Whoa! Where does all this good stuff come from? We can’t believe that it took us so long to find this web series, which just happens to be better than 90% of the comedies on TV – in any country. (Yeppers, we’re including Britcoms here!)
What? Is that scoffing we hear? No scoffing necessary here, gang. Scoffing does not apply. Don’t believe us? Look at this:
The New York Times succumbs to the Dread Overthink. (But what the hell – better minds have done it too.)
At 6:45 a.m. on a September day in Baltimore, when the heat was already loitering in the 80s and would eventually flirt with 100 degrees, Beau Willimon, the show runner for “House of Cards,” finished his first — or maybe second, or actually probably his third — cigarette of the day and stalked onto the show’s outdoor set. Every set of a TV show is a little reminiscent of a ragged Civil War camp, with its provisional tents and huddled groups of conferring higher-ups and wandering assistants tending to disparate needs. But on the “House of Cards” set — temporarily erected in a small park adjacent to a block of Baltimore townhouses — this feeling was heightened by the presence of Willimon, with his facial hair that might be best described as “sort-of mutton chops”; his beeline intensity; and, of course, that name: Beau Willimon, which seems perfectly suited to a brass plaque in the South somewhere, commemorating a particularly brave or foolhardy general. His hair was an unkempt pompadour, and he wore an untucked work shirt, unlaced work boots and jeans with a back pocket so tattered that it barely cradled his wallet, a situation that at least three people, including me, felt moved to warn him about it, though he waved each of us off in turn. He had the haunted look of a man who’s worried about something much more important, and he’d only just arrived on set.
Jodie Foster — she of the two Academy Awards — was directing this particular episode. Like many movie stars, Foster is tiny, and she wore flip-flops and a ball cap and a bandanna looped round her neck. She was talking with the director of photography about a shot that involved the politician Francis Underwood exiting his townhouse with his wife, Claire, walking down their front steps and mounting an outdoor lectern to address the assembled Washington press corps.
One Drew Z. Greenberg, by name. Writer/producer extraordinaire (and the guy who wrote the Buffy-Spike hookup episode):
EDITOR’S NOTE: Who says the publishing biz – you know, the one that uses actual paper – is dead? Certainly not our pal Herbie J Pilato, who recently sent us this feel-good report:
Hello All –
Overthinking TV’s current hot serial killer. Hey, somebody’s got to do it:
by Shana MlawskiIt is not from the benevolence of the butcher, the brewer, or the baker that we expect our dinner, but from their regard to their own interest.
—Adam Smith