Castle - Smarter Than You Think

I once counted how many different crime shows my family watched in my youth. It was seventeen. Since then, we've almost certainly discovered another twenty. The most recent addition was ABC's tolerable Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries. Prior to that, it was BBC's outstanding Sherlock.

Superficially, America's Castle does little to differentiate itself from its peers. The premise - mystery novelist Richard Castle (Nathan Fillon) ingratiates himself with an NYPD police department in a quest for inspiration; inadvertently discovering both a knack and desire for solving crimes alongside muse Detective Kate Beckett (Stana Katic) - seems almost custom-fit to crime television tropes. The set-up allows will-they/won't-they sexual tension (see: Bones), quirky genius crime-solving (see: Lie to Me) and a case-by-case narrative structure (see: everything). 

In short, it ticks all of the boxes for generic television. Yet, it's arguably one of the most well-crafted detective programmes I've encountered to date - and, as we've covered, I've seen more than a handful. I often think of television in terms of a hierarchy of engagement. There are shows that require little-to-no engagement to enjoy and there are shows that require absolute engagement. I think of it as a spectrum spanning from Lorre's Two and a Half Men to Zelman & Kessler's Damages (for better or worse, television at its most complex). Typically, I prefer television programmes around upper-mid-range; challenging but not demanding. Community, for example. 

Castle doesn't sit comfortably within that spectrum. It's an intriguing exception. In many ways, it's trash television. Not just narratively, either. Creator Andrew Marlowe has a flair for histrionic dialogue and seems to delight in bathing his show in obsequious lighting arrangements - silhouettes, backlighting, moody sepia tones. Something oddly Baz Luhrmann about it all. Even Castle's music seems sleazy and predictable. That said, Marlowe also has a pronounced knack for manipulating his own conventions. Castle may appear thoroughly generic - and, often, it can be - but it's also remarkably subversive. Frequently brilliantly so. 

It's rare for a crime procedural to deviate too heavily from an Agatha Christie/Law & Order method - a body is spontaneously discovered by a stranger, approximately six suspects are interviewed and a murderer is caught. Typically, said murderer will be spoken to second (unless a guest star is involved; guest stars are never innocent). Marlowe, however, delights in subverting such models. A recent episode provides a stellar example. A series of women had been killed and, in due course, a suspect is found to have been blackmailing each victim mere weeks before their death. True to form, said suspect is our second port-of-call in investigation. So far, so typical.

In time, it's revealed that our suspect is actually innocent of murder. The guilty party? Our third victim - whom our heroes had narrowly 'saved' from poisoning. Of course, such novelty twists aren't unheard of within the mystery genre. The aforementioned Sherlock thrives on unconventional crimes and BBC's Jonathan Creek frequently employed such twists (a particularly gruesome episode revealing a supposed sex tape as actually documenting a woman's death). Such programs usually define themselves through unusual cases, though. Castle is a standard procedural which nevertheless consistently employs complex shifts and twists without compromising its own trashy aesthetic. 

Upon closer inspection, it actually reveals itself as a product of astonishing precision. Typically, we presume a show is trashy because writers are either incompetent or unmotivated. Castle appears to be whatever its creator desires it to be - when he's of a mind, Marlowe can craft an exceptionally plotted long-form season arc. There are episodes where he's concocted believable explanations as to why our two main characters would be saving the world. Just as easily, he can conjure up a series of hilarious familial misunderstandings or romantic entanglements. It's just so often done so casually and gracefully that viewers tend to miss the craft. 

The key seems to be Marlowe's own love of television. He doesn't seem intent so much on destroying or reinventing detective tropes as enriching them. He reminds me of Community's Dan Harmon in that sense. Community has broken every rule television has ever had - but, at its heart, it's never sought to be anything other than a love letter to classic sitcoms like M*A*S*H or Cheers. Castle fulfils a similar function with crime procedurals. It lovingly recreates each genre convention and archetype even as it subtly reinvents them altogether. The ever-evolving relationship between Richard Castle and Kate Beckett is a prime example. 

The will-they/won't-they is a staple not just of detective shows but of television shows. Ross and Rachel, JD and Elliot, Bones and Booth. In almost every instance, it's eventually used as a cynical hook to keep viewers latched on beyond a production's actual golden years. At one point, I would have described Beckett and Castle's relationship in exactly those terms - but Marlowe has crafted that relationship so beautifully over the past four seasons that it's actually transcended its origins as a hook. Recent episodes make the characters' affection for each other abundantly clear. It's simply a case of characters figuring out mechanics within a complex relationship. It's been a truly masterful piece of storytelling.

This is why Castle confounds my little hierarchy of engagement. It works as relatively immediate fluff. I doubt Marlowe has any ambitions beyond it working as such fluff, either - but, through deft subversion of expectations and simple craftsmanship, he's actually imbued his work with remarkable substance. Again, it reminds me of Harmon's work with Community. Harmon once compared his show to pizza. "We don't make, you know, foie gras or whatever," he says in a DVD commentary (though I am paraphrasing). "But we'll always give you a good, solid slice of pizza." Castle is a remarkably solid slice of pizza. Much, much better than you'd expect.    

(I do hope they don't stretch it out after a fifth season, though. I can't imagine that working well at all.) 

              

La Boite Theatre Company & Griffin Theatre Company: A Hoax

Exiting A Hoax, I found myself immediately seeking out a friend. The work had taken an unfortunate turn around its third act and I wanted to discuss.

"So, third act - disaster, right?" 

"Third act? The whole play. Great concept; written like it was Neighbours."

At which point he discovered I had a cold and fled.

I still don't agree with my friend's summation. Having been subjected to an episode of Neighbours earlier that evening, I can say he gives their writers entirely too much credit. He was broadly correct, though. A Hoax does make a mess of a brilliant premise. 

Written by promising Australian playwright Rick Viede, it concerns itself with misery memoirs - specifically, fraudulent misery memoirs. I'd been intrigued by the work from the moment I heard of it. Having been one of the many suckered into James Frey's A Million Little Pieces (a particularly harrowing autobiography later proven to be almost entirely fabricated), I was interested to see how Viede would tackle such ideas with the liberty afforded a work of fiction.

Quite simply, it would appear. The word for A Hoax would be crude. Not in regards to humour or thematic concerns (though crudity is touched upon - being honest, Viede actually excels at it); but in the sense of refinement. Ironically, A Hoax is quite a simplistic piece of work. The plot is a ham-fisted interpretation of unpredictability and, for the most part, its characters are broadly painted figures of limited dimension. I have a tendency to prefer excessively complication in all things but, even with that bias taken into account, A Hoax seems thuggish.

As my friend suggested, there's a strong foundation. The play begins with social worker and aspiring author Ant hiring indigenous youth Mirri to act as Currah - author of his fabricated autobiography of sexual abuse and struggle. In the beginning, it works quite well (in a Blake Edwards sort of way). Ant leaves Mirri unattended, publisher Ronnie swoops in and surprises Mirri/Currah, complications ensue, drama unfolds, et cetera. Viede's humour is broad (publisher Ronnie is a textbook older female professional - sharp, sassy, ruthless) but it's also funny. The fact that he's using such broad humour against such spiky issues actually initially makes for a refreshing approach. He resists the urge to proselytise.

Unfortunately, proceedings swiftly segue from 'surprisingly accessible' to 'stupidly unbelievable'. Viede's talent is dialogue. He excels at one-liners and epithets; exchanges and arguments. Plot and character seem to be almost afterthoughts - mere mechanical obligations to allow for more witticisms and observations. Far too often, audiences are expected to accept simply unrealistic scenarios and increasingly irrational character arcs. There's a certain level of implausibility expected in fiction but Viede seems to have constructed a narrative with no regards to reality or internal logic whatsoever. Social media, for example, is conveniently ill-considered. It appears when it's needed and otherwise doesn't exist.

The text is punctuated by such conveniences. Alliances shift, events transpire, characters change; not out of any logical evolution of dynamics - but simply because their architect demands it. Kurt Vonnegut once complained that guns were popular because lazy authors used them to manufacture drama and conclusions. Viede appears to be such an author. The appearance of a gun in A Hoax's final third is actually the point where the entire piece falls apart completely. If characters were better drawn, it wouldn't matter as much - but, then, if the piece were more sensibly plotted, its characters wouldn't be in need of as much refinement. It's really a mess.

Funnily enough, it isn't quite as disastrous as a production. I typically tend to love script and despise execution within Brisbane's main house productions (see, for example, Queensland Theatre Company's recent Romeo & Juliet shitstorm). Yet, A Hoax is quite sensibly rendered. Director Lee Lewis has shaped a well-rounded production - admirably constructed and competently paced. Renee Mulder's set design is simple but effective and Steve Toulmin's efforts in both sound and multimedia design are to be commended.  Each actor struggles to make sense of Viede's character arcs at some point but, some inconsistencies aside, all ultimately rise to the occasion. 

Charles Allen, making his Australian stage debut as Ronnie's gay assistant, delivers an absolute triumph of a performance from an absolute cliche of a character. Sally McKenzie similarly works wonders with limited material - losing her footing only in the production's disastrous conclusion. Shari Sebbens and Glenn Hazeldine - as Mirri/Currah and Ant, respectively - tend towards the soapy throughout but still manage to deliver when necessary. Hazeldine, in particular, does some especially great work with Ant's gradual descent into despair.

Still, as a show, A Hoax really lives and dies with its script - and Rick Viede's script simply wasn't there. 

(As an aside; I'd love to see him re-write it in a couple of years. I actually think there's a genuinely unbelievable play buried somewhere in there. He just doesn't have the chops to pull it out of the wreckage just yet. I hope he doesn't just leave it lie, in any regard.)  

NAPT & Peo de Pitte's Gonna Be Mine

I once read an article on The Beatles in Rolling Stone. "Michael Jackson can buy all the rights he wants," it concluded. "But he'll never mean as much to people as The Beatles did. Each single was an event." In a strange way, I have a similar relationship with UK post-breaks outfit NAPT. I can't claim a similar level of adoration - it's the frickin' Beatles, for christ's sake - but I anticipate each minor, solitary release with a similarly disproportionate degree of enthusiasm. To me; each single and EP release has become an event.

The advantage of NAPT's approach is that their artistic growth is both more focused and immediate. The difference between Lock The P and King Jitter (both released in 2011), for example, is considerable. The difference between either of those productions and a production like 2009's eight-minute Make My Day is insurmountable. NAPT, moreso than any act I could name, take advantage of dance music's prolific dynamic to really explore and refine their approach at every opportunity. Each production is a new experiment.

Of late, I'd worried about such an approach. Gonna Be Mine lays such concerns to rest. Having formed their own record label Red Sugar Records, NAPT's work had been growing increasingly stranger and increasingly simplified. The sprawling, multi-layered productions of breakthrough singles like Gotta Have More Cowbell had been replaced by simpler arrangements and stranger approaches. Following December's highly experimental and stripped-back King Jutter/Treatise EP, I briefly lost interest in NAPT altogether.



Still, Gonna Be Mine re-affirms my interest in the pair's work. A collaboration with rising London producer Peo De Pitte, Gonna Be Mine ultimately does what NAPT have always done best - squirreling intricate, innovative flourishes of creative artistry within broad panoramas of dancefloor-conquering electro-funk. Initial listens may suggest an obvious approach (sampling Snap's ubiquitous 'The Power' is either a bold or foolish move), subsequent investigations reveal infinitely more detail at work.

Observe, for example, their use of the aforementioned sample. In a similar approach to their revisiting of Technotronic's Pump Up the Jam in Make My Day, Snap's main hook isn't actually the main hook of Gonna Be Mine. It's cleverly twisted and re-edited into an entirely different hook. The production is defined through such supple craftsmanship - a lurching bassline lends uncharacteristic swing to a previously direct groove, snippets of eighties electro-funk (gated toms, brief synth-stabs) appear without warning.

Structurally, it retains NAPT's recent fascination with simplicity. Indeed, it actually mimics King Jitter's arrangement quite closely. It works, though. The joy of NAPT's output of late - a joy, I must admit, I overlooked until recently - is its unrivalled immediacy. The expansive convolution of their older work is undeniably fascinating but it doesn't really compare with the unbridled euphoria of Gonna Be Mine's shuddering bass drop - or, for that matter, King Jitter's swirling, plaintive vocal hook or Treatise's stripped-back electro/breaks groove.

Another strong showing, in other words. They're releasing another EP soon. Obviously, I'm excited.