Sunday, June 17, 2012

in which our heroine tries to find something to watch during summer hiatus

Stray thoughts on pilots: Warehouse 13

There are Buddhas, and it’s Washington D.C., so this is a museum, or some post-apocalyptic version of the future where the Chinese took over and then rediscovered religion.  There’s a pretty brunette woman who has big, awkward eyes and wordlessly identifies with a misfit of a middle schooler, so she’s probably smart and socially awkward in spite of her obvious beauty.

There’s a man of mystery sleeping with a blonde woman who doesn’t know what he does for a living.  I bet he gets along really well with serious brunette girl.

A lab tech got blood on an ancient artifact. I’m sure this will work out well for everyone.

Back to the blonde, she makes a snide comment about the Secret Service to a man who won’t tell her what he does for a living, which in T.V. land is akin to bitching about the hard-ass boss that no one has ever seen to the conspicuously laid back dude who for some reason is allowed to lounge around the office with impunity.

Oh look, playboy and brunette don’t get along!  Called it!

Brunette’s name is Micah, or something phonetically similar.  One of the many biblical boys’ names that sounds like a girl’s name, Cf. Elisha.

Male ethnic nameless Secret Service agent, you’re dead. 
Yep.  Dead.

Playboy plays it fast, and plays it loose, and in the end is gonna get burned.  Either that or Sterling Archer is going to blow his cover.

Are inner thigh holsters really a thing?

Supernatural things are happening!

Roommate: “Well, his life is ruined; he might as well have been shot [by brunette].”
Me: “Yes, well, at least [brunette] won’t have to fill out endless paperwork.”

Mystery black woman, burly Asian guy, and Playboy.  This scene is so ethnically diverse!    Aw, Playboy has no human attachments.  Poor good-looking, highly skilled white man.

Brunette: “What am I doing here?”
Roommate: “What is she doing there?”
Me: “She has to balance out his seat-of-the-pants, fly-by-night attitude with her bookish adherence to rules and protocols, which is how she succeeded in a man’s world in the first place.  Also, sexual tension.”

Jane Espenson!

Brunette is an entitled brat.  I hate her.  She probably went to Choate.  She has a Choate neck.

Playboy asks the only intelligent question of the entire scene: “What am I supposed to do here?”

Brunette is dismissive of small-town America.  Her new name is Choate Neck.  She’s also insensitive to her partner’s alcoholism!

Playboy went to Dartmouth.  His new name is Dartmouth!

Oh, Choate Neck has daddy issues.  Shocker.

My inner hipster wants, nay, demands a old-timey typewriter computer keyboard.

Choate Neck is dismissive of domestic violence.  Hate.  Her.

Choate Neck is also terrible at interacting with suspects, or, you know, human beings of any kind in any situation at all, ever.

Defense attorney deflects question with snark, and Choate Neck takes exception: “That was a serious question!”  Oh, so now you wanna take things seriously?!

If I worked alone in a warehouse with a zip line, I would do that all day long.

Choate Neck’s dead lebensborn lover calls her “Bunny,” and if that doesn’t scream “Choate!” I don’t know what does.

WTF is a “Renaissance blowout?”
OK, it’s apparently a bonfire party surrounded by classical columns and a few people dressed in community-theater grade Renaissance garb.

Well, that was acceptable.  I'll probably watch that again.