a chick, but a wide-eyed girly girl. As fond of fluffy dresses as proficient in off-the-cuff improvisation. Earthy and unaffected and as entirely as emotionally high-maintenance as any American WASP princess. The doctor should be an arrogant and ineffectual fish out of water. Gaining valuable insights and loosing his world-weary cynicism from his time with his inferiors. Instead he proves to be one of the bravest and most principled and unexpectedly resourceful characters, whose basic integrity and emotional innocence remain intact no matter how many disappointments and set backs he encounters.

Our quirky pilot seems neither diminished nor intimidated by his union with a warrior woman. He’s confident in his skill, admiring of her prowess, and ferocious in his commitment. All of which are not immediately apparent in his introduction. Our resident hooker with a heart of gold is not obviously any of the above. She is deeply committed and proud of her trade, as are many they come in contact with. And that heart is kept carefully under cover beneath her sophisticated, assured, and articulate exterior. Our preacher may appear to be the venerable wise-man, dried-up source of platitudes. But more than a few hints have been given that he’s a spiritual child in the service of a philosophy he can only somewhat convincingly advocate. Our psychically gifted vision-walker speaks only in riddles, and her lucid moments convey a certain disregard to the welfare of her comrades.

Last but not least our thug is neither the intriguing classic bad boy, nor the disposable villain. He’s uncouth, ruthless, and ignorant. Malicious and untrustworthy. Dirty and bullying. He’s also an emotional infant. Despite his distasteful behavior, he projects the same confused moral compass as a child or a formerly wild animal.

Genuine Ambiguity: No It Isn’t an Oxymoron

The final element that draws me so strongly to “Firefly” is the serious moral ambiguity of its “message.” It’s been a while since I watched a lot of mainstream TV, so some of my assertions of uniqueness may be a little off. However, I’m standing by them for the moment. Mature dramatic television is proud to tackle moral complexity. Situations are often presented where apparent villains are acting because of difficult or limiting circumstances. But the actual morality of the situations is very rarely ambiguous. What we are presented with is a world in which all the choices are difficult and, most importantly, one in which moral judgment of others is rash and prideful, and to be avoided. “Judge not” is not the same as moral grayness, where judgment is difficult but decisions and action are imperative. There have been a number of scenes where our characters’ behavior has been morally uncomfortable but a reasonable alternative impossible to identify.

I think that “Firefly” explores attempting to live an honorable life in an environment outside of mainstream legal and moral conventions. It’s a world where everyone is just a little bit Tony Soprano. Our crew’s entire existence is based around a life of crime. Attempting to do little real damage to the innocent, but still consistently flout the law that each denies a legitimacy for their own reasons. In the very first episode Mal cold bloodily kills a captured enemy, rather release him and give him the opportunity to carry out his intended revenge. What’s the alternative, and does his responsibility to his crew’s future safety preclude mercy? In episode two we’re inclined to agree that quick death would have been kinder to the Reaver survivor. In “Our Mrs. Reynolds,” Mal’s viciousness with the vixen con-artist is certainly justified in the context of nearly killing his crew, but there are more than a few uncomfortable overtones of threatened rape as a repayment for seduction. In “Jaynestown,” should it not have been Stitch that lived? His grievance was certainly justified. In “Out of Gas,” did Mal have the right to separate Wash and Zoe, even though he certainly had the need? In “Shindig,” was Mal’s “victory” a subversion of the rules of duel, by both Mal and Inara? Is Inara’s career a woman’s choice or an immoral debasement of an act which should be for love alone. In “Ariel,” does Mal have the right to execute crew members for treachery? Does he have the right to exact cruel and unusual punishment? Even the nominal enemy is not clearly evil nor the resistance clearly justified. The Alliance appears to be more a stodgy and callous bureaucracy than an obvious antagonist. And their minions appear to be in as much danger from the Hands of Blue as River and Simon are. These questions are all raised, but the answers not clearly revealed. But if our characters didn’t judge and act they might not survive the job.

So that’s basically my pitch. More complex and clever than your father’s Oldsmobile. If I’ve convinced you to read this far perhaps I can convince you to leave six million in unmarked bills under the rock in the park. It will go towards saving our show. Thank you for time and consideration. Good-night.

Yours truly,
[insert real name]

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