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I don't know how your Thursday went, but it couldn't have been as bad as what Sam Tyler experienced. Don't believe me? Okay -- at any point during the day were you hit by a car that either caused you to hurtle past the bounds of time and space back into 1973, or put you in a coma, or some combination of the two? No? Well, all right then.
So here's the scoop: Sam Tyler is a New York City detective and he and his lady friend Maya are hot on the trail a serial killer. (No, this isn't part of some weird Take Your Girlfriend to Work program; she's a detective, too.) Well, the serial killer skates on some flimsy, ultimately bogus alibi, and when Maya tries tracking him, she disappears. Sam drives off to find her, with the strains of David Bowie blasting on his stereo system -- one guess as to what the title of the song is, and, no, "Fame '90" is not an acceptable answer. Anyway, he arrives at the scene, gets hit by the aforementioned car, and the thing you know, he's waking up dressed in the latest from Macy's Starsky & Hutch collection.
And, oh, the wacky differences between 1973 and 2008. They listen to 8-track tapes, and we listen to iPods! They have rotary telephones, and we have mobile devices! They callously ignore a person's Constitutional rights by coercing confessions and revelations through brutality and bullying, and we... have a lot in common with 1973, actually.
Of course, all this could just be in Sam's head -- he occasionally hears voices on the TV or over the radio referring specifically to him and his vegetative state, and they won't acknowledge him, no matter how loudly he shouts back or pleads with them to help him get home. You can imagine how much this endears him to his new 1973-era colleagues on the force.
Anyhow, 1973 or mind-altering coma, Sam's still a cop, and he's called on to investigate a woman-abducting creep who's committing crimes in a mighty similar way to our 2008 perp. Turns out, our Watergate-era criminal is the -door neighbor of the little kid who grows up to be the Serial Killer of the Aughties, so Sam briefly mulls the possibility of filling the little tyke full of lead, so that he can save the future and quite possibly his girlfriend. But just as he's fiddling with the gun, Maya's voice comes over the AM dial in his car to tell him that she's okay. So everything's all right, with the possible exception of Sam still being stuck in 1973.
Of course, if you had just watched the British version, you would have already known all that. So what are you doing reading this again?
Discuss this episode in our forums, then see why Detective Tyler may not be a child-killer, but he is a Showkiller!
Want more? The full recap starts right below!So let's get something out of the way first -- I never watched the original version of this show. This wasn't a conscious decision, born out of spite or malice or snobbery or xenophobia or laziness -- it's largely because I only recently learned that the British even had television. I mean, honestly, I thought they still passed their time forking over a haypenny to see plays or bear-baiting or mourning their lost empire or something. Which is my way of saying, if you're looking for a line-by-line breakdown of the differences and similarities between this edition of Life on Mars and its source material, I'm afraid that's a service I'll be unable to provide. All's I can offer is a recap of the proceedings, my occasional commentary on whether this show works on its own terms, a minimum of tedious digressions, and the occasional dick joke. Fair enough? Good.
Oh, one other thing -- the shows I recap around here tend not to last more than 10 episodes at most so... uh... let's not get too attached to each other just yet, all right?
We open on New York City, which, at last check, is not located anywhere in the British Empire. A jeep, with police sirens flashing is making its way through the streets of Brooklyn, and the occupants of the jeep are arguing. Given that one of those occupants is Lisa Bonet, it might be reasonable to assume that they are arguing over whether that Cosby Show spinoff was a good career move, but no -- it's Sam Tyler (Jason O'Mara) and Maya Daniels (the aforementioned ex-Cosby kid) who are inside the jeep arguing. About some case they're investigating? Nah -- they're partners in more than just crime, apparently, and they're arguing over his commitment phobia. (She says he was making noise about wanting to meet her folks; he counters that he was probably drunk when he said such a thing.) Your argument has grown tiresome -- get to the crime-solving, Bickersons!
Ask and ye shall receive: the jeep and a bunch of other squad cars pull up in front of a down-at-heels Brooklyn apartment complex, where they are greeted by Clark Peters, who played Freamon on The Wire. Confidential to any Life on Mars producers who may be reading this: If you can contrive a way where Clark Peters travels back in time with Jason O'Mara, I promise to abuse the power of my recapping post to relentlessly pimp your show until every man, woman, and child in America is watching it or at least telling the Nielsen people that they are. Deal? While I'm busy using my powers for good, the Detective Formerly Known as Freamon is bringing Sam and Maya up to speed: There's a suspected serial killer holed up in the apartment building, and that cadre of armor-clad police officers are there to bring him to justice.
After a judicious cutaway to the hallway outside the perp's apartment and a battering ram to the door, the good guys are prepared to do just that -- only our suspect, one Colin Raimes, is not at home at present. Inconveniently, he's returning from the grocery store, and the presence of all those police officers streaming into his apartment with guns drawn convinces him that it's probably best to turn and run, so he leaps out of a window to freedom. One might construe that to be an admission of guilt. Sam doesn't stop to contemplate the implications of Colin's flight -- he takes off after him, and not two minutes into this show's run, we have our very first chase scene. Fences are hopped; pursuing officers are kicked in the face; Chris Cornell songs are played. Finally, Sam leaps on Colin, tackling him into a collection of trash cans. After avoiding a trash-can lid to the skull -- and putting up with taunts from pint-sized onlookers screaming for Colin to "smash his face in" and "kill the pig, freak show" -- Sam manages to subdue Colin and slap some cuffs on him. So that's that, then?
Not exactly. Down at the 125th Precinct, things are not going as planned with Colin Raimes' post-arrest interrogation. Oh, they've got the goods on Colin, who sort of looks like a gone-to-seed version of David Caruso. There're photos of the strangled victim, which Sam helpfully flings at Colin, and a mysterious fiber found under the victim's fingernail. Then there's the small matter of Colin's diary, which Maya offers a dramatic reading from -- unfortunately, for Colin, it does not center around a poem he wrote about his cats. "I killed her," Maya reads from the diary. "I left her shirt for them to find. Held her for 30 hours, just the same way. She's been killed. I enjoyed killing her. It was more fun than marbles." Uh... my client was speaking metaphorically, officer? "I like marbles," Colin concedes. So much for metaphors then. But it turns out Colin may not have to use the If I Did It And I'm Not Saying I Did defense -- Colin's attorney asks for the exact time that the woman in question was abducted. Approximately 11 p.m., Maya offers. Then, Colin's attorney would like to draw your attention to some surveillance tapes from an Atlantic City casino at the time of the abduction -- a gentleman who looks exactly like Colin appears to be enjoying himself at the craps tables, which he will continue to do for the several hours. "Looks like this marble," our little David Caruso look-a-like says, as he puts on his sunglasses, "is about to roll free." Then "Won't Get Fooled Again" kicks into high gear. Well... not really. Not at all, actually. But wouldn't it be cool if it did?
So Colin is free to go, and neither Sam nor Maya appear to be taking it well. The former is poring over evidence in the Colin Raimes case; the latter is taking a more pro-active approach, tailing Raimes all by her lonesome and calling in updates to Sam on her cell phone. "Why are you doing this, Maya?" Sam demands. It's the diary entry, Maya says, specifically the part about him holding her for "30 hours, just the same way." "It's like he's trying to impress someone," Maya concludes. Well, who are you trying to impress, missy, following a suspected serial killer with no official go-ahead or backup? Turns out the answer appears to be Sam. "I'm a cop first and foremost, Sam," Maya pouts, "and you made things real clear earlier." So... you're endangering yourself because your boyfriend is shy about meeting Dr. Huxtable and the missus? That seems... odd. And also foolhardy, since Maya is so intent on chiding Sam for his commitment issues that she doesn't notice that Colin's noticed her. At any rate, it's a bad time for Maya to hang up her cell in a snit.
And things get remarkably worse from there. The Detective Formerly Known as Freamon comes up to Sam to report that Colin has a twin brother, Lawrence, who also happens to be a degenerate gambler. That would explain the presence of the other David Caruso look-a-like on the casino surveillance tape. So the good news is that Colin is the serial killer, after all. The bad news is that Maya's gone missing, and all that appears to be left of her -- other than all those A Different World reruns is a bloody shirt left on a Brooklyn playground -- you know, like Colin's earlier victims. "What the hell was she doing here, Sam?" the Detective Formerly Known as Freamon demands. What the hell, indeed?
To answer that question, Sam takes off for Colin Raimes' apartment, his jeep's siren blaring and the iPod-hooked-into-the-stereo blasting... David Bowie? Well, that's one choice for the soundtrack to be playing when you're one your way to rescue your beloved from a stone-cold killer. I might have gone with something rageful from Metallica or even some Isaac Hayes. Then again, I'm not the main character in a show pondering the big questions about existence and reality so "Life on Mars?" off the Hunky Dory album will do just fine as the background music. "Hold on, baby, I'm coming," Sam mutters, as he pulls up across the street from Chateau de Serial Killer. But before he can stride across the street to dispense some two-fisted justice, he's called back by the police radio to account for his whereabouts. Sam returns to the call, picks up his radio, and resumes his trip across the street... only this time, he's plowed into by a speeding motorist.
The lesson as always, kids: Look both ways before your cross the street. Or, ignore that goddamn radio, maybe. Or perhaps even, don't listen to any Bowie tracks prior to the Let's Dance album. Yes, life is full of many lessons.
But will it be full of Sam Tyler? At the moment, things are not looking promising for him -- the camera's gone sideways, and the screen's getting all blurry, and Bowie's crescendoing his way into the chorus. And the thing you know, after some shots of what appears to be Sam following after a red dress fleeing through a field, Sam is sitting up. The apartment building he was rushing towards has been replaced by an empty lot (though a sign promises that construction on the Cataldo House Apartments will begin in the fall of 1973). His stylish suit has been replaced by threads you'd find in the Historical Atrocities section of your local thrift shop. That David Bowie-playing iPod, has been replaced by an eight-track cassette of Hunky Dory, and that cassette is playing from an orange muscle car, not a Jeep. That must have been some collision.
Even worse for Sam, he scrambles his brains even further, bumping his head on the muscle car when a beat cop tells him that he can't be parking out here in this field. Sam protests that this isn't his car -- the license and registration in the glove box begs to differ. Sam protests that he was driving a Jeep. "You were driving a military vehicle?" the cop asks incredulously. "I need my cell," Sam says, frisking himself in vain for a technology that won't come into vogue for another two decades or so. "You need to sell what?" the cop asks, because of course, things are very different in 1973 than they are today, and if you don't believe me, this episode will be happy to drive home that point several more times. I realize we need to establish that Sam is both a) out of time and place and b) disoriented, but I beg of you, Life on Mars, save the excessive technology-that-we-take-for-granted-doesn't-exist-in-1973?-what-a-country! shtick for fall's Yakov Smirnoff pilot. A confused Sam steps away to gather his thoughts, only to look up and see something that truly does blow his mind -- a pair of still-standing World Trade Center towers. "No way," he mutters, as the soundtrack kicks the volume on the Bowie tune up to 11. Very striking. And just a touch bit off-putting, if you ask me. You didn't? Well, then you can just watch the opening credits by yourself, then.
I see by credits that Clark Peters is merely listed as a guest star. Deal's off the table, Life on Mars producers. You had your chance.
When we return to the action, Sam is lurching down the streets of 1970s New York, drinking in the historic automobiles, the funky hairstyles, and the dated clothing, which, a reflection in a mirror points out, includes his own. Accompanied by the strains of The Five Man Electrical Band -- long-haired freaky people need not apply! -- Sam eventually makes his way to the 125th Precinct and finds a very different workplace than what we encountered at the start of the episode. Gone is the bustling, electronic nerve center of 21st Century law enforcement; in its place, we've got a smoky, dingy hangar of a room where the intermittent chatter is interrupted by the frequent clacks of typewriters and the workforce ratio is, to put it bluntly, something of a sausage fest.
Sam looks a bit stricken if the reaction of the squad room is anything to go by. "You look like you've seen a ghost," comments Detective Chris Skelton, who, because he still seems genuinely concerned for the health of his fellow man, must be a rookie 'round these parts. "You look like you've seen a ghost and he was balling your mother," corrects a shaggy hairstyle and Fu Manchu mustache. Both are connected to Detective Ray Carling, and I can only surmise that producers ordered Michael Imperioli to don this impressively hirsute look for historical accuracy, sure, but also to mask any last traces of Moltasanti-ish overtones. You can take the boy out of the goombah, ABC, but you can never take the goombah out of the boy.
Turns out the 125th Precinct was expecting Sam, as he's ostensibly transferring to the NYPD from upstate. This is news to Sam, who picks this precise moment to freak right the hell out. "I don't know who the hell you think you are," Sam begins, with ever decreasing levels of self-control, "but this is my office. Right here. This is my desk. Here. So where's my desk? Huh? WHERE'S MY DESK?" It speaks to the level of disorientation and the state of shock Sam must be in, that he can find himself smack dab in the middle of the cast from a touring company of Hair, clap eyes on a newly opened, not-at-leveled World Trade Center, and find the clock turned back on 35 years of technological progress, and what drives him to the breaking point is furniture. He must desperately be searching for something familiar and reassuring. Either that, or he's just really, really thick.
All this shouting has stirred Lt. Gene Hunt, who emerges, squinting, from his office to see what all the commotion is about. Hunt is played by Harvey Keitel, with all his usual sweaty, slicked-back panache, and that instantly sends me diving to the TV Guide to confirm what channel I'm watching. Because where Harvey Keitel goes, his penis usually follows, and if this is airing on pay cable, you and I have a plenty of nightmare-fueling appearance by Little Harv in our future. Fortunately, we're on ABC, which spares us from any full-frontal cameos, though, sadly, not from any ass shots, thanks to the Dennis Franz Full Moon Act of 1994. "OK," says Sam, striding up toward Hunt because he apparently fears no form of Harvey Keitel nudity. "Surprise me. What year is this supposed to be?" Hunt invites Sam into his office to discuss the matter further -- by which I mean that he grabs Sam by the lapels and slams him into a filing cabinet before telling him that it's 1973 and that he had better mind his Ps and Qs if he expects to have an internal bleeding-free stay in the 125th Precinct. To drive home his point, he punches Sam in the gut. Note to self -- do not ask that guy for the time of day.
Back in the squad room, Sam is waiting for his organs to slide back into place while a TV plays the old "Plop, plop, fizz, fizz" Alka-Seltzer commercial and a newspaper announces that the U.S. has suspended offensive actions in North Vietnam. Because, in case you turned in five seconds ago, it's 1973, and such things are remarkable to those of us from the future. Sam picks up the rotary phone (so freaky if you're from the future!), gets the operator (ditto!), and tries to place a call to the 917 area code, which, of course, proves to be unsuccessful as that area code does not exist in 1973. Operator, you are blowing my mind! Apparently, Sam's mind is getting blown, too, because he hears the distinct sound of doctors and nurses and machines that go ping scurrying to revive somebody -- most likely, a post-collision him. Sam puts his hands to his ears, bellowing "Stop!" It makes the doctor-and-nurse noises go away, but it also brings the entire 1973-era 125th Precinct to a screeching halt. I fear Sam is failing to make a good impression on his first day on the job.
Given Sam's apparent distress -- "dizzier than a monkey on a merry-go-round" is Dr. Imperioli's diagnosis -- he is dispatched to the one person in the station house with any degree of medical know-how. That'd be Annie Norris, a member of the Policewoman's Bureau and affectionately referred to by her male colleagues as No Nuts, because of her life-threatening peanut allergy. No, no -- that's a lie. They call her that because she's a girl, and the thought of working to one is both hateful and terrifying to the boys down at the 125. Or maybe they just saw her in The Funeral. There's a guy I haven't spoken to in more than a decade after he suggested we watch that picture. Anyhow, No Nu... er, Annie is not exactly buying Sam's I Am An Unwitting Visitor From the Future patter, but conversing with him is more fulfilling than the usual stultifying busy work she's given, so what the hey.
Their reverie is interrupted by Hunt and the rest of the Wide Tie Brigade because a missing persons case just came in. Annie is dispatched to use her miraculous girl powers on comforting the frightened parents, and Sam is asked to join the investigatory fun. Here's the skinny: A girl named Suzy Tripper's been missing for two days, with her blouse left in the East River Park; she was eventually found strangled, with no sign of sexual assault. If that sounds eerily similar to the case Sam was working back in 2008, you and he are thinking the same thing. "Is this why I'm here?" Sam wonders aloud. "You're here to make me curse the day my father's sperm asked my mama's egg if it could have this dance," Keitel sighs. I'm with you, Keitel. Sam asks to see the body.
Suffice it to say, the morgues of 1973 do not exactly invoke CSI; they really don't even measure up to Quincy M.E.. With ash from his cigarette falling on the body, Carling points out that they pulled some prints off her shoe -- the results should be back in a few weeks if there's a match. "It's amazing what they can do these days," Skelton enthuses to an incredulous Sam. The post-mortem report indicates that this victim was not fed for at least a day before her murder -- again, another similarity to our 2008-era victim that, again, sends Sam right around the bend, much to the bemused horror of both Skelton and Carling. Skelton wonders if that crash maybe affected Sam more than he's letting on; Dr. Imperioli prescribes scotch and a stewardess. A slumping Sam looks like he's about to concede both those points -- when he happens to notice a mysterious fiber underneath the victim's fingernails. Again, if you remember that detail from Colin Raimes' reign of terror, congratulations for following along up to this point. Let's see if this commercial break can dull those deductive powers a little.
When we return, we're in one of those quaint seaside houses that dot the Atlantic shore and Sam is lying in bed with Maya. So it was all a dream -- a terrible dream. Then, into this scene of domestic bliss wanders the wizened image of Harvey Keitel -- an even more terrible dream than anyone has a right to imagine. But it's just Hunt awakening Sam from a daydream. It's very effective, too, as Sam wakes with a start -- so would you if you imagined Harvey Keitel staring down disapprovingly as you made sweet love with your beloved. Even typing that sentence has me contemplating a life of abstinence and self-denial. "This is about Maya," Sam tells Hunt. "Ma-whata?" Hunt quite reasonably replies. But Sam is undeterred -- if he can solve the crime in 1973, maybe that stops the 2008 edition of the serial killer from murdering the erstwhile Cosby Kid. It's a sound theory until you consider the fact that Sam's new co-workers are regarding him with a mixture of concern and "Get a load of this guy" sideways glances. Hey, Harvey Keitel has an idea -- why don't you make like a tree and get out of here? Annie will be happy to escort you to your new apartment, even if she doesn't look the least bit happy about doing so.
A short walk that gives Sam another chance to gawk at the '70s fashions around him later, and we're at Sam's NYPD-funded apartment. It seems pretty squalid, though Annie suggests it's not all that bad. In fairness, though, her wages are so pitiful that she's forced to live at home with mom and dad. Thank goodness things are so good for you ladyfolk in 2008 that you're now farting through silk -- am I right, gals? Annie's about to leave when Sam once again hits her with his I've Gone Back in Time 35 Years mumbo jumbo. "That either makes me a time traveler, a... lunatic," he says, pausing just enough to really sell that lunatic option, "or I'm lying in a hospital bed in 2008 and none of this is real." Annie suggests that perhaps Sam is suffering from paranoid delusion brought on by his recent head trauma. "That's pretty fancy talk for a girl who lives with her folks in Queens," Sam retorts, not the least bit condescendingly. Annie notes that her housing arrangements are the byproduct of her getting a psychology degree from Fordham. Sam does not apologize for being such a tremendous dick -- rather, he posits that maybe she's just part of his mind trying to convince him that all of this is real. Annie places Sam's hand over her heart, though the 12-year-old boy in me will insist she's letting him touch her boob: "You feel it?" she asks. "My heartbeat. If I were a figment of your imagination, I would probably let your hand linger on my chest. However," she continues, pushing his hand away, "I gotta go." The 12-year-old boy in me is disappointed. Sam asks where she's off to; "What do you care?" she says mockingly. "I'm not real, remember? As soon as I walk out the door, poof, I'm gone." And with a taunting "hocus pocus," she is, closing the door behind her. Sam walks over to the door, opens it, and finds Annie waiting on the other side. "Magic, huh?" she says with only a touch of derision in her voice before ordering Sam to get some rest. I think Annie is my favorite non-mustachioed character in this little drama.
Later that evening, Sam is watching TV. It's a professor lecturing about Pythagorean angles. Man, they would put anyone up against Carson back in the day. Anyhow, Sam is only half paying attention when suddenly the professor switches from mathematics to the science of comas and begins referring to Sam on a first name basis. "Hey, I'm here," Sam shouts at the TV, as the professor drones on about Sam's vegetative state. "I'm here!" Sadly, in 1973, TVs don't talk back to you. The professor is replaced by a Please Stand By test pattern. "Don't leave me," Sam sobs. The dictates of commercial division suggest we need to do just that.
When we return from the break, we're back at the 125th Precinct, where Hunt, Carling, and Sam are interrogating Dora, the last person to see Suzy Tripper alive. The interrogation is not going swimmingly, as Dora's cousin once found him on the business end of one of Gene Hunt's question-and-answer sessions. Apparently, her cousin didn't much care for the answer to "How would you feel if I broke your collarbone?" Sam decides a different tack is necessary: "My name is Detective Tyler, but please call me Sam." Dora is pretty sure polite deference can't possibly be displayed by someone in law enforcement, but Sam persists -- did she see Suzy talking with anyone on the night in question? "The answer, Detective Tyler," Dora says pissily, "is blowing in the wind." Hunt decides he's had enough of this Bad Cop-Impotent Cop routine and grabs Dora roughly by the shoulders. She demands to see a lawyer, and when Sam protests, Hunt invites him to get lost, so that he can get down to some serious interrogating, Keitel-style.
I don't know about you, but when my boss acts like Miranda is just some Brazilian night club performer, I beat feet to the nearest bar. Sam must be the same way, because he's fled to a police watering hole where he's pestering the bartender about "what part of my subconscious do you hail from?" "Poughkeepsie," the bartender says without missing a beat. Sam orders a Diet Coke, which starts us off on another round of Diet-Cokes-don't-exist-in-1973-blah-blah-blah back-and-forth. Fortunately, Hunt walks in to spare us any terribly long dialogues about the kind of society that tolerates diet sodas. "You know where I come from, you'd be looking at a suspension," begins Sam, still smarting over the way Hunt treated that witness. Hunt thinks that's highly unlikely, given how he strong-armed her into giving up a description of the suspect -- a white male with long, dark hair. "That's what I call narrowing the gap," Hunt says, with a Palin-esque wink. Sam protests that it wasn't hair he found under the fingernails -- it's a synthetic fiber, which means the killer is either wearing thick gloves or he's using a bag. Or she was attacked by a sports mascot. Someone get an APB out on Mr. Met -- I never trusted that guy. Hunt thinks Sam is jumping to an awful lot of conclusions after having spent such little time in the morgue. Trust me, Sam insists -- I've seen this sort of thing before. Hunt ignores him. "You don't have to listen to me," a clearly irritated Sam sighs. "After all, you're just a bottom-feeding thug who crawled out of some dark pit in the recesses of my mind." Hunt does not take this as the compliment that Sam surely intends it to be: "Here's what you need to get smart on quick... my team's tight. We collar the baddies to keep this island safe. I never give up, and I always go for the maximum. When my time is done, they will say, 'He has been here.' Of that, I am sure. He. Has. Been. Here." It seems like this would have been a much nicer orientation speech than punching Sam in the ol' breadbasket.
But Sam is quite insistent that he can use his insider knowledge to help solve the case, and Hunt figures, well, what the hell, so we find ourselves back in the squad room with Sam standing in front of a roomful of dubious detectives, explaining that they have to anticipate the killer's move. This is a concept that was foreign to police in 1973? No wonder the hippies had free rein. Sam wonders if he might get some assistance from the lovely Annie Norris -- she politely declines, but Sam is most insistent. Because, honestly, what woman wouldn't leap at the chance to call attention to herself in a roomful of men that regard her as, at best, an interloper and, at worst, a sex object? "Miss Norris has a psych degree from Fordham," Sam offers by way of explanation. "Yeah, well I have an ass that can fart the melody to every Peter, Paul & Mary song ever recorded," Carling retorts. "Do I get to stand up there, too?" Only if you agree to demonstrate, friend. Anyhow, Sam notes that the victim wasn't gagged and asks Annie to speculate on the reason for this odd development. Because the killer needed to see her mouth, she eventually posits. Sam invites Annie to put herself in the killer's shoes: "You're lonely. Women ignore you. But in your dreams, there's a girl. She's got these big eyes and ruby red lips. And this dream haunts you. But one day you find that girl from your dreams, and your bring her home. But something's wrong -- why don't those lips smile at you like they did in the dream?" "So you're embarrassed," Annie says, picking up Sam's line of thought. "Then angry. It's her fault. She taunted you in the dream and now she's rejecting you." "You reach a breaking point," Sam continues. "You strangle her. And the whole cycle repeats itself with another girl." Borr-rring, say the other detectives, who clearly lost interest when it became apparent that this exercise does not allow them to mercilessly beat on someone. Hunt brusquely dismisses Annie and suggests the detectives find a more productive way to spend their time. It does not involve listening to Sam. Well, I think that went about as well as could be expected.
Annie thinks so too, and she chases after Sam as he strides down the streets of New York to specifically request that he exclude her from any such future stunts. Sam can't believe she's not flattered that he asked her to "use your brain for five seconds." Annie reminds him that the NYPD of 1973 is not the open-minded collection of sensitive warrior-poets from whatever time and place he claims to originate from. Having been chewed out by someone he considers to be a figment of his imagination, Sam figures he's hit rock bottom on his journey and resolves to just keep walking "until I can't think up any more streets or faces or arguments or details. ... What I need to do, Annie, is to follow the yellow brick road." And what will he find, Annie wonders. "Hopefully," Sam says, "the end of the yellow brick road." Or, more likely, a pissed off Elton John demanding to know why you're playing "Baba O'Reilly" over this scene instead of his song.
The yellow brick road apparently leads into a record store -- one where Sam's mom used to take him. It was here, he tells Annie, that he bought his first Hall & Oates album before quickly correcting himself and saying Led Zeppelin instead. Ostensibly, that's because Hall & Oates hadn't been invented by scientists yet in 1973, but really, no one should admit to buying a Hall & Oates record. And I say this as a man who has a vinyl Buckner & Garcia LP of Pacman Fever cluttering up a closet somewhere. As they walk through the record store, Sam explains to Annie how one day vinyl records give way to compact discs and MP3 players -- he leaves out the part about the piracy and the RIAA lawsuits, maybe because he just noticed the soundbooths where you can rock out to your favorite Who song without anybody on the outside hearing Roger Daltrey bellowing out about how everyone's wasted. And you know why those booths are so sound-proof? Because they're lined with acoustical padding -- coarse, synthetic acoustical padding. Suddenly, that mysterious fiber we keep finding under the victims' fingernails isn't quite that mysterious anymore. "It's the end of the yellow brick road," Sam says triumphantly.
As we return from commercials, Sam has returned to the 125th Precinct to share his discovery about the killer's use of acoustical padding to muffle the cries of his victims. He's disappointed to find that Hunt and Carling aren't exactly leaping for joy over this apparent breakthrough, but their muted response is understandable -- Dora, the manhandled witness from earlier, has gone missing in much the same manner as her pal Suzy. But not to worry -- Skelton's been doing a search for the name Raimes at Sam's behest and has turned up a noise complaint filed by a woman in her seventies who is, in fact, Colin Raimes' grandmother. The detectives are just the least bit curious as to who this Colin Raimes fellow might be -- Sam calls it a hunch, and throws himself on the mercy of Hunt. Hunt is feeling... merciful. Bring in the old lady for questioning!
In the time it takes us to dissolve to the scene, Mrs. Raimes is drinking coffee and nibbling on what looks to be Stella D'oro breakfast treats and generally being no help to any of the eight detectives fanned out around her, waiting for her to drop some nugget of information on them. By their body language, it's been a long wait. Mrs. Raimes can't seem to remember that complaint she filed three months ago, and Sam's bug-eyed visage and nervous snapping isn't helping to jog her memory. What this case needs is a little touch of Keitel -- rough her up, Harv! No, no -- nothing so graphic. He's going to charm her with baked goods, directing Skelton to run to the nearest bakery and get a particularly expensive type of dessert item. "And don't you go worrying about this neighbor business," he tells Mrs. Raimes as he produces a hip flask and Irishes up her coffee a little. "It's not important." The promise of alcohol and pastries loosens Mrs. Raimes' lips, however, and soon she's complaining about Willy Kramer, her downstairs neighbor and his loud rock music. "So that's why you came in," Sam interrupts. "To make a complaint about the noise from his stereo." "And it did the trick," Mrs. Raimes says brightly. "He still lives there, but you can't hear a thing now." Little puffs of smoke are all that remain where Sam and Hunt were once standing.
And soon, their car screeches to a halt outside of the apartment building that houses the suddenly inaudible Willy Kramer. Gun drawn, Hunt is about to enter the door when Sam asks him if they've obtained a warrant; Hunt responds by kicking in the door. In fairness, perhaps a judge once signed his shoe.
Totally legal search or not, Hunt has kicked in the right door -- the place is covered in acoustical padding, and they find a sobbing, ungagged, still alive Dora stashed in the closet. Only one complaint about this otherwise stellar display of their policework: both Sam and Hunt have their back turned on the entrance to the apartment. And that allows Willy to wander in, notice that there are two too many people in his lair, and whap Hunt upside the head with some sort of blunt object. And so Sam gets to engage in his second footchase with a suspected serial killer this hour. This one does not go as well as the last one. Oh, Sam manages to corner him in some sort of ramshackle storage room all right. But that just allows Willy to push over a bunch of empty canisters onto Sam, knocking him down and his gun free. Do I have to tell you that Willy winds up with the gun in the ensuing scrum? I don't think I do. "You got it right, pig," Willy sneers, as he enjoys his tactical advantage over Sam. "There's no place else to go." Well, to commercial break, I guess.
When we return, Willy's still got the drop on Sam, whose been unsuccessful at trying to talk Willy into pointing that thing elsewhere. "It's the only way back," Willy keeps repeating. And suddenly, Sam gets the feeling that this isn't a simple matter of him being held at gunpoint by a perp anymore. "The way back where?" Sam asks. "The way back home," Willy says. Sam is intrigued by Willy's ideas, and wishes to subscribe to his newsletter. "I get it now," Sam says. "Send me back. Shoot me so I can save Maya. Shake me out of this insanity. The crack of the gun, the bullet -- it's the jolt I need." It does not speak well of Sam's state of mind that he might be the craziest person in the room at this particular moment. Anyhow, there's a lot more of this "Don't make me shoot you"-"But I want you to shoot me" back-and-forth and the tension mounts and we're not sure what's going to happen when all of sudden Gene Hunt appears -- like a beautiful, sweaty, slicked-haired angel -- and grabs the gun with one hand while slugging Willy with the other. Kramer, you just got yourself Keitel'd. "You really are some kind of lunatic, Tyler," observes Carling, who has also arrived on the scene. "You even managed to out-lunatic this daffy goofus, and he's crazier than a fruit bat at a cranberry convention." There is no way to improve upon that line, ladies and gentlemen, so I will not. Anyhow, Willy is cuffed and in prime pummeling position, when Sam asks Carling if unleashing his fist o' justice on Willy's fat face is really that necessary. "Not at all," Hunt says. Carling punches Willy anyhow. Needs and wants are not always the same thing, Sam.
Outside the apartment, the cops are stuffing Willy into the back of a squad car, when Sam can't help but notice a worshipful little boy who looks not unlike David Caruso: The Prepubescent Years waving goodbye to Willy as he's driven off. If the penny has not dropped for you yet, Mrs. Raimes suddenly appears and yells for Colin and his twin brother to get inside. As he turns to go, we see the little boy holding a bag of marbles and get a flashback to a modern-day Colin telling us how much he likes playing marbles. So... have you figured out who that little boy grows up to be? That's right -- it's former New York Yankees pitcher David Cone!
Wait. No. It's Colin Reams. And he's apparently going to grow up to be just like Willy Kramer.
That's Sam's conclusion anyhow, but damned if he can get anyone to believe him. Annie certainly seems dubious when he explains it to her. "So what now, Sam?" Annie asks, with just a trace of concern in her voice. "I don't know, Annie," Sam says. "I don't know." Sounds like a man who wants to walk down the streets of early '70s New York while The Rolling Stones' "Out of Time" plays in the background if you ask me.
Anyhow, while Mick and the lads are wailing, Sam returns to his apartment, grabs his service revolver, and drives over to Colin's neighborhood. Sure enough, the little knee-biter is out playing in the streets. Sam calls him over by name, and Colin dutifully trots over to the car. Now if I might interrupt this building dramatic tension for just a moment -- I was a lad not much older than Colin in the late '70s... and I sure as shit knew better than to walk up to any old asshole in an orange muscle car who called my name. And I grew up in the suburbs, not the mean streets of Gotham. You're telling me that suddenly, some time in 1976, someone slapped their head and said, "Eureka! Never talk to strangers! We must convey this message of safety to America's youth post-haste!" I think not. Then again, it could be that Colin is something of a dummy.
Back to our scene. We establish that, yes, in fact, Colin does idolize Willy Kramer. "Willy isn't afraid of anything," Colin says sadly. "I'm afraid of everything." Oh, that's all right, my little serial killer-in-training: "It's good to be afraid, Colin," Sam says, surreptitiously reaching for his sidearm. "Fear keeps us honest. Fear keeps us alive." He looks at Colin, and his voice cracks a little: "It keeps us sane." And again, as a child of the '70s, I would like to interrupt here to just mention that this is the point in the conversation where the eight-year-old me would have been, "Gee, that's great mister... Moooooooooooooooooooooooooom!" And yet, there's something about this clearly fractured, babbling adult that intrigues young Colin.
And as Sam repeats the bit about how fear keeps us sane and curls his finger just a little tighter around the trigger, a voice suddenly cracks out over the car radio. It's Maya, who apparently is not dead by the grown-up Colin Raimes' hand. "Sam, if you can hear me, I'm safe," the radio says. "Everything's OK. Now come home." That's Sam's cue to start with the waterworks and he sobs for a bit about how he doesn't know how to get back home and how much he misses Maya. As for Colin? Still standing there. Survival instincts of a fruit fly, that one has. "Are you OK, mister?" Colin asks. Define "OK," kiddo. If it means "I'm not going to have to shoot you to save the future, after all," then yeah, he's fine. So run along, Colin Raimes -- you and Sam Tyler will match wits another time, perhaps when you enter your awkward teenage years. A call comes over the police radio, alerting Sam that his presence is requested at an armed robbery investigation. Mick Jagger resumes his caterwauling, and Sam drives off into the night, as the camera pans up again on the World Trade Center. You know how that was jarring earlier? Now it's just tacky.
Anyhow, not bad for a debut episode. I have no idea how the Life on Mars team is going to be able to sustain that over the course of a full season -- let alone the 100-episode run that U.S. television tends to demand. Then again, given the life expectancy for shows that I tend to both like and recap, maybe that's the least of Life of Mars' worries at this point in time.
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