- The "Never Kill..." teaser with Giles critiquing Buffy's slaying technique is really funny, and (along with Giles' fighting training later on), really adds to his cahracter.
- The scene with Xander and Willow attempting to persuade Buffy to go to the funeral home in "Never Kill..." is effective and funny, if just for Xander's obliviousness that Willow isn't pretending.
- The end of "The Pack" is particularly anti-climactic--the zookeeper transfers the hyena spirit into himself and then he's tossed to the hyenas? Nothing else?
- One of the joys of "The Pack" is that it gives Nicholas Brendon a nice chance to play against his ordinary character of the dorky guy pining silently, and he actually does pretty darn well with it.
- SMG's outfit in the final scene of "The Pack" is almost unspeakably awful.
- Both have mild twists in the endings (that Buffy didn't slay the "Anointed One" and that Xander does remember his time possessed), but neither feels tacked on or added for pure shock value, unlike in other episodes.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
SEX AND THE SLAYER: After a rather lengthy hiatus (due to actual new TV and work-related program activities), it's time to return to the promised "Blogging Buffy," with episodes 5 and 6 of the first season--"Never Kill A Boy On The First Date" and "The Pack." Interestingly, Alan noted, in reviewing the finale of Reaper, that there are a number of interesting parallels between Reaper and Buffy's first seasons, one of which is that the monster of the week episodes are generally far less interesting than those which develop the story arc. That's very true here, where "Never Kill..." is designed mostly to set up the "Master" plot arc, while "The Pack" is almost purely Monster of the Week, and "Never Kill..." winds up being a considerably more interesting episode. A few other notes:
Tyra Banks - Banksable - NYTimes.com
YOU THINK I'M JUST A MODEL? WELL, THEN, LET ME SHOW YOU: It is nigh impossible to make a transition from Bee Week to normal blogging on this site, and before we turn the frozen donkey wheel I want to again thank Shonda, Heather and Raf for lending their expertise and exuberance to the past two days on this site. We try our best to treat the kids with respect and to honor their efforts, to treat the competition seriously but not solemnly, and I hope we succeed this year. What we saw last night in the finals was a dodecamerous embodiment of the American dream (and I don't just say that because all the Canadians were eliminated in Round 5), and there are so many competitors whom we hope to see again and/or read about their post-Bee exploits in the years to come.
[As always, Bee veterans are invited to contact us if they ever want to share their stories with a wider audience.]
So. Speaking of the American dream and hard work [transition alert!], I approached this weekend's NYT Magazine piece on Tyra Banks with some trepidation, but as it turns out Lynn Hirschberg takes Banks and her work ethic quite seriously, and it's a great, admiring profile:
[As always, Bee veterans are invited to contact us if they ever want to share their stories with a wider audience.]
So. Speaking of the American dream and hard work [transition alert!], I approached this weekend's NYT Magazine piece on Tyra Banks with some trepidation, but as it turns out Lynn Hirschberg takes Banks and her work ethic quite seriously, and it's a great, admiring profile:
Lasting, mainstream success has always been her biggest priority. “I could do the job, but I never truly identified with the fashion world,” Banks said. “It’s so fabulous, and it’s so speaking in European accents when you’re from Oklahoma. I’d have on a $30,000 gown, but it felt like Halloween to me. I saw that the mass girls with cosmetic and swimsuit calendars made more money than the high-fashion girls. I started looking at Cindy Crawford. She had been a high-fashion girl, and then she segued into being this Americana girl. No black girl ever attempted to be Cindy Crawford. Supermodels like Iman were intimidating divas — they weren’t like: ‘Hi! Here’s a Pepsi!’ I wanted Cindy’s career — I wanted to be the black girl next door.” ...To learn more about her growing tv empire, Tyra's foodie ways and a condition occasionally referred to as "I.B.S.", keep reading.
When she was 20, she wrote in one of her notebooks: “If Michael Jordan can sell tennis shoes and Magic Johnson can sell cars, I can sell cornflakes. I can and I will. So just sit back and relax because here I come. . . . I’m going to hurt and abuse.” Banks looked pleased when she read that passage aloud. “It was a moment,” she said now. “When I showed that to my mom the other day, she said, ‘You didn’t just happen overnight.’ ”
WHO'S AFRAID OF THE BIG BAD WOLF? I have to say, last night's Doctor Who was pretty mediocre up until that last scene (despite moments of goodness, including the Doctor trying to communicate with Donna without giving anything away to the Sontarrans, and the genuinely affecting Donna/Grandfather stuff), and, as Alan pointed out when the first part of the two-parter aired a couple of weeks ago, the basic plot had been done, better, just a few weeks earlier in the season premiere, but that final scene, especially when seen in conjunction with the "on the next...," says we're headed somewhere very interesting next week.
ETA: Interestingly, much the same could be said about BSG, at least if the promo is not excessively sliced and diced--a mediocre episode, but if the promo's accurate....
ETA: Interestingly, much the same could be said about BSG, at least if the promo is not excessively sliced and diced--a mediocre episode, but if the promo's accurate....
IN DEFENSE OF TRACY FLICK: Some time ago, when Aaron Gleeman was still a college student posting about 10,000 words a day about the Twins, Elisha Cuthbert, and the embarrassment of having your parents move you into your dorm, he wrote of some baseball player or another that he was playing like the second coming of Roy Hobbs. A day later, he printed a portion of my email to him, reminding him that some people might not find it a compliment to be called a reincarnation of a surly ass who took money with the intention of fixing a game and then promptly killed (accidentally, but callously, with a foul ball) the woman carrying his child (er, spoiler alert). Part of my point was that there was a side to the Hobbs character that baseball people sometimes forget (caveat: I haven't seen much of the Redford movie, so I kind of doubt he comes across the same way as in the Malamud book).
There's been a lot of talk here the last day or two about Tracy Flick, the name representing some kind of mild villainess, a fireball of brusque ambition, and I think that's unfair to the character. Flick was a child of a single mother with a modest income surrounded by the children of wealthy two-parent families, and she refused to let any of them condescend to her, to think that she was entitled to any less than they had or would have. She did this by developing a hard exterior, smooth and rounded and brittle as an eggshell. As I read it, the tragedy of Tracy Flick is that she didn't get the protection (even, in part, from herself) that she needed -- and that everybody else in that school would have gotten -- because nobody thought that she, with her smooth hard shell, needed protection. Least of all herself, which, in my reading, is why she fools herself into believing that she was not the victim of the affair. In any event, if you allow her that context, you can see where the sharp elbows are coming from.
I have no idea whether our putative Tracy Flick (and I'm not using her name because I don't want to make it easier for her to find this by googling herself) needs the same kind of context. It's easy to say that she's a home-schooled kid living in a house halfway up and flush against the side of a mountain, surrounded by forest, subsisting upon the companionship only of two parents, a pair of much-younger siblings, and a regular Friday night IM session with a fellow speller, and that somebody should have expanded her habitat and prevented her from building her entire life around the dictionary. It seems plausible, and understood that way, a spelling group easily could be an awkward way of making other social connections, rather than just another manifestation of an esoteric compulsion. If that were true, I would hope that we would cut our putative Tracy Flick the kind of slack that I want to give the other Tracy Flick. But we don't know that that's necessary -- for all we know, her family has friendly neighbors and the kind of church life that makes up for the lack of school interaction.
What I really hope is true is something else. Maybe our putative Tracy Flick, like few other kids, found that she had both a rare talent and a singular joy in competition -- the kind of joy that appears as satisfaction in the mastery of a word (the cockiness at the microphone) and bubbles over into the thrill of victory (the touchdown signal after a correct spelling). There is an element of chance in the Bee -- a point at which an elite speller still has to guess whether to lead schwa-pificer with an "o" or an "e" -- and I just have to marvel at a speller so good that she beat back that randomness through five regional bees to sit on the prime-time stage two or three times and still had enough enthusiasm that a light went on in her eyes at the exact moment that she found the key to each new word.
Last year's winner openly admitted he didn't like the Bee. He spelled as much out of chemical imperative as anything else. Given the choice between him and our putative Tracy Flick, I'lltake pick Flick every time.
Edited because Adam reminded me of the slogan.
There's been a lot of talk here the last day or two about Tracy Flick, the name representing some kind of mild villainess, a fireball of brusque ambition, and I think that's unfair to the character. Flick was a child of a single mother with a modest income surrounded by the children of wealthy two-parent families, and she refused to let any of them condescend to her, to think that she was entitled to any less than they had or would have. She did this by developing a hard exterior, smooth and rounded and brittle as an eggshell. As I read it, the tragedy of Tracy Flick is that she didn't get the protection (even, in part, from herself) that she needed -- and that everybody else in that school would have gotten -- because nobody thought that she, with her smooth hard shell, needed protection. Least of all herself, which, in my reading, is why she fools herself into believing that she was not the victim of the affair. In any event, if you allow her that context, you can see where the sharp elbows are coming from.
I have no idea whether our putative Tracy Flick (and I'm not using her name because I don't want to make it easier for her to find this by googling herself) needs the same kind of context. It's easy to say that she's a home-schooled kid living in a house halfway up and flush against the side of a mountain, surrounded by forest, subsisting upon the companionship only of two parents, a pair of much-younger siblings, and a regular Friday night IM session with a fellow speller, and that somebody should have expanded her habitat and prevented her from building her entire life around the dictionary. It seems plausible, and understood that way, a spelling group easily could be an awkward way of making other social connections, rather than just another manifestation of an esoteric compulsion. If that were true, I would hope that we would cut our putative Tracy Flick the kind of slack that I want to give the other Tracy Flick. But we don't know that that's necessary -- for all we know, her family has friendly neighbors and the kind of church life that makes up for the lack of school interaction.
What I really hope is true is something else. Maybe our putative Tracy Flick, like few other kids, found that she had both a rare talent and a singular joy in competition -- the kind of joy that appears as satisfaction in the mastery of a word (the cockiness at the microphone) and bubbles over into the thrill of victory (the touchdown signal after a correct spelling). There is an element of chance in the Bee -- a point at which an elite speller still has to guess whether to lead schwa-pificer with an "o" or an "e" -- and I just have to marvel at a speller so good that she beat back that randomness through five regional bees to sit on the prime-time stage two or three times and still had enough enthusiasm that a light went on in her eyes at the exact moment that she found the key to each new word.
Last year's winner openly admitted he didn't like the Bee. He spelled as much out of chemical imperative as anything else. Given the choice between him and our putative Tracy Flick, I'll
Edited because Adam reminded me of the slogan.
Friday, May 30, 2008
ON FIRST GLANCE: Well, that was worth waiting for! I had a chance to catch the last few minutes of the Bee, with Tia, Sameer, and Sidarth on stage. What follows are some random thoughts, from my perspective as a former contestant.
My man Sidarth!: Of the three, I identified the most with Sidarth. Like him, I was a first-time speller; like him, I suddenly found myself with a chance to win it; like him, I spelled out on a word (plutogoguery) that, had I spent just a *tiny* bit more time pondering it, I might have spelled correctly (or not -- one never knows these things).
I once had the chance to spend some time with a noted basketball player. I asked him what it was like when he got "in the zone". His reply was that the hoop and the ball became gigantic and time slowed to a crawl. I knew what he was talking about, because the same thing has happened to me on occasion -- and it happened that spring when I was spelling.
Sidarth was in the same zone that I inhabited, even after he spelled out. I could tell; he seemed slightly dazed and unsure of what he should do next. I'm sure he'll knock himself a bit once the reality of it all sinks in -- I did the same thing. He strikes me, though, as someone who'll be quite all right.
Tia, Tia, Tia: I hear where people are coming from with Tia. You know what, though? If I had to pick someone other than Sidarth to win, Tia was the one. So what if she struck some of us as rather Tracy Flick-like? To win in something like this (especially now that it's becoming more of a world championship), you need to exert maximum effort -- even if you're in the zone. With Tia in the competition, I felt that was made certain. You could see it in her eyes -- this title was hers, and the only way anyone was going to win it was to take it away from her.
That's the kind of drive and self-possession you see in a champion. Shonda compared her to Kobe, and I totally agree. I've seen that look in his eyes, I've seen it in Tiger's eyes, I've seen it in Barack Obama's eyes; really, I've seen it in anyone who's truly excellent at what they do.
Mark it: we'll hear from Tia Thomas yet.
World Spelling Bee: Look, let's be frank. At this point, it's not a national spelling championship; it's increasingly becoming a world championship. That's a good thing!
Spirit and letter of the rules: Earlier, Adam (I think it was him) mentioned Jake Smith of Colorado, and how his dad had moved with him to Boulder in order to compete again at the Bee in his final year.
Now, I like Jake. I had a chance to meet him last year, and I chatted with him. Nice kid. Here's the thing: rules for the Rocky Mountain News bee say that there can't be repeat representatives. I'm not sure if it's a policy or an actual rule, but it's a prohibition of some weight.
Jake's folks thought that was silly, so they moved Jake to Boulder in order to be able to compete again. As fate has it, Jake's brother won the Rocky bee, so they became the first brothers to compete in the same Bee.
Again, nothing against Jake or his brother (who's also a sweet kid). I'm sure they wanted to compete as well. But even in my brief time knowing them, I got the feeling that if they didn't win, they'd be cool. The parents, not so much. Jake asked me about the stuff they got to do; the parents asked me about how to win the Bee. I told them to relax and enjoy the ride. Somehow, I don't know that they did.
In the end, these are kids we're talking about. One of the few changes that I disagree with the Bee staff about (not that my opinion matters a whit more than others) is the decision to let family members on stage during the championship rounds.
The stage belongs to the kids. Not the parents -- the kids. This is their time to shine on stage, and it should stay that way. I'd much prefer it if the families were seated off-stage; maybe in a different section, if you want, but off-stage.
Okay, that's it. Thanks to the vicissitudes of our political nominating process, I spent most of the week traveling from one end of the country to the other. Unfortunately, that meant I wasn't able to contribute as much as I wanted to. I look forward -- with the permission of our kind friends here -- to doing more next year.
I want to thank all of you here for having me, however briefly. Mazeltov to all the spellers this year.
And with that, it's time for me to go.
My man Sidarth!: Of the three, I identified the most with Sidarth. Like him, I was a first-time speller; like him, I suddenly found myself with a chance to win it; like him, I spelled out on a word (plutogoguery) that, had I spent just a *tiny* bit more time pondering it, I might have spelled correctly (or not -- one never knows these things).
I once had the chance to spend some time with a noted basketball player. I asked him what it was like when he got "in the zone". His reply was that the hoop and the ball became gigantic and time slowed to a crawl. I knew what he was talking about, because the same thing has happened to me on occasion -- and it happened that spring when I was spelling.
Sidarth was in the same zone that I inhabited, even after he spelled out. I could tell; he seemed slightly dazed and unsure of what he should do next. I'm sure he'll knock himself a bit once the reality of it all sinks in -- I did the same thing. He strikes me, though, as someone who'll be quite all right.
Tia, Tia, Tia: I hear where people are coming from with Tia. You know what, though? If I had to pick someone other than Sidarth to win, Tia was the one. So what if she struck some of us as rather Tracy Flick-like? To win in something like this (especially now that it's becoming more of a world championship), you need to exert maximum effort -- even if you're in the zone. With Tia in the competition, I felt that was made certain. You could see it in her eyes -- this title was hers, and the only way anyone was going to win it was to take it away from her.
That's the kind of drive and self-possession you see in a champion. Shonda compared her to Kobe, and I totally agree. I've seen that look in his eyes, I've seen it in Tiger's eyes, I've seen it in Barack Obama's eyes; really, I've seen it in anyone who's truly excellent at what they do.
Mark it: we'll hear from Tia Thomas yet.
World Spelling Bee: Look, let's be frank. At this point, it's not a national spelling championship; it's increasingly becoming a world championship. That's a good thing!
Spirit and letter of the rules: Earlier, Adam (I think it was him) mentioned Jake Smith of Colorado, and how his dad had moved with him to Boulder in order to compete again at the Bee in his final year.
Now, I like Jake. I had a chance to meet him last year, and I chatted with him. Nice kid. Here's the thing: rules for the Rocky Mountain News bee say that there can't be repeat representatives. I'm not sure if it's a policy or an actual rule, but it's a prohibition of some weight.
Jake's folks thought that was silly, so they moved Jake to Boulder in order to be able to compete again. As fate has it, Jake's brother won the Rocky bee, so they became the first brothers to compete in the same Bee.
Again, nothing against Jake or his brother (who's also a sweet kid). I'm sure they wanted to compete as well. But even in my brief time knowing them, I got the feeling that if they didn't win, they'd be cool. The parents, not so much. Jake asked me about the stuff they got to do; the parents asked me about how to win the Bee. I told them to relax and enjoy the ride. Somehow, I don't know that they did.
In the end, these are kids we're talking about. One of the few changes that I disagree with the Bee staff about (not that my opinion matters a whit more than others) is the decision to let family members on stage during the championship rounds.
The stage belongs to the kids. Not the parents -- the kids. This is their time to shine on stage, and it should stay that way. I'd much prefer it if the families were seated off-stage; maybe in a different section, if you want, but off-stage.
Okay, that's it. Thanks to the vicissitudes of our political nominating process, I spent most of the week traveling from one end of the country to the other. Unfortunately, that meant I wasn't able to contribute as much as I wanted to. I look forward -- with the permission of our kind friends here -- to doing more next year.
I want to thank all of you here for having me, however briefly. Mazeltov to all the spellers this year.
And with that, it's time for me to go.
Championship Round: It's coming...
We are back live. THREE SPELLERS REMAIN. Tia, Sidharth and Sameer...
"Oxylophytic" -- okay, some commenters have called her Tracy Flick and yeah, there is a bit of Tracy Flick in her. Okay, a lot. A LOT. I'm trying so hard to like her. I've never NOT loved a Bee winner before. Please, gods of spelling, help me to love her...
"Sinicize" - which means modify by Chinese influence. It's Sameer's word. He's not sure. He's spelling on the back of his number placard...
He says the word over and over. Hoping that will help. It doesn't. He asks for BBC Jacques Bailly to say the word again. AND THEN HE SPELLS IT RIGHT!!!
HE IS THE TIGER WOODS OF SPELLING!!
(note that I do not know a single thing about Tiger Woods except that he plays golf but everyone says that anyone amazing is Tiger Woods-like so I am jumping on the bandwagon...)
Sidharth with "aptyalism": he was all, whatever, bring it on, you think that is a WORD, I'm a badass...he walked away before he even HEARD whether the judges thought he was right. HE IS A ROCK STAR. I officially luurve him.
10:00 pm: "Opificer"-- a skilled or artistic worker. I do not know if Tia is gonna get this. She actually seems worried... It's origins are Latin but still she's not sure. She mouthes the word over and over. She glances to her Mom and Dad. She's worried...AND TRACY FLICK GOES DOWN!!!!
(I apologize for calling her Tracy Flick. She's a lovely girl. She's a Yang. But still...)
10:02 pm: Sameer gets "hyphaeresis" - the omission of a sound, letter or syllable of a word. He spells it like it's no thang but a chicken wing...Dude, he's smooth and amazing.
Sidharth -- I am telling you, he OWNS THIS BEE. He's amazing. "Kulturkampf".
Next round: Sameer gets "taleggio"...
WHAT HAPPENS NOW?
They are both so calm. And so confident!
Sidharth is all, "introuvable? Is it French?" Like he hears it all the time! He is so calm! I like him more than Sameer who gets "esclandre". Sameer is the more popular and stylish of the two. He needs it less. But I do so admire Sameer and the moment where he gently mocked Sidharth's perfect French accent...
DEAR GOD!!! prosopopia!!! (am not sure I got this right because I was coming out of my chair...)
Sidharth is OUT!! OUT!!! If Sameer can't spell this word!!!! "Guerdon"...
SAMEER MISHRA IS THE CHAMPION!!!!!
He is posing with a huge statue that is half the size of his body!!! He IS THE WINNER!!! HE WON!!
HE WON!!!!!!
Oh, my gosh, we were doing a bit of a dance here at the office. I can barely breathe. It's been fun. Sameer has won. Another Bee is over.
Thank you for inviting me...
See you next year...
A CRAZY LITTLE THING CALLED HOPE: Note: I wrote this on my flight tonight to DC. Thanks to a crazy day at my other, non-corporate gig, it's getting posted now. I'll have more thoughts on the Bee shortly, now that I'm at my other home in DC.
I'm writing this at 37,000 feet. It's a bumpy ride from Denver to Baltimore, and it's one of the few chances I've had this week to take some time, think, and write.
Heather and I have been asked to talk about our personal experiences at the Bee. I think many of you have read my account from last year about how I became a speller. For those of you who haven't, you can read it earlier in the blog.
The Bee back then, in 1991, wasn't the spectacular festival that you see now, but the seeds for that were in motion. We had a total of around 230 spellers (I was wrong in my memory), and the publicity was limited to newspapers, cable news networks, and, for the winner, the late night shows and the morning shows the morning after winning.
That's not to say that it wasn't as fiercely competitive. It was. You had competitors who had been to the Bee three, four, five times, you had professional coaches, you had stage parents.
The competition, however, was shorter, and more unforgiving -- to borrow a collegiate sports analogy, less college basketball, more college football. It was two days of spelling on a stage -- no more, no less. Silence meant victory, and the bell tolled for those who were vanquished.
I don't recall a written test, or a bonus round. What I recall is that I took the stage the morning of Day 1 thinking, 'well, I've come this far...', feeling breezily confident the first three rounds...and then...
And then, came Round 4, which turned into the spelling equivalent of one of those World War One battles where you go to the microphone not knowing if you're going to have a seat on stage when you're done.
Once *that* was done, we broke for the day. That night, my anticipation was *intense*. I've mentioned before that I'm a very competitive man; I'm not a sore loser, but losing tears me up. It's why I joined the military, why I went into politics, and why I worked for one of the most competitive technology companies in the world; I want to *win*, and if I don't, I at least want to know that I left everything on the field, and gave it my best shot.
I've said earlier that, like one of this year's spellers, I didn't agonize over the Bee. I didn't go so far as he did -- I did study every night, after all.
That night, though, I chose not to study. I looked at the stage after Day 1, and I realized, 'Holy crap, I can *win* this...I can be the national champion!'. I chose, that night, not to study. I earned my rest.
I didn't win the championship the next day. It turns out I won something far greater: the knowledge that, no matter the odds, I had a shot. In the unlikely story that is my life (and it *is* an unlikely story), the only thing that had rung false for a kid who was largely raised by a single mother (my 'dad' is actually my stepfather) is a sense of hope that things would turn out okay.
I haven't lacked it since.
I'm writing this at 37,000 feet. It's a bumpy ride from Denver to Baltimore, and it's one of the few chances I've had this week to take some time, think, and write.
Heather and I have been asked to talk about our personal experiences at the Bee. I think many of you have read my account from last year about how I became a speller. For those of you who haven't, you can read it earlier in the blog.
The Bee back then, in 1991, wasn't the spectacular festival that you see now, but the seeds for that were in motion. We had a total of around 230 spellers (I was wrong in my memory), and the publicity was limited to newspapers, cable news networks, and, for the winner, the late night shows and the morning shows the morning after winning.
That's not to say that it wasn't as fiercely competitive. It was. You had competitors who had been to the Bee three, four, five times, you had professional coaches, you had stage parents.
The competition, however, was shorter, and more unforgiving -- to borrow a collegiate sports analogy, less college basketball, more college football. It was two days of spelling on a stage -- no more, no less. Silence meant victory, and the bell tolled for those who were vanquished.
I don't recall a written test, or a bonus round. What I recall is that I took the stage the morning of Day 1 thinking, 'well, I've come this far...', feeling breezily confident the first three rounds...and then...
And then, came Round 4, which turned into the spelling equivalent of one of those World War One battles where you go to the microphone not knowing if you're going to have a seat on stage when you're done.
Once *that* was done, we broke for the day. That night, my anticipation was *intense*. I've mentioned before that I'm a very competitive man; I'm not a sore loser, but losing tears me up. It's why I joined the military, why I went into politics, and why I worked for one of the most competitive technology companies in the world; I want to *win*, and if I don't, I at least want to know that I left everything on the field, and gave it my best shot.
I've said earlier that, like one of this year's spellers, I didn't agonize over the Bee. I didn't go so far as he did -- I did study every night, after all.
That night, though, I chose not to study. I looked at the stage after Day 1, and I realized, 'Holy crap, I can *win* this...I can be the national champion!'. I chose, that night, not to study. I earned my rest.
I didn't win the championship the next day. It turns out I won something far greater: the knowledge that, no matter the odds, I had a shot. In the unlikely story that is my life (and it *is* an unlikely story), the only thing that had rung false for a kid who was largely raised by a single mother (my 'dad' is actually my stepfather) is a sense of hope that things would turn out okay.
I haven't lacked it since.
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