Sunday, 02 September 2007

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On What Is Made Great, By Virtue of Being Terrible I need to lower the tone around here. Too many of the comments are penned in too high a dudgeon, so I'm left with none but nuclear options: Ogged convinced me to watch Entourage . Like him (and those eligible to vote for Emmys), I was captivated by Jeremy Piven's man-child antics. (Not that this is a theme.) (And seriously, I'm going to link to that post again, because Piven's that genius and Luther's that right.) Tonight's episode—watched in a momentary fit of irresponsibility, as I'm now busier than I thought humanly possible—hammers home a point I've been flailing at for the last few weeks: I'm utterly incapable of judging the quality of the show I've just watched. Certainly, some scenes are pure wish-fulfillment, but who am I to say that they're merely an expression of it? Might they not hie to the standards of televised verisimilitude? How would I know? My ignorance of the lives of the famously wealthy and beautiful leaves me utterly unable to judge the accuracy of representations of their lives. Since my interest in the show is predicated on Piven's outrageous responses to the absurd situations his clients force him into by virtue of 1) their famously beautiful wealthiness or 2) their obscenely exaggerated male-bondedness, I'm at an utter loss to distinguish between "quality" and "entertainment value." Because the lower the quality, the more entertaining it is. Which means that as the quality of the show slips, it simultaneously increases ... leaving me watching a show whose merits I can't defend with a straight face. I can't think of a single corollary of this in literature, but I'm sure one exists. So please, somebody, enlighten me ...

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