Chuck gave this episode a grade of
D
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B
So, Terry "McManus" Kinney directed this episode, and while it would perhaps be misguided to cast aspersions on his directorial abilities based on his character's shortcomings, I just did.
Hill sits in front of a Wheel of Fortune, which starts spinning when he waves his finger in the air. People love to get their fortunes told, says Hill; they get cards read, palms read, even bumps on their head read. Ooh, look, I made a rhyme. Then Hill goes all cutesy-pie jive turkey and says, "If that card ain't credit, why read it [well, because maybe it's a verse-riddled wallet card from your grandmother with a crisp five-dollar bill tucked neatly inside, even though it's 2002. Ever think of that, smartypants]? If that palm ain't holding something, let it go. And shit, if you got bumps on your head big enough to read, forget about your future, yo [God, that is so ghetto. I'm all wet], 'cause your problems are in the here and now." And then the wheel, which boasts mug shots of all the inmates, stops on Said, whose black-and-white picture gradually fades into the real full-color thing, droning on about Ahmad's murder at hands of Robson, and we see a sepia-toned flashback of Robson letter-opening Ahmad, and I begin to feel completely justified for doubting Terry Kinney's directorial instincts as I get a queasy stomach at a full, commercial-free hour of excruciating torture stretching ahead of me.
Said, with professional tattletale Arif, is thundering to Leo about Ahmad's death by slicing. Oh, Arif must be there because there aren't any witnesses -- he's developing a nice niche as a snitch. Leo wants evidence, but Arif instead explains that Robson may not be the actual slicer, but definitely masterminded the slicing plot. Maybe from a grassy knoll? More flashback. Said wants to know what will happen; Leo assures the somber twins that he'll continue investigating, which I think means sitting behind his desk and acting fed up. So does Said, who accuses Leo of dragging things out, "hoping that everyone's gonna forget. We won't forget." More flashback, which sucks because I really want to forget. Arif, necklace swinging vehemently, follows Said out of Leo's office, adamant that Ahmad's "death must not go unpunished." Said promises that Robson will enjoy a day of reckoning soon. Muslims and retribution: two great tastes that taste familiar together.
"Slice Me" Robson delivers the mail; Slowmar approaches and asks if he's got anything for Minister Said. Instead of answering, Robson reveals that he's got something common with Said: they both believe in slavery. For Robson, sadly, slavery no longer exists, but according to a book he read in the library (and here I thought Robson only entered the library to mock and belittle), the Muslims still practice slavery. In Africa. Slowmar looks dazed and confused by the sheer number of words escaping Robson's mouth. Robson says Said must know this as well, since "he went and got himself one." And who might that be? A befuddled Slowmar, of course. Who summons his wits to deny that he's anyone's slave, as Robson does his best minstrel impression, complete with jig, and calls Slowmar Said's "house nigga." Take that, Omar "Stepin Fetchit" White. While I might have phrased this slightly differently, it's high time someone acknowledged the culturally dubious aspects of Slowmar's general vibe.
Slowmar goes off on Robson, as Said yells, "Omar, come here!" Slowmar knows he's not supposed to fight, he says, but he doesn't really appreciate the way Robson addresses him. Said yells again, louder and with more emphasis (who knew such a thing was possible, but Eamonn Walker pulls it off), and a few of the gathered inmates go, "Woooooooo," and Slowmar suddenly realizes that it's true, all of it, that he is a slave, he is, he really is, and moves his hand around his head like he's brushing away the flies, knocks over a chair, and flails his way up the stairs, as Said glowers in Robson's general direction and everyone else stands in folded-arm disinterest.
But that trauma doesn't keep Slowmar from singing a song that sounds nothing like "Swing Low Sweet Chariot," unless this is the mythical lost verse about hand-holding fun in the sun. Reggie the Drug Dealer, using a mop and bucket in a cunning undercover move, comes a-knocking, and tells Slowmar that he sings "like shit," although I think Slowmar's throaty singing is infinitely preferable to his speaking voice. Slowmar makes the handoff; Reggie's face falls as he turns around to see Said approaching, with his somber-ray in full effect. Said throws open the door of Slowmar's practice closet and demands to know what Reggie, "a major drug dealer in Unit C," was doing in Slowmar's room. Not fooled by Slowmar's quick-witted reply about Reggie's fandom, Said closes the door and gets very close to Slowmar's face. Said intimidates Slowmar into admitting that he's selling drugs; when Slowmar makes the distinction between using and selling, Said growls, "Selling drugs is using 'em." Slowmar, fed up with Said's draconian brand of chaperoning and his refusal to conform to the piss-test school of drug use, finally says "fuck you" to the Minister, who, in a you-can't-fire-me-I-quit twist, says "fuck you" to Slowmar before removing his white beanie (here comes trouble) and proceeding to go all Gloria Nathan on Slowmar's deserving ass. Eamonn Walker, of course, uses the entire spectrum of "I'm deranged" signifiers, so it's no surprise at all when we see him, naked and bloody-knuckled, reclining against a wall in solitary.
McManus arrives, not to apologize for the heavy-handed direction of tonight's episode, but to demand an explanation. Said wonders how a reason will change the fact the he beat Slowmar. "Everything was going so well, why didn't you come to me?" wonders McManus, confirming that he resides in a different universe than the rest of us. Well? I beg to differ. When Said refuses to explain, McManus gets all huffy and tells him to "fucking rot," as he turns around and stomps off with his dump truck and shovel. As soon as the door closes, Said's face becomes possessed and moves in about seventeen different ways simultaneously, as he moans and cries to his maker before doing a slow interpretive pain dance that culminates with his mahogany frame curled like a fetus on the floor, as Slowmar's whiny voice tries to tell an unbelieving McManus that Said beat him for no reason at all.
Wheel of Fortune
Slowmar, blood-crusted and looking like hell but fully mobile, takes about seven hundred words to tell McManus that he'll be honest: he was selling drugs out of his practice room, and Said caught him. Slowmar swears he's clean and that he's only selling dope because he was threatened. McManus wants to know who Slowmar's working for (gee, Tim, I wonder. Who on earth could it be?), and blows a gasket when Slowmar won't spill. I discover that I'm really tired of hearing people yell at each other, which is all this episode has yet to offer. After some more yelling, "I've Got A Soft Spot And A Hard-On For Omar" McManus tells Slowmar that the practice room is history and that if Slowmar's "piss shows even a hint of aspirin," he gets to have some toast. Or something like that.
Slowmar leaves McManus's office and sweeps down the stairs to find the necklace brigade waiting for him. The Oz-wide Crap On Slowmar Festival continues as Arif and his back-up dancers explain that Slowmar is to blame for Said's time in the hole. Actually, says Slowmar, one beaten-shut eye-ronic helping him to see clearly, "That motherfucker's in there because he can't get a grip on his own goddamned guidance." Apparently forgetting that Muslims don't do the "blaming others" thing, Arif calls Slowmar "toxic" and tells him that he stands alone in Em City every day that Said is gone. As the three Muslims stride off to Knitcaps Anonymous, Slowmar sees unfriendly faces everywhere (some even stand up for effect), driving home the point that alone is not a good place to be with the subtlety of a jackhammer.
In solitary, Said continues the Ballet des Bananas, his face a featured soloist.
McManus rushes by the laundry room, engulfed in a jacket that could have belonged to Andre the Giant. Slowmar calls him in to say that perhaps he could stop by solitary to check on Said, because he, Slowmar, is "kind of floundering out here," which is the God's honest truth, since he keeps flopping around like a beached fish. He's feeling really lost with his master, er, Said, and realizes that "I really need that fuck. Who knew?" Lots of slavery proponents, that's who. The ones who said masters were doing slaves a favor by taking care of them since they couldn't take care of themselves. Remember them? Apparently not, since this tricky trope grows ever more offensive and irresponsible.
“ Robson says he's 'getting hard just looking at that beauty,' and I start thinking about the connection between Italian shit, Robson's dick, and pool tables. And then I start thinking about my vomit, and then I move on. ”
Eager to do his love's bidding, McManus rushes to Said's solitary cell, bringing an outfit with him. Said, taking a breather from choreographing, leans against the wall, which looks like the expensive granite currently favored for upscale kitchen counters, and protests his return to Em City. In a convenient coincidence, he isn't ready to leave -- and he doesn't deserve to! McManus reveals that Slowmar explained the whole dust-up, but Said's stuck on himself. "Once again," he says, "I lost my humanity for what I thought was the greater good." Get over yourself a little, why don't you? McManus disagrees, opining that Said's scared because his actions are all too human. Then Said goes full throttle on the histrionics, rendering whatever he says unintelligible, although I do decipher that he wants more time in the hole. "Man, this is crazy," says McManus. Little man, you speak big truth. Then McManus is all, "I'll wait to hear from you," like Said's going to call or email him or something, and says he wants Said "back in Em City, dancing with Omar White." I kid you not. He said dancing. Then McManus shuts the door, and everything goes middle-passage Amistad, with the whites of Said's eyes gleaming in the darkness as he moves into the light for a bit of yoga.
Hill, dressed as The Crazy Lady From Down The Block, wonders -- rhetorically, since we know from past hurts that he'll have the answer -- how one becomes a fortune-teller. Usually, he says, they're middle-aged ladies who just tell you stuff they wish would happen to them. They fabricate your dreams because theirs got dashed. And then he turns Jamaican (which is just like turning Japanese, except that he's got a bowl full of pot, which he dumps on the table and fondles) and zeroes in on the irony of having your future told by someone who "don't got none." If I were Miss Cleo, I'd be talking to my lawyer right now. Oh, wait, she already is.
In the hospital, Pancamo wants to know why he's not feeling so fresh. Gloria explains that he's got a staph infection (yes, that staff is a might infectious bunch, hardee har har). Gloria goes on to explain that a staph infection is completely nasty, and Pancamo, though Gloria's mentioned nothing even remotely related, divines that he's gotten this disgusting illness from being in the hospital. Pancamo worries that he might die; Gloria assures him that they're doing everything they can. To kill his sweatsuit-clad ass. At least that's about how much she seems to care. Pancamo begs for mercy, because he, like so many others, doesn't "want to die lying in [his] own shit."
And then we cut to someone theatrically pulling the cover off a pool table that's surrounded by Aryans. Robson says he's "getting hard just looking at that beauty," and I start thinking about the connection between Italian shit, Robson's dick, and pool tables. And then I start thinking about my vomit, and then I move on. Schillinger tells Franklin, still dolled up, to rack the balls, and I start thinking about how the friends of The Actor Who Plays Franklin must make fun of him for having to wear pigtails and lipstick and ride bitch. Then I start thinking that they probably work in cubicles or in retail, and that it's likely The Actor Who Plays Franklin that makes fun of them. And then I realize that I'm supposed to be paying attention to this crappy show, and I start thinking that everyone's probably making fun of me for my job, even though I stopped wearing pigtails and lipstick, like, months ago.
Robson's happy that the Sicilians are losing power; Schillinger, master of the colloquialism, says they have other fish to fry. As he fondles Franklin's manly bottom, he says, "You know, sweet pea, I like a nice, firm ass. You need to go to the gym." And while you're there, give a message to Adam about his friend Beecher. About what he does with his nice, firm ass, I'm betting.
As they jog together, Beecher asks Adam about his visit with his family. His mom cried, he says. It was embarrassing. Then Beecher, who runs like a girl, tells Adam that he should be glad someone cries for him and that it's time they stop running. And then shoves Adam's head into his groin in a friendly "I told you to stop running, asswipe" gesture, since Beecher needs to get Adam and his precious bum back to Em City before he goes to work for the steely nun. Adam tells Beecher that he needs to become his own man, and that he can't wait to see how he looks in Revlon's popular "Yummy Boyhole" lipstick, which won't smudge no matter how many blowjobs you give. I can't wait either. There's Franklin, doing curls. In curls. "Hey, handsome," he greets Adam, who's disgusted by the woman Franklin has become. "I'm in here because of you," says Franklin, in a non-Muslim way. "I didn't want to rape that girl." Adam's all holier-than-thou about not wearing animal-tested makeup, but Franklin says it's just because he's got Beecher, and is likely paying the same price for protection, just in more understated outfits. Adam, not shy about hitting girls, attacks Franklin.
In McManus's office, Adam says that Franklin "came onto me and I had to set him straight." He's sarcastic as McManus says -- big surprise -- that he's going to be lenient. If I were McManus, I'd slap that arrogant smirk off his face in two seconds flat if he pulled that shit on me. But then, I'd have a spine. Adam trots down the stairs and acts short with Beecher, who puts his hand on Adam's shoulder (big mistake!) and wonders if everything's okay. "Don't be fucking touching me," growls Adam, as he stalks away.
Schillinger, sharing, about "'omosexuality," as he calls it. Looks like a Said-less interaction. Anyway, Schillinger's sorry that, during their last session, he minimized the pain he caused Beecher. Sister Pete, who looks like she just stepped out of a salon (for nuns), looks on expectantly, as Schillinger admits that he abused Beecher when he arrived and wants to apologize. Pete asks Beecher, a frown where his neck used to be, if he accepts. Beecher doesn't know.