Shadows on the Grave (2016) #8

I just got the final reveal in the Deneaus conclusion. Not like I just finished reading it and got the reveal; a few hours later, sitting down to write about Shadows on the Grave’s finish, I got it.

I should’ve gotten it earlier. Maybe I would in a single sitting reread (I mean, probably not, but we’re pretending here). It’s a nice touch. It doesn’t change anything about the final chapter, but a nice touch. Creator Richard Corben’s had a bumpy road with Deneaus, the only serial in Grave, and it’s nice he’s got it to a solid finish. The art’s particularly lovely, with lots of white space for the open skies and empty landscapes. It contrasts the very busy panels of the rest of the book, which mostly takes place in graveyards.

Literally.

Over fifty percent of the other three short stories and two one-pagers takes place in a graveyard. The non-graveyard one-pager, opening the book, involves a corpse. Corben’s got his standards, and he hits them well here. Well, after the first story, anyway.

The first story’s another robber story; some dude is going to rob an antique shop and pawn the goods somewhere else for cash. The shop owner can tell there’s something skeezy and kicks the guy out, who then watches the store owner acting weird about a cabinet. Of course, the robber will return for the cabinet, with its contents providing scary fodder for the rest of the story.

The MacGuffin’s only okay because Corben does a weird epilogue thing where he skips some of the action. The epilogue doesn’t work, making the MacGuffin less of a disappointment in comparison. Lots of scary, ominous details, though.

They really come through in the following story, about a couple of kids playing in a graveyard. One dares the other to go into a child killer’s crypt, only for the gate to get stuck. Corben uses the same epilogue device here and to great success. Corben writes a lot more this issue since he’s still doing eight-page stories, and there’s not much action in them, and the prose here’s better. He’s more patient with it.

The next story—also a graveyard story—has a woman visiting her mother’s grave, then her three husbands’ graves. Corben does a quick exposition dump, then turns it into a zombie action story with a couple unexpected turns (outside the zombies). No epilogue device in this one (though I’m now thinking about how Corben usually just does them in narration, not scene). Anyway. Another really strong entry. While the first story’s lacking, the second two more than make up for it, then the Deneaus finale brings the issue to a strong close.

The back cover one-pager bids Grave and its readers an amusing, witty farewell.

The series has ranged from excellent Corben to uneven Corben. The art’s always been on point, even when the writing’s been wanting (more often than not, that writing isn’t Corben’s). In all, an outstanding Corben horror anthology.

Doom Patrol (2019) s04e02 – Butt Patrol

I’m hesitant to call anything “Doom Patrolling,” a la “Westworlding,” but this episode comes close. The team is recovering from their trip to the future and discovering they bring about the “Butt-pocalypse;” one of the zombie butts from last season has survived to destroy the world. April Bowlby’s all set to lead the team to track down Jon Briddell, the bad guy everyone assumes is involved, but the rest of the team gives her a vote of no confidence.

So it seems like we’re going to have an introspective mansion episode—and we do for a couple characters—setting up a bigger mission they’d be doing if they were regular superheroes. It’s mostly a first-season device, but they’ve fallen back on it a few times over the seasons. It’s a fine device, and there have been great episodes with it, but it’s the second episode of the new season… little soon.

Luckily, it’s not that episode at all. Bowlby and Matt Bomer (and Matthew Zuk) have a mansion episode, with Bomer trying to reconnect with his energy parasite—it’s scared of the zombie butt future—and Bowlby is mad Bomer’s not more supportive of her team-leading abilities. Their arc ends up being the least impressive. The show’s not ready to reveal the future energy parasite information, so it’s more about clearing the air; while Bowlby’s mad at Bomer for not being in her corner, he’s angry she came back from the past last season a different person. Albeit, she came back to the future the long way, living ninety years or whatever.

It’d be excellent acting fodder for Bowlby in particular if it were better. Instead, it’s filler until the rest of the team gets back home. Joivan Wade’s upset no one wants him as team leader, so he’s going to go on his own mission, having tracked down a frozen zombie butt. Diane Guerrero tags along, and they have a decent little subplot. They also get to hash out some of their character drama, setting up nice scenes for the closing montage. Guerrero is doing her best work on the show this season, even back to playing her regular persona.

Meanwhile, Michelle Gomez realizes they just need to snuff out the problem, so she enlists Brendan Fraser (more Riley Shanahan for the body work) to help her. It becomes this exceptionally depressing arc about Fraser’s newfound ability to feel (just in one finger, but still) and Gomez’s muted self-loathing as she finds herself again manipulating meta-humans.

Framing the entire episode are the adventures of Keiko Agena’s linguist; starting in flashback, we see how she went to the Ant Farm to work with the butts before the show started. Agena’s real good.

Outside Bomer and Bowlby’s filler arc, it’s a strong episode; script credit to Eric Dietel.

Plus, singing, man-eating butts. What else do you want?

Doom Patrol (2019) s04e01 – Doom Patrol

Last season, “Doom Patrol” had to recover from a Covid-19-induced shortened second season, then get the show into a decent spot for HBO Max to cancel them. Thankfully, HBO Max did not cancel them, and now the show gets to do, presumably, at least this fourth season.

You never know with HBO Max, however.

Anyway.

This season premiere picks up about six months after the finale, which saw the Doom Patrol becoming superheroes under April Bowlby’s enthusiastic, if questionable, leadership. Bowlby’s still team leader, Robotman (Riley Shanahan walking, Brendan Frasier talking), is almost rebuilt, no longer Cyborg Jovian Wade and dad Phil Morris are doing that rebuilding as they try to bond, Diane Guerrero’s having a multiple personality crisis, Matt Bomer and Matthew Zuk (Bomer talking, Zuk wearing the hot costume) are bonding with their new electrical alien parasite, and Michelle Gomez is still trying to atone for her many sins as the latest team member.

Now, Gomez is in the opening credits as “special appearance by,” which isn’t a great sign for her longevity. I kept waiting for her to do a runner this episode, but the show seems sure she’ll be around for a while. Hope so; she and Bowlby are even more fun together hating each other. Or, Bowlby hates Gomez, while Gomez is trying to play nice but noticing the team leadership problems.

It’s a fine place to start the season, with Guerrero narrating. Her primary persona now is the psychiatrist, played in the Underground (where Guerrero interacts with the personalities) by Catherine Carlen. The narration is Guerrero’s psychological observations about the team, which is an excellent device.

However, things go wrong once they go on mission, finding themselves thrown into the future—which the audience has already seen in the episode prologue—and discovering most of their future selves dead, all because of some imminent mistake they’ll be making in the past. There’s a nice mix of action, deception, and character drama, with loads of good acting from the cast. The episode even gets in a great music montage (Clint Mansell and Kevin Kiner) where everyone’s moping around the mansion, realizing the new season’s started and shit’s getting real again.

There are a couple significant reveals in the third act, along with a cameo in an epilogue, lots of future angst, and contemporary drama—the season hook is solid. The episode might feature Guerrero’s best acting on the show, albeit doing a Carlen impression.

So glad “Doom Patrol”’s back. So glad.

Frasier (1993) s07e16 – Something About Dr. Mary

I’m not sure where to start with this episode. Jay Kogen’s got the writing credit, and he’s had his name on some good episodes in the past. But why they ever thought they ought to do an episode like Dr. Mary. Dr. Mary is played by Kim Coles, a Black woman (and possibly the first significant Black guest star since the first season), who is filling in for show producer Peri Gilpin while Gilpin has her apartment painted. Guilty white liberal Frasier (played by anti-liberal Kelsey Grammer) met Coles while doing an outreach program for job training.

After initially being shy about getting on the air with Grammer, Coles quickly dominates the show but changing the format. Instead of stuffed shirt Grammer, it’s hip, sassy Black lady Coles—who adopts the “Doctor” moniker because it sounds good, which is one of Grammer’s last straws. Dad John Mahoney just thinks Grammer’s avoiding talking to her about her performance because she’s Black, while brother David Hyde Pierce points out he once had a Black friend. As though someone in the writer’s room decided the lily-white cringe wasn’t cringe enough… Grammer then points out rich Black people aren’t really Black people.

The episode also includes an ableist subplot to distract from questioning whether Hyde Pierce, Mahoney, and Grammer are really the ones to be talking about race. Grammer and Gilpin making fun of a colleague with a speech impediment.

The episode employs various devices to show how Coles’s becoming more popular—apparently, the radio station is taking out advertisements mid-broadcast—to the point, it threatens Gilpin’s return. Station manager Tom McGowan loves Coles because she makes the show more popular and, for a radio show, better. Grammer never considers the possibility radio professional McGowan might be correct. Gilpin’s the only one with a vested interest in staying, and she’s happy to move on if the money’s right.

The episode’s subplot has Hyde Pierce taking up kickboxing, bumping into Jane Leeves, and then cooking for her and Mahoney because she’s milking the injury (at Mahoney’s insistence). It’s fine. At least Mahoney’s not saying “massa” during it (spoiler, he does in the other plot). And there’s some good physical comedy for Hyde Pierce.

Grammer’s got a broken part, as does Coles, who will eventually have to forgive Grammer for being too scared to talk to her like a person because she’s Black (and a woman). But both of them have good moments.

Something About Dr. Mary, besides the title, doesn’t so much not age well as reveal how white creatives had (read: have) such ingrained misogynoir, they can turn it into an entire sitcom episode but never acknowledge its existence.

Oof.

Killer of Sheep (1978, Charles Burnett)

Killer of Sheep is a series of vignettes, usually connected with a sequence at the slaughterhouse (though not always slaughter, but sometimes, so be ready), always connected with a piece of music. Sometimes the music recalls a previous scene or musical selection, creating a narrative echo between the sequences. And even though Sheep is incredibly lyrical in its structure, somewhere in the second half—as enough time has progressed—more traditional plot lines have formed.

Mainly because lead Henry G. Sanders has started hanging out with Eugene Cherry and Cherry really wants to get a car running. Except Cherry’s terrible at bigger-picture car stuff. He can install an engine block but is hazy when it comes to gravity, leading to a couple harrowing sequences.

And then Kaycee Moore has a definite subplot; she plays Sanders’s wife, who’s feeling his depressive episodes in all sorts of ways. Sheep is about being Black working class in the early seventies, with L.A. in some kind of a transition (the neighborhood kids play in unfinished buildings, constructions or destructions), and writer, director, editor, and cinematographer Burnett knows there’s a lot there for a Black woman. But Sheep doesn’t explore it, just how Moore (and the other Black women) experience being around the men.

The setting and time period mean there’s no way Sanders can call what he’s experiencing depression, but he does know there’s nothing he can do about it. He and Moore have somewhat recently moved to the city with their two kids. Jack Drummond plays the tween son, Angela Burnett’s his little sister.

At the open, it seems like Drummond will be the more significant kid. Burnett juxtaposes Sanders’s story with scenes of the neighborhood kids at play. Mostly the boys, though the girls get a memorable scene, so it seems natural Drummond’s going to be the more important. He’s ingesting a lot of toxic masculinity, both out playing and (passively) from dad Sanders, and he’s started bullying sister Burnett.

But since he’s always out of the house and Burnett’s too young to go out on her own—we eventually see she does have friends, but they come over with their mothers—she’s much more present for Sanders and Moore’s unhappy moments together, but also their time apart. Moore and Burnett have a gentle mother-and-daughter arc; lots of lovely moments.

While Moore and Cherry have plot lines and identifiable arcs, Sanders sort of doesn’t. Yes, he’s the main character, yes, it’s about his work contributing to his depression, but if Sanders’s character knows how to verbalize any of those feelings, he doesn’t on screen. And what we do see on screen suggests he doesn’t. Again, he’s trapped in a depression, knowing there’s no way out. Even when he gets exceptionally asterisked job offers—one’s to be a cabana boy for the liquor store lady, the other’s to be wheelman on a hit—we don’t get his reaction. The liquor store scene ends emphasizing the awkwardness and awfulness of the situation (the owner only cashes checks for the Black men she’s got the hots for, i.e., Sanders), and Moore’s the one who shuts down the wheelman conversation.

With his male friends, Sanders can find a comfort he can’t with Moore, which even the kids recognize (though Drummond’s acting out from go). Moore’s trying everything she can with Sanders, but he just doesn’t talk to her. There are some devastating scenes for the two of them. While Sanders gives the film’s best performance, Moore gives the most essential. Sheep simply wouldn’t work without her anxious but muted energy. She’s primed in anticipation, but Sanders is utterly resigned. Burnett mixes the contrary tones beautifully.

Burnett’s most impressive work on the film—well, technically, it’s producer because he made the film—but creatively, it’s his direction and editing. His photography’s excellent, and the writing’s strong, especially for a mostly amateur cast. But the direction is where he’s superlative, whether with the actors (again, the editing and writing working in unison) or with his composition; Sheep’s always phenomenal. The way Burnett bakes looming danger into a film without any violence (against people, anyway) is something else.

And it relates back to the character relationships. There’s a lot of turmoil between Sanders and Drummond, Sanders and Moore, and Moore and Drummond. Their interactions are sometimes foreboding, especially given Drummond’s seeming lack of, well, sense. Things aren’t going right for the family in Sheep, but only Drummond is actively threatening to make them worse. It’s rending.

Thanks to the montage device, Burnett’s able to end Sheep whenever and goes out not so much on a surprise, but still abruptly. The third act’s got a nebulous start time until the film’s end when events become a little clearer. It’s bleak but not fatalistic. There’s always a lot of hope, even as Sanders is drowning in hopelessness.

Sheep’s an exceptional film.

Stage Struck (1958, Sidney Lumet)

Conservatively, Stage Struck has six endings. They start about fifty-eight minutes into the film, which runs ninety-five minutes. Actually, wait, there are probably—conservatively—seven. I forgot how many there are mid-third act before the actual (ending-laden) finale.

For a while, the false endings add to the film’s charm. Maybe if the third act hadn’t reduced lead Susan Strasberg to a glorified cameo… but by the end, Struck’s already had all its problems. It’s got a doozy—Strasberg’s in a love triangle with Broadway producer Henry Fonda and playwright Christopher Plummer. Strasberg was twenty at the time, Plummer twenty-nine, and Fonda was fifty-three. For context, Strasberg’s real-life dad was only three years older than Fonda. Strasberg’s character is eighteen-ish. They establish she left her hometown in Vermont, where she was in all her (now dead) uncle’s plays. Fonda presumably reminds her of her uncle (ick). She fawns over him, wanting him to Svengali her, and he can’t help but fall for her. It doesn’t hurt his regular girlfriend, younger but not “I’m only a few years shy of being old enough to be your grandpa” territory Joan Greenwood, likes to punish him for slights by withholding physical affections.

So, yeah. For a while, it seems like Struck’s going to be all about Fonda and Strasberg getting together. It’s not, thank goodness, and any threats to revisit the topic end up just being threats, which also get contextualized for Fonda’s character–rich white guys never have to grow up and think about things if they stay rich and white enough—it doesn’t ever stop being creepy (especially since Strasberg looks like a kid kid), but… I don’t know; it makes “sense.” And Fonda’s really good at playing this old creeper who does try to act responsibly. Somewhat.

Stage Struck is a remake of Morning Glory, which is based on an unproduced stage play. And Struck filmed entirely on location in New York City, as the opening title promises. Director Lumet and cinematographers Morris Hartzband and Franz Planer have some trouble with the location shooting, but Lumey’s instincts are all good, and when the shots look good, they look great. There’s an exterior location scene between Strasberg and Plummer—if it weren’t a late fifties studio remake of an early thirties studio picture—it’d be exceptional. Lumet and his photographers foreshadow seventies Hollywood New York movies by over a decade.

And there are some exceptional moments in the film. It’s all about Strasberg wanting to make it on Broadway but not wanting to go the regular route. She was in a play club in her hometown; she knows all the Shakespeare by heart, why should she go to the Actor’s Studio (did they consider having her real dad—Actors Studio coach Lee Strasberg—cameo); she wants to be a star now. It doesn’t work out for her in act one, but when she’s back in act two, she has this line about having to prove herself. Strasberg’s got to prove to the Broadway people in the movie she can be a major stage actor, which means she’s also got to prove it to Struck’s audience.

She does. It’s incredible. At first, it seems like Lumet doesn’t have the scene, then he does, while Strasberg keeps delivering great moment after the great moment, Lumet holding the shots. It echoes in the third act. It’s so good.

Sadly, it’s also when Fonda sees something he likes.

But it’s more Plummer’s movie than anyone else. He’s the new playwright who throws in with commercial success Fonda. The film starts with them going into production on one play and ends with their production on the next. Lumet and screenwriters Ruth and Augustus Gortz do a fine job opening the film up enough it never feels too stagy—Lumet loves the theater so much he bakes in acknowledging the stage—but none of these people exist outside their professions. Even when we see Fonda at home, it’s in the context of Broadway producer.

Lots of great acting. Strasberg has an unsteady first act, a knockout second then is missing from most of the third. Intentionally, which is a bad choice. Plummer’s great, and Fonda’s outstanding. Herbert Marshall is an older actor who thinks Strasberg’s swell, but since he’s in his sixties, he doesn’t have to be a pervert about it. Greenwood’s good, even though she’s reduced to foil. Nice small work from Daniel Ocko and John Fiedler. Struck’s got a lot of fine performances; given the subject, it’s got to have them.

The film’s a little too experimental for its own good (with the location shooting), and the third act’s a mess, but Stage Struck’s pretty darn good. A tad too pervy, even if muted, but it’s not a factually inaccurate representation of how Broadway producers behave… and the acting’s superb. Strasberg’s a marvel, and Plummer’s a great lead (in his first theatrical film).

Oh, the Alex North music.

It’s a tad much; chalk it in the experimental column, especially when it plays over the actors.

This post is part of the Charismatic Christopher Plummer Blogathon hosted by Gabriela of Pale Writer and Gill of Realweegiemidget Reviews.

Legion of Super-Heroes (1980) #262

James Sherman is back on art after an extended period, now going by “Jim.” His style’s simplified, with a lot less detail. He’s still got fantastic composition and his people—again, simplified—have a lot of personality in what he does give them. Last time he was on the series, he was doing these lush, expansive sci-fi action panels. Now, he’s still got the sci-fi action, just not the lushness (well, a few times). He’s not as good as before, but he’s still pretty dang good.

Leagues ahead of the norm on Legion, anyway.

Writer Gerry Conway opens with Lightning Lad and Saturn Girl on Earth talking about the Legionnaires off on their missions. They’re telling readers everything they need to know to jump on (including who’s married to who, who’s dating who, and so on; it’s a tedious exposition dump). Anyway, last issue, we read about the space circus mystery, this issue, we’re going to read about the Legion team trying to help R.J. Brande rebuild his fortune. He makes stars. Zaps space dust and turns it into a star, which he then moves around for performance art. Or something. It’s unclear. And they get distracted from their mission when they discover a destroyed star system.

It ends up being a pretty good issue. It reads like Conway’s trying out for the “Star Trek” license, with the Legionnaires encountering a strange, dangerous planet with a complicated secret. Conway even makes a “final frontier” reference, inviting the comparison. It’s okay, especially with Sherman’s art giving the characters chemistry on their detour.

There are a few times the script and the art don’t match. First, when Light Lass rescues some other Legionnaire, he wants to give her a thank you kiss, but they’re seeing other people. In the reflection on Wildfire’s helmet, we see them locking lips, but it’s not written as ominous just fun. Maybe everyone in the Legion can swing now Superboy’s gone with his Midwestern values.

Later, there’s a space travel moment made nonsensical by the art and writing being out of whack, which is far less interesting than illicit behavior.

It’s nice to have Sherman around. Conway works better with him—even taking the occasional disconnect into account—than anyone else on the book so far.

I’m sure he’s not staying. Can’t catch a break on this one.

Frasier (1993) s07e15 – Out with Dad

As usual, I regret not keeping better track of writing credits. Joe Keenan gets the credit this episode; he’s been writing “Frasier” since season two with numerous big successes, but based on Out with Dad, I’d have thought him a newbie. The episode picks and chooses plot points from outstanding—and memorable—episodes and mixes them a bit. Dad John Mahoney tells Mary Louise Wilson he’s gay, so she’ll stop flirting with him, and she sets him up with her… well, wait, Brian Bedford’s English.

So maybe her brother-in-law? Anyway, Bedford is Marg Helgenberger’s uncle, which is important because Kelsey Grammer’s interested in Helgenberger. Only Bedford’s interested in Mahoney, so Mahoney has to pretend he’s gay for the evening, except gay and unavailable. He can’t come clean about being straight because it’ll mess up Grammer.

People being confused about Mahoney being gay goes back to season one. And the family pretending they’re something other than cishet WASPs most memorably happened in the “let’s pretend we’re Jewish” episode, but I’ll bet there have been more. Out just stirs them together a little differently.

Oddly, it’s a Valentine’s Day episode too. Grammer ropes Mahoney into going to the opera because otherwise, Mahoney would be at home watching chick flicks with Jane Leeves and Peri Gilpin. David Hyde Pierce was supposed to go with Grammer, but Jane Adams (who doesn’t appear) stayed in town special for him. Grammer doesn’t want to give up his seat (to Adams to go with Hyde Pierce) because he’s got the hots for Helgenberger, another opera-goer. When he and Mahoney get there, Mahoney waves at Helgenberger to be extra, but Wilson thinks he’s spotted her. Confusion and hijinks ensue, including Mahoney drafting an unlikely person as his romantic interest.

It’s an amusing episode; it’s just entirely redundant. There are some good laughs (and nice human moments, eventually, for Mahoney), but it’s an adequate episode for a sitcom in its seventh season, nothing more. And Helgenberger makes almost no impression, with first Wilson, then Bedford running all her scenes.

Solid direction from David Lee probably helps a lot. Again… fine, with asterisks.

Tomb of Dracula (1972) #29

I can’t believe how well writer Marv Wolfman ends up doing with this issue. It very much should not work, yet it ends up working (in no small part due to Gene Colan and Tom Palmer’s superb artwork; it’s one of their best issues). But the story… wow wee. Dracula starts the issue attacking a random babysitter, and after the splash page, Colan goes with the vampire bat attacking from above, which was a visual trope for the first few issues of Tomb. Colan dropped it almost noticeably, and it’s only one panel here; not as much terrifying the victims, I guess.

See, Dracula’s upset because he got dumped. Familiar Shiela left him for Yeshiva student David and so Dracula’s rampaging. He goes to bed, planning to kill David the next night. Luckily, since Shiela’s so upset about Dracula, David goes to kill him. Even though Shiela and David can’t be more than friends—“right or wrong,” their differing religions get in the way—he wants her to feel safe, so he’s going to succeed where everyone else has failed.

Sure.

Wolfman’s second-person narration mainly just lectures Dracula about being such a son of a bitch (Boris Karloff should’ve done readings of this narration, a la The Grinch). It’s not great and initially seems like it’s going to do the issue in. It does not, however, because Dracula’s actions—separate from the close second-person—reveal a much more complicated character arc. I’m sure Wolfman didn’t intend for the narration and the narrative to work against each other, but it’s a success.

Less successful—though very weird by the end—is Taj’s origin story. Dracula attacked Taj, his son, and his wife. The wife ran and got her legs crushed, a vampire bit the kid, and Rachel Van Helsing showed up in the nick of time to save Taj from Dracula. The wife narrates the origin and tries to trick… well, the reader, but apparently also Taj. It doesn’t matter because even though he’s been shitty to her—presumably okay because she ran out on him during the attack—they get busy in a very sexy scene from Colan and Palmer. Looks like a romance cover.

The resolution to the main plot’s a little abrupt, but the rawness helps with the emotion. It’s a rather good issue.

Frasier (1993) s07e14 – Big Crane on Campus

Oh, “Frasier: Season Seven,” why do you continue to taunt me? This episode has Jane Leeves and David Hyde Pierce cooking together and being adorable for the first time since Leeves found out about Hyde Pierce crushing on her. It’s a good scene, with Hyde Pierce getting to more fully participate—previously and problematically, these scenes have been from Leeves’s perspective (way to get a big subplot: it’s entirely in service of the dude). Sheldon Epps directs the episode and knows how to make it work. It’s a regular “Frasier” scene, only a little different; Hyde Pierce isn’t the awkward one; now it’s Leeves.

If I’d been watching this episode in February 2000, I’d have been fully committed to the idea of them getting together. Best thing for the show.

Whoops.

Otherwise, the episode’s a Kelsey Grammer-centric episode. He’s just happened to meet his high school crush (a hilarious, brassy Jean Smart) and can’t believe she’s being nice to him. Once they actually start seeing each other (there are some great scenes with Smart teasing a blubbering Hyde Pierce), Grammer discovers she’s a little too brassy for his tastes. Except he can’t give up the prom queen, not with their high school reunion just around the corner.

Outside Leeves and Hyde Pierce’s kitchen moment, everything in the episode’s in support of Grammer (and Smart). She’s a relatively featured guest star, getting a lot more complicated scenes than Grammer’s girlfriends usually get. Peri Gilpin’s around to talk Grammer through dating for the wrong reasons; she gets a classic literature book club C plot, which comes back in the end credits sequence as a way to be shitty. It’s an unfortunate finish to a strong episode.

First and foremost, it’s an excellent showcase for Smart, who was only a few years from starting to be appreciated in 2000. Or closer to it than “Designing Women.” It’s also proof they can do a mythology moment well for Leeves and Hyde Pierce. Mark Reisman, another new-to-the-show-this-season writer, gets the credit. And, finally, it’s a solid outing for Grammer. It treads somewhat familiar territory but with a fresh enough angle. He tends to be really good with his guest stars, and Smart’s no different.

So, another good episode to convince me everything’s fine and we’re not driving toward a cliff in a Winnebago.