We’re now ten weeks in, and I have to say that I don’t think things look very good for the writer’s strike. The late night shows are back on the air and beardier than ever. The country is contemplating a canceled Oscar season, and is not happy about it. We had an understanding: citizens will be subjected to Billy Crystal, Whoopi Goldberg and jokes written by Bruce Vilanch for one (1) six hour period per annum. It’s like tossing a virgin into the volcano — a nasty business to be sure, but better than the alternative. With the telecast canceled, who knows where that banality will erupt? We’re living in fear, and all because of those greedy writers and their obsession with receiving “fair” “compensation” for their “work”.
Perhaps even more damning to the writers’ cause, American Gladiators has successfully relaunched without them — and given a beleaguered nation hope. It’s impossible to watch an episode without wondering whether any profession successfully excluded from the series’ production really has anything to do with American Greatness at all. They really do get along fine without writers: it turns out that you can just hire a few new “associate producers” from a given pile of spec scripts, tell them to do their best, and then fill in the gaps in Mr. Hogan’s dialogue with the word “brother”. Layla Ali’s lilting monotone is impossible to pay attention to anyway, and viewers can be counted on to be distracted by the contestants’ varying but always-present personality disorders. It’s a winning formula.
The strain is beginning to show in some other areas, though. Last night I saw an ad for Jessica Alba’s The Eye. When considered in the context of Eliza Dushku’s Tru Calling and Jennifer Love Hewitt’s Ghost Whisperer, it seems that, as Charles put it, “All of the girls we thought were gorgeous when we were 15 are now psychic.” I’m not complaining, mind you; I’m simply noting that there’s a wide variety of wrongful-death-avenging superpowers that a writerless Hollywood is currently neglecting.