Showing posts with label God. Show all posts
Showing posts with label God. Show all posts

Saturday, February 18, 2012

Review: House, 8x12, "Chase" vs. God

DAHLINGS -

The plot of “Chase” can be summed up in one phrase: boy gets nun; boy sleeps with nun; God gets nun.

Watching this knowing that the show has been cancelled fills one with an odd combination of sadness and relief. The slackness of tone gives one the impression the writers were already looking for new jobs.

Like “Wilson” and “5 to 9”, “Chase” focuses on a single character. Jesse Spencer is one of the strongest actors in the cast, but he’s working with weak material. The episode attempts to tackle the subject of faith from a different angle than House’s impenetrable atheism. Chase was sent to seminary school, as has been mentioned over the years. The reason for his leaving? Crisis of faith? Disillusionment? No, being a horny teenage boy and having an affair with the groundskeeper’s wife. We’ve been waiting eight seasons for this?

Naturally, Almost-Nun is a blonde babe, like the “asexual” woman a few episodes back. Your faithful correspondent is not certain whether she is a noviate or a postulant, but honestly, who cares? She is going full-on Catholic, becoming a cloistered Carmelite nun, forbidden to speak, and presumably, stop dying her hair blonde and wearing underwire bras.

Chase and Blonde Not-Virgin-Mary have a number of dreary conversations about faith. These are eerily similar to the debates House had in “Unfaithful” or countless other episodes where he stumbled across some poor sap who believed in God.

If Chase is not sure he wants to return to PPTH, why is he hanging around? He’s on crutches from being stabbed in the heart last week (don’t ask). Somehow being stabbed in the heart doesn’t seem to have slowed Chase down. Including the inevitable scene where Chase and Not-Virgin-Mary tumble into bed and make sweet, sweet love. He even opens the tiny bandage for a reason that escapes me and we get to see the near-fatal, traumatic…pencil-sized wound.

After Wilson donated part of his liver to a friend in “Wilson”, he winced whenever he moved. Even after he left the hospital. But it clearly doesn’t impair Chase from cavorting with Not-Virgin-Mary.



"So, do you like to swing?"

But God has Other Plans for Not-Virgin-Mary. Post-coital in Chase’s bed, her neck swells up. She’s rushed off to PPTH for surgery! Which Chase performs! Huh? Hadn’t he decided he didn’t work there anymore? Did I miss something?

Not-Virgin-Mary has a vision during surgery that God is calling her. Somehow one night of sweet, sweet love has convinced Chase he loves her. But no. She’s going to put on the habit and leave our corrupt world behind. I’d care if they had bothered to give Not-Virgin-Mary a personality, but the writers forgot. They were too busy writing YET ANOTHER PRANK WAR, this time between House and Taub. Although it was a pleasure to see Taub without those dreadful twins, the prank war…it’s so tedious that describing it will set off my narcolepsy.

"Ha! I win!"

Chase goes weeping to House, who gives him a fatherly talk about Chase reassessing his life after his mistakes. No, don’t ask me what that means. It didn’t stop Chase in Season Two when he killed a patient in “The Mistake.” (Maybe he reassessed his life that time during the commercial breaks?) Perhaps one of my darling readers can explain the to me in the comments.

The upside of all of this is that Adams and Park have virtually nothing to do. The downside is that Wilson appears for a blink-and-you’ll-miss-him scene.

Feel free to respond in the comments. And yes, the show was canceled. All the talk of “deciding to come to an end” sounds suspiciously like public relations hooey. Let’s hope the series finale leaves the cast alive—most of them, anyway. When you comment, remember, I am always right.

Ciao,
Elisa & Fletcher

Friday, December 4, 2009

Jesus, a Cheese Sandwich and Moi

DAHLINGS –

I don’t know if it’s Christmas approaching. Maybe not, because it's not the first time this has happened.

All that I can tell you is, mes lecteurs bien-aimés, that I returned home the other night to hear my maid in the kitchen speaking in tongues.

This is not the usual sound that comes from the kitchen…the usual sounds are dishes breaking and cursing in a foreign language. Bucky was barking wildly. Yours truly had a fairly good idea of who was here.

So your faithful correspondent entered the kitchen, which, to be honest, is relatively unfamiliar territory to moi. And there I found Jesus making himself a cheese sandwich.

Bucky was in the corner, barking, the hair on his back up. Not a good sign. The last thing I needed was for my dog to sink his teeth into Christ's ankle.

Ever since I said something nasty about people who thought Jesus Christ was on a grilled cheese sandwich that sold on (ugh) Ebay, Jesus started coming around every now and again, helping himself to my larder. And it's almost inevitably aged diary products.

I drew myself up to my full height (Jesus is several inches shorter than I) and said, “What are you doing here, Jesus?”

“I was hungry,” he replied. It was a little hard to hear him with my maid on the floor ululating, so I pushed her out of the kitchen into the butler’s pantry and shut the door. I also shooed Bucky out of the kitchen. He growled but trotted away down the hall.

Of all the gall, showing up in my kitchen. Freeloaders, even if they are deities, work my last nerve, as the young people say. “You always have several kinds of cheese,” he added. "Tonight it's sharp cheddar." The toast popped out of the Dualit Combi toaster, and Jesus dropped it onto a Ming Dynasty plate.

“Do you have any Branston pickle?”

“No.” I sighed in annoyance. I folded my arms. “I have asked you not to barge in here any time you feel like it, Jesus.”

He turned and glared at me. Really, that crown of thorns was most unbecoming. At least this time he was wearing robes instead of only a loincloth. Not that he doesn't have a nice body, but it is inappropriate anywhere but a swimming pool, in your faithful correspondent's opinion.




“That’s MISTER Jesus to you,” he snapped. “Besides, didn’t I imprint my face on food for you to sell on Ebay?”

















“It was scrambled eggs,” I retorted. “You know they don’t hold together.”


Jesus started rummaging through the cabinets above the stove. “You’re out of Marmite.”


“Why don’t you conjure some from an old packet of yeast, Mister Jesus?”

The maid was still speaking in tongues in the butler’s pantry. It is extremely irritating to listen to, but what can one expect when an uneducated woman encounters Christ in the kitchen? I’ve lost several maids that way.

At least he had made me some lovely built-ins for my office. He's quite a talented carpenter.

“I don’t believe in God, Mister Holy Trinity, but if I did, I would DEFINITELY send in a complaint. I mean, who died and made you Savior?”

"Our heavenly father, you heathen."

"Maybe he's your father, but he certainly isn't mine. I have a hard enough time coping with your existence--and there are many millions of Muslims who would agree with me. I'm not so sure about the Jews. I'll have to ask Michael Kors."

"I'm not getting into this argument with you again," he said. "Watch it, or I’ll start playing with the space/time continuum. You’ll find yourself pretending to be eleven years old again.”

“Don’t bring my mother into this!” (cf. earlier entries)

“Thanks for the sandwich,” he said sarcastically, and disappeared.

After a few minutes,I yelled for my assistant to come and quiet the maid.

Thank goodness Jesus had left the building.

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog
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