I’m going to be honest: I totally love this show. Love. It. It’s not a great show. The writing needs work. The plots aren’t sophisticated. But what it has is chemistry – insane, electric, undeniable, super-gay chemistry. Angie Harmon and Sasha Alexander just click. I mean, you could practically hear it the first time they appeared on screen together. *click* Each week, they just can’t help it. The chemistry, the subtext, it bubbles up. That’s what chemistry does, it writes its own story.
And let me be honest again, but it doesn’t bother me if they never kiss. Don’t get me wrong, I want them to kiss. Desperately. Every episode, at least once, I scream “KISS HER!” at my screen. Sometimes I also throw things. But the subtext doesn’t have to become maintext for me to enjoy it. In fact, I don’t expect it ever will. This isn’t really that kind of show, and it certainly isn’t that kind of source material. This is just a pleasant, well-paced cop drama about two smart, tough, charismatic women who solve crimes while making crazy eye contact, touching each other an inordinate number of times and sleeping over in the same bed. Straight girls, go figure.
Almost just as great as seeing the subtext each week is seeing how quickly gay women have embraced – once could even say groped with sweaty, naughty fingers – the subtext. The femslash. The Photoshopping. The recapping. It’s all so delicious and, well, fun. Look, we can get all indignant about the shortage of comprehensive, consistent, high-caliber lesbians shows and characters on television. And we should – we should never stop demanding more and better. But that shouldn’t keep us from enjoying something like this. Heck, even if TV was overflowing with every manner and sort of lesbian show, I think I’d still like “Rizzoli & Isles.” It’s a show that is in essence one big flirt. And, gosh, who doesn’t like flirting?
So it’s with a heavy heart that I look forward to next week’s season finale. Only one more episode? So soon? But, but, we just met. And for me, parting is even sooner sweet sorrow. Not to brag (that’s a lie, totally bragging), but I have a screener of the finale. In fact, I’ve watched the finale. So now I’m going to go all highfalutin media critic on you when I say that the only way to properly dissecting the complex narrative of next week’s finale is to describe it thusly: HOLY FUCKING SHIT.
No, really, I mean that.
Even Rizzoli is having a hard time not spilling the beans about it.
p.s. Since many of you have asked, I’m still deciding if I’m going to recap the earlier episodes from this season. I’m not going to lie, recapping is an enormous pain in the ass. But perhaps, if like with Tinkerbell, you all clap your hands loudly enough my poor nearly dead brain will spring back to life and power through them.
p.p.s. Watching Angie dance around to Austin Powers also helps.
[Hat tip, twotonnelauri.]
p.p.p.s. Yes, Jane and Maura will be back for another, even longer season next year. It was the No. 1 cable show this summer, beating even The Closer. Pandering to the lesbians has its perks.
No comments:
Post a Comment