Fat of the Land

THE FUTURE'S ORANGE

What I've been doing these past couple of months, prior to Sarah's godsent blogskin, is this: I've been trying to figure out how a shallow teen soap opera became late night TV's most riveting hour.

We're talking, of course, about The O.C. - and where we lay our scene is Orange County, Newport Beach, Southern California. "A soulless enclave of California wealth", if critic Tom Carson is to be believed (which he is not). Because while the concept of boundless affluence conjures up imagery of cold and unfeeling aristocrats, the good people of Newport appear to be fraught with the same insecurities and self-doubt that plagues the common man.

And this, amongst other things, is what makes Josh Schwartz' brainchild - conceived when he was only 26 - such a Gen Y revelation. It manages to combine the angsty indulgences of high school teen dramas with the sex-lies-and-videotape intrigue of adult primetime serials into a seamless end-product.

So kids tune in every week to find out if misfit-from-Chino Ryan Atwood (played to perfection by Benjamin McKenzie) hooks up with dense-girl-next-door Marissa Cooper (Mischa Barton, both the show's loveliest and worst actress). Yuppies rush home on Thursdays to see what fate befalls Marissa's dad Jimmy (Tate Donovan), who along the way cooked books to the tune of four million dollars. Housewives watch The O.C. for, well, housewives watch just about anything.

What's exceptional about The O.C., in my mind, is neither the acting nor the scripts. While Peter Gallagher does a terrific job with Sandy Cohen and Rachel Bilson as Summer Roberts is livelier than Kirsten Dunst on crack cocaine, the rest of the cast is merely good, not inspired. The script rehashes trite plot devices from a million other drama serials, albeit in a reasonably competent, compelling form - you just know that the socially-inept Chinese High-esque protagonist Seth Cohen will inevitably get the girl he hankers after, while the evil, neurotic Oliver Trust never will.

No, what's exceptional about The O.C. is the whole premise that living the American Dream is accessible - even deserved, if you grew up in a rough neighbourhood and were dealt a bad hand in life. Ryan isn't in Orange County to impose middle-class values of thrift and industry; instead, he adapts to its extravagant lifestyle like a Vera Wang gown to Cotillion. We're led to believe that every roughneck has his day. We're made to feel sorry for a guy that swindled his clients of four million dollars, because he had to provide his families with such necessities as ponies and champagne.

But who needs a reality check? It's TV. It's en-ter-tain-ment. I watch The O.C. because (and here I wanted to insert some worthy, metaphysical reason but I can't think of anything beyond the joy of watching Mischa act badly). And that, along with the killer soundtrack featuring the likes of Jeff Buckley and Rooney, is damn entertaining.

Oh and, I really like the blogskin so a million thanks to Sarah, without whom these lengthy columns would have no home.

kai, 12:49 AM, Tuesday, June 01, 2004 |