Royal Flush.


I give Kings three weeks before NBC pours a vial of poison in the show’s ear and puts on reruns of The Biggest Loser.

The only thing worse than sub-literate television is semi-literate television with pretensions to literacy. Give me a show that knows exactly how bad it is, over a show that thinks it’s miles better than it is. That this overstuffed turkey clearly gobbled up a fortune (the production values and digital scenery are awesome) only compounds the folly.

The actors arch their eyebrows archly and ring wry changes on the words as if to convince us (or themselves) that the dialogue is worthy of Shakespeare, but the gestures of wit seem there mainly to cover up the absence of wit; the words are wan, limp, flaccid, signifying next to nothing. You can feel the writer, Michael Green, spraining his own eyebrow. In comparison, the vigorous, punchy writing on the Aaron Spelling shows of the eighties puts the conversation on Kings to shame. Richard and Esther Shapiro, where art thou?

And yeah, I get the biblical David and Goliath references. I got them well before seeing that the enemy tanks which the young soldier named David went up against were named, er, Goliath. I liked the allegory a little better before I had it buried in my head like an ax. Green wants credit for cleverness, but he’s hedging his bets for the slow-on-the-uptake crowd.

Poor Ian McShane. You deserve better, Al.


One Comment on “Royal Flush.”

  1. rovronr says:

    What a nice image. Ted stumbling around in his blood-soaked bathrobe and his slippers, trying to remove the allegory wedged in the top of his head. Angie calling down the stairs, “Ted, what was that sick crunching noise I just heard?” “Was it the TV?”

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