Familia

Devoted readers of our forum's "SFU in the media" thread have no doubt noticed that a number of reviewers are claiming that the quality of this show improves substantially around the fourth or fifth episode. And now, lo and behold, it seems they may be right. Certainly, this particular episode was better than what we've seen of late. Or maybe it's just that my expectations have finally been lowered to the point where I can accept that Six Feet Under will never be the Great American TV Show. Hell, it's not even The Greatest American Hero. Sure, it's better than any of the crap the networks will ever churn out, but we were promised "a groundbreaking new show from the creator of American Beauty," and while, yeah, that is a pretty funny pun once you stop to think about it, it doesn't change the fact that the only thing "groundbreaking" about this show is the cemetery's backhoe. Well, that and whatever landscaping equipment they've been using to prune the tangled topiary that is Peter Krause's body hair. But I digress. The point is that, at its core, this show is just another example in a long line of quirky occupational ensembles. Six Feet Under is what happens to guest stars who convict criminals on The Practice, get shot by that same skell on NYPD Blue, and end up dying in the ER, presumably because Luka was their surgeon. On the other hand, the show is still indisputably better than, say, Dawson's Creek, and I think we can all take solace in the fact that while Michael C. Hall may be no Goran Visnjic, he's also certainly no Kerr Smith. So really, life is good. Right?

Which I guess makes this a good time to get straight to the dying. In case any of you are in the midst of making travel preparations to visit Alan Ball World, here's a quick tip: Leave your loved ones behind. Nothing signifies your imminent demise quite so much as the presence of a loving companion. This week's Dead Guy Du Jour is a tiny little gangbanger with a big, big name: Manuel Pedro "Paco" Antonio Bolin. He and his Affectionate-In-The-Face-Of-Obvious-Impending-Doom girlfriend are sitting in a broken-down car in a very bad neighborhood. After trying in vain to get the vehicle moving again, Paco casually drops a couple of shout-outs to both myScreamrecap and my car's own balky electrical system. Then he jumps out and runs over to a nearby pay phone. After getting his friend's answering machine on the first try, he hangs up and dials again. That'll be important later. This time the friend answers, but before he can say a word, Paco turns around to find three thugs and a very large gun pointed at his head. Well, actually only the gun was pointed at his head, but you probably got the idea. "Where you from?" asks Thug #1, and Paco responds with a defiant, if not very intelligent, "Your momma's pussy, bitch." Thug #1 promptly dispatches him with three shots to the chest, leaving the now Tragically-Heartbroken-In-The-Face-Of-Being-An-Obvious-Sentimental-Ploy girlfriend wailing in the car. Incidentally, the Ironic Musical Detachment Fairy seems to be at a loss for lyrics for the second straight week. ["What can I say? I miss Napster." -- The Ironic Musical Detachment Fairy]. In any case, the Ironically White Title Card Of Death goes to great lengths to place Paco just nine days shy of his twenty-first birthday. As we'll discover, that's not really important at all.

Okay, so there's something you need to know at this point. As I type these very words, it's currently 4:08 pm on Saturday. Now, I have to be up at 6:00 tomorrow to spend the entire day shooting a training video for my employer. Since my boss, his boss, and his boss's boss will be there, I'd prefer to not show up half-drunk and looking like I only slept for two hours. Unfortunately, that's usually exactly how I am the morning after a recap. You know, as opposed to the sober, yet pleasantly cheerful, demeanor I maintain most other mornings. In any case, we're gonna try a little speed-recapping today. The goal is to be finished by midnight. Personally, I dont think I've got a prayer. But, as is my wont, I'll just reply to that with a defiant, if not very relevant, "Your momma's pussy, bitch," and get on with the recap.

Fade up on Nate being interrogated by a pair of detectives about last week's mysterious house fire. They inquire as to his activities at the "crime scene," and for some reason I'm overcome with a tingling sense that something here just isn't quite right. It's almost as though something incredibly important and powerful was missing from the scene. Something big. And scraggly. Hey, wait a sec! Peter Krause has shaved! Damn it! That body-hair stuff was my bread and butter. What the hell am I gonna make fun of him for now? Oh wait, the oral sex. Never mind. Anyway, we start cutting back and forth between Brenda and Nate, answering the same questions with the same detectives. Brenda shamelessly admits that they "fucked," whereas Nate will cop only to "making love." We're also informed that Nate possesses a particular talent for performing the aforementioned oral. Must be all the tongue exercise he got doing the Sorkin-style dialogue over on Sports Night. Brenda gets dismissed after offering up a few more sordid tidbits, and also basically leaving Nate to twist in the wind. Which he does, as the police proceed to ask about his connection to Kroehner and the "greedy Nazi fuck." Nate decides to ask if he needs a lawyer, but the police tell him he's free to go. Of course, before he does, they do drop the hint that Claire could be responsible, and Nate sorta looks as though he might agree.

And now it's time for one of this week's reader-submitted nicknames, as Perdita's Old McFisher's "Bought The" Farm transitions seamlessly into sorkinhead's Formaldehyde Fortress. Incidentally, keep those nicknames coming. Your challenge for this week is Ruth. After all, why should I be the one doing all the work around here? I mean, I'm the one on a deadline. Besides, I write the recaps, moderate the forums, provide untold hours of captivatingly witty free entertainment, and what have you people ever done for me? And it's not like we get paid all that much. Six grand a week don't buy what it used to. Unless you live near Canada, of course. Oh, come on! I'm just kidding, people. Not about Canada, though. Anyway, you know I'm not doing this for the money or the fame, and I think we've already established that it's not helping with the ladies. I do it just for you, and if I could, I'd give away all the cash and all the autograph hounds just to bring one more smile to your boring, crappy workday. Well, everything but the bonus plan, that is. And some of the groupies are kinda cute. Anyway, this isn't helping the whole speedy-recap concept, so I'll just move on. Formaldehyde Fortress. Right.

So David is whining that, despite having passed the health department inspection they made such a big deal out of last week, the ventilation system has broken down anyway. You'd think a fortress would have stronger duct-work, but I guess not. David and Mom chat for a bit about air-conditioning and its general lack of availability in most developing nations, and then Nate comes home and tells them he's a suspect in the arson case. He also mentions that Claire is a suspect as well, and only Ruth seems even mildly shocked by that news. Hmm. I wonder if we're supposed to think Claire did it? The air-conditioning repair guy informs them that it will take five days and $3,700 to get everything fixed, which leads to more exposition about the tenuous state of Fisher & Sons finances. Finally, the doorbell rings, and David and Nate rush off to their "ten o'clock." In addition to being clean-shaven, by the way, Nate has also put on a dark suit, and he makes a particular point of straightening his tie as he walks past the camera. Yeah. I. Do. Get it, by the way. Once her boys are gone, Ruth stares down the repair guy and demands he be finished in three days instead of five. He looks scared. He should be.

Sitting Room Of Coffin Selection. You know, I wouldn't mind a better nickname for that one, either. Oh, and while we're at it, who knows the French word for "week"? Heh. I bet you didn't know there was going to be homework when you started reading this, did you? Paco's parents are there to arrange for his funeral, and the writers take a stab at making the whole "almost his twenty-first birthday" thing important by contrasting the bed they were going to buy him with the coffin they're purchasing now. Get it? Because death is like permanently going to sleep? Have they made that allusion yet on this show? I'm not sure. And who gets a bed from their parents on their twenty-first birthday? Or any birthday, really. That seems sort of creepy. David makes the mistake of calling their son "Paco," which we then learn was actually his gang name. Since there's no way in hell I'll ever finish before midnight if I have to type Manuel Pedro Antonio Bolin every time, I'm gonna stick with Paco. Also, I'm hoping to work in a Mrs. Pac(o)-Man joke at some point. At this point, however, Paco's gang leader, Powerful, pipes up to say that Paco was assassinated, and that he should have a "fat-ass" funeral. I think "Powerful" is a fat-ass nickname. In fact, I want everybody to start calling me that from now on. I'll edit your posts if you don't. Nate acts all sympathetic (because, remember, he's got a gift for this), but David looks panicked at the prospect of hosting a gang funeral. He stumbles through a cheesy line about the Bolins being unable to pay, so Powerful jumps up and hands him a wad of cash. "Now can y'all do it up right," he says, "or should we just move on?" David stammers some more, then excuses himself, leaving Nate to lead them through their selection of a floral arrangement. Peter Krause cracks me up by looking bewildered and saying, "Uhh, lilies are nice."

Okay, so now we're twelve minutes in, and it's only 5:14. Things are looking good. I've even got another reader nickname here, this one courtesy of road-runner and enjoying near unanimous support in the forums. Yep, that's right. David heads downstairs to the basement -- or, as it will now be known, Rico's Body Shop. I'll save the "no repeat customers" joke for later. There is, however, some bad news. See, this paragraph was originally supposed to contain a lengthy interlude revolving around Federico getting involved in wacky hijinks while attempting to embalm the corpse of Superman. Given the time constraints, and seeing as how it was based solely on a tenuous and entirely unfunny connection to The Formaldehyde Fortress Of Solitude, I decided to bag the whole idea. You're disappointed, I know. Rico, however, doesnt have time to be disappointed, because he's busy airbrushing a corpse. And here's where I have another confession to make. As has been previously mentioned, we here at Aaron's Alliteration Abode have gone TiVo -- and while there's no doubt that TiVo is the electronic equivalent of a giant ice-cream sundae with whipped cream, chocolate sauce, naked women, and hundred-dollar bills on top, my one and only complaint is that the timer doesn't list the seconds, thus leaving me unfortunately unable to give you an accurate StC score. I can't turn in a recap without a grade, however, as Sars and I clearly have some serious George Steinbrenner/Billy Martin-type issues going on, and she'd no doubt be yet again forced to fire my lazy, grade-less ass. With that in mind, I'll bite the bullet and recalibrate the StC formulas to overcome the inherent lack of precision in counting only minutes, thereby issuing this week's StC of twelve a straight B. It's now 5:31, by the way.

David tells Rico that he needs help with a tough case upstairs. Rico runs down the list of Alan Ball's writer-submitted nicknames for bad ways to die by asking if it's "decomp" or a "crispy critter." It's neither, actually, as David admits that what he really needs is help putting together a "traditional Mexican funeral." "Okay, what's a traditional Mexican funeral?" replies Rico, as he continues his work on the corpse. David begins the contortions required to place both feet firmly in his mouth when he mentions that he'd like Rico to help by talking to Powerful. Federico is obviously indignant at the implied ethnic insult, and asks, "Why, because I'm Latino, I know about gangs?" David gets a taste of toe by replying, "Well you probably know more than me," while gesturing at the evident whiteness of his skin. Federico proceeds to tell him off with the revelation that he's Puerto Rican, not Mexican, and then adds a whole bunch of geography stuff that I won't bore you with here. Finally, David goes full-on Gabriel and says, "Well, I just thought that maybe someone in your family" before trailing off into silence. Federico turns his back and keeps working, and we get yet another wandering focus shot of David looking contrite behind him. Finally, he steps forward and confesses that they "cant afford to lose this funeral, and [he's] afraid that if [he and Nate] are the point of contact, [they] will." There were way too many brackets in that last sentence.

Cut back upstairs, to Federico helping the Bolins pick out a coffin. They choose one that's "nicer than [their] car," but Powerful thinks it isn't good enough. Federico tries to ignore him, but Powerful interrupts to ask, "Where you from?" Get it? Just like the guys that killed Paco? I knew you did. Federico excuses himself and gestures for Powerful to follow him into the room. "Where am I from?" he asks once inside, and basically gives Powerful a little lecture about how he's the only one who's willing to help bury their friend. Powerful sizes him up for a moment, then smiles and walks out without saying a word. He returns to the Bolins, and tells them to pick whatever they want. Rico, having overcome both implied prejudice and the implied threat of violence to save the sale, smiles broadly at his bosses.

So of course the Ironic Segue Fairy cuts us straight to David at the kitchen table, complaining that he still doesn't like the idea of hosting gang funerals. Nate has faith in Federico, however, saying, "David, we are sooo white. If we step in we'll fuck everything up." Mom continues her running gag about admonishing their language, but it doesn't seem to be doing any good. Man, she's such a fucking moron. After Mom briefly exposits that Brenda is coming to dinner, the topic switches to Claire. David thinks that Claire wouldn't have started the fire to help them, because she hates the whole family. Nate sits down beside him and whispers that their sister was on crystal-meth the night The Late Nate died. "Oh, my God!" answers David. "Isn't that a horse-tranquilizer?" Heh. Mom spoils the fun by telling them to go to another room if they want to talk without her hearing them. She snarks a bit more about Brenda's visit, and David offers to pick up some Chardonnay for dinner while he's out running some errands. Apropos only of the fact that the writers want to show David hiding his sexuality, Mom starts interrogating him about precisely what errands those might be. This gets interrupted by the arrival of Claire, however, who walks in and relates the story of a kid in school who got busted for bringing in a taser. The rest of family just stares at her accusingly while I wonder how, if six cops showed up to bust a kid with a glorified garage door opener, Claire didn't even get suspended for bringing in dismembered human remains. I mean, even the police have a record of it, so it's not like Keith was able to make it go completely away.

Speaking of Keith, we cut to him exiting a grocery store with David, acting all concerned over the prospect of Fisher & Sons becoming the choice funeral parlor of the young urban criminal set. David puts the situation thusly: "We needed a body, they needed a home. It's a win-win situation." As they load the bags into Keith's SUV, he tells David to get Claire a lawyer for the arson investigation. While they pack, some hick guy pulls up behind them and asks if they'll be pulling out. He snots at them to hurry up, which only makes Keith slow down, and finally the guy puts down his banjo and drives off in disgust, muttering "fucking fags" as he goes. Keith instantly gets a hard look on his face, and chases after the guy's truck. David runs along behind him, trying to calm the situation. Keith catches up to the guy, rips open the door, and grabs Redneck Boy's t-shirt, daring him all the while to repeat his insult. David tries to pull him away, and Keith shoves him off with an elbow that looked a lot more violent in the previews than it did here. Finally, Keith jams his badge into Redneck Boy's forehead and dares him to file a complaint. Cletus The Slack-Jawed Homophobe beats a hasty retreat, leaving David to try to rationalize the situation with "I don't think he really meant anything by it," to which a still angry Keith snarls, "Do you really hate yourself that much?"

Rico's Body Shop. Only at the moment, it's actually David's Ye Olde Body Shoppe. I wanted to use a hip, squiggly (tm djb) Olde English font for that to further ironically indicate David's ostensible whiteness, but I'm told it crashed everyone's browsers in testing. So you'll just have to close your eyes and pretend. Don't forget to open them, though, or you'll have a hard time reading the rest of the recap. David goes about stitching up Paco's autopsy incisions, and to absolutely no one's surprise, Paco opens his eyes and starts up a conversation. He teases David about his job choice, and asks if he's ever seen sunlight. David laughs it off and continues swabbing the body, at one point reaching under a strategically placed cloth to clean what I'll just refer to as Little Lord Pac-Man. Paco accuses David of checking out his joystick, and I giggle madly as David blushes. Hee. I love Paco. Warren had potential, but Paco is definitely the best DGDJ so far. He's fat-ass.

Speaking of ass (be it fat, thin, or bearing a "Nathaniel" tattoo), Brenda has arrived at the Formaldehyde Fortress for dinner. She hands Nate another bottle of expensive liquor lifted from her parents, and he looks freaked and tells her she's an hour early. She walks around the funeral-home portion of the Fortress, commenting that "the kitsch factor is substantial," although I suppose it's possible she's referring to her black floral dress and bright pink scarf. She makes a crack about having found the explanation for his well-developed sense of irony, and if I hit the mute button, I'll probably be able to hear the IMD Fairy warbling in the room. He just won't leave, people. He keeps wandering around the house, bitching about Lars Ulrich and singing a tuneless, off-key eighties medley of "Burning Down The House," "Another One Bites The Dust," and "Take This Job And Shove It." Which is why I'm thankful that Ruth chooses this particular moment to come downstairs to find the lovebirds. She greets Brenda warmly, and they exchange a bit of small talk before Mom returns to her cooking. As soon as she's gone, Brenda sighs, "She hates me." Then she starts macking on a reluctant Nate before wondering, "What's the matter? Afraid Mommy might see?" Nate backs away and asks her to not "turn tonight into Psych 101. Because trust me, we'll never make it through the evening." Amen, brother. And while we're on the subject of making it through the evening, I'll just mention that it's now 8:25. That "quick little dinner break" unfortunately turned out to be not that quick at all.

At Ye Olde Body Shoppe, Paco is working on his own stitches and giving David some relationship advice. Despite the fact that he refers to Keith as "David's bone-daddy," instead of the already canonized "Big Black Sex Cop," his advice is actually pretty good. He calls Keith a "rage-aholic," but when David says he doesn't understand why Keith got upset about being called a fag, Paco points out that David got called a fag too, but did nothing about it. As he goes on to quote a Bible passage that proves his point, he's suddenly dressed in his funeral suit. David immediately identifies the chapter and verse, and Paco begs to buried naked instead.

And speaking of naked, Brenda is upstairs with Nate, still cracking on the dcor. She professes disinterest in hearing about his bad day, but when he looks wounded, she grabs a seat and asks him to come sit beside her and unload his burdens. As he walks over, I notice for the first time just how right Daniel was. That guy's head is a perfect rectangle. It's like looking at a brick with hair. Nate's litany of woes includes the facts that he's scared about being an undertaker, there's a giant corporation trying to put them out of business, and his sister is potentially a crack-headed arsonist. Dude, it was crystal, not crack. We've been over this. Brenda psychobabbles about there being a lot of sadness in the house and Nate's gift for channeling other people's pain and blah blah I-don't-care-anymore-cakes. Let's get to the money shot, dammit. And here it is. Hearing a noise, Ruth opens the door to find her son down on his knees, disrespecting Brenda's Bing. You should feel free to close your eyes here, and mentally substitute "From way downtown, bang," "Cunnilingus and psychiatry have brought us to this," or any other vaguely risqu Sopranos or Sportscenter catchphrase you might like. Despite it being not TV, but HBO, the whole thing is shot tastefully from behind. Or at least as tastefully as possible for a shot of guy between a girl's thighs. Ruth suddenly remembers that aloha also means goodbye, and runs off screaming. Nate just lies on the floor, moaning, "Oh, god. Oh, god" over and over again as he calculates the number of hours he'll have to spend in therapy. Brenda remains her usual blas self as she opines that dinner is apparently served.

Monica Lewinsky: A funeral home, huh? And here I thought the Mural Room was kinky.
Alan Ball: Oh god, not again. I dont have time for this, you know.
Monica Lewinsky: I can't believe they did it with the mom in the room. At least Bill always had the decency to send Hillary off to a book signing or something.
Alan Ball: Yeah. Okay. Do you know where I can buy a good deadbolt?
Monica Lewinsky: Hey, do you think Sorkin is planning to recast Mandy? Because I'd be perfect for that show. Remember when they couldn't figure out how they changed the bird on the rug? Well, who knows more about the Oval Office carpet than I do?
Alan Ball: Get out. Immediately.
Monica Lewinsky: All right, all right. Just give him my rsum, okay?
Alan Ball: Yeah, I guess. Besides, that's a good picture. I like the beret. But you do know this isn't what they meant by "head" shots, right?