PASADENA, CA -- They speak loudly, and they carry a big stick up their...well, you know where. They are the television critics of America, and they do not suffer fools or foolish programming gladly. They don't greet you, they don't applaud, they question your every production move, they eat your food. They typically spare the women and children, but only if they aren't on a panel or otherwise in an official capacity. If you ever have the misfortune of running into them, don't meet their beady-eyed stares. It will only make them angrier.
Okay, I'm exaggerating. They won't spare the women and children, either.
It is indeed time once again for that semiannual rite known as the Television Press Tour, which kicked off this morning here at the Ritz-Carlton Huntington Hotel with something of a whimper. The nation's TV reviewers are invited to come in, watch shows, interview stars and production types and then leave two weeks later having collected a cache of broken hearts, shattered dreams and punctured egos. Some travel to Africa to chase antelope. These folk fly to Hollywood to bag 800-pound gorillas.
Actually, it's not really that way at all. The reputation these critics have for being pasty-faced, sedentary and disdainful -- while often accurate -- is entirely understandable given three key factors: 1. They are kept so busy here there's little time for sun; 2. They are so plied with high-calorie food and drink it makes exercise generally unthinkable; 3. They have been at this gig so long that the running stream of network sales pitches and propaganda serves to leave them frustrated, suspicious and impatient.
I've been at this TV critique thing since 1984 and have thus been coming to these little events for going on 23 years. The faces change, but the way the event is run remains relatively static. I am fortunate in that I'm not trapped in Pasadena without escape as are the majority of the out of town press corps. I'm local, so I can bop back and forth. That makes a massive difference in keeping my tolerance level high. I offer this as a caveat not to distance myself from the group think (I'm pretty pasty-faced and disdainful too) but to perhaps explain why I don't feel quite so beaten down as most of my veteran colleagues.
What you hear whispered (sometimes shouted) around each and every critics event is how little news there is, how crappy the shows are, how dull the interview subjects have turned out to be. The publicity-generating slog was described by San Francisco Chronicle TV critic Tim Goodman last July as a "death march with cocktails," and that pretty much seems to sum up the feelings of the majority here. It is at best a necessary evil to be endured, at worst an enervating blow to one's mental health and overall well-being.
I often join in this negative chorus. And make no mistake, I'll be taking plenty of my own shots between now and Jan. 21. But this time I feel like I have a broader and thus more positive outlook for a couple of reasons that have nothing to do with lobotomy or the ingestion of anti-depressants.
For one, I've come to the conclusion that this TV critique gig is a pretty cushy way to make a living. It really just doesn't pay to bitch about having to watch television to earn one's keep. There isn't a deep pool of sympathy there, nor should there be. Yeah, there's a lot of painful product that one must view, but then we get to write about it and make fodder of it and show the world how clever we can be riffing about something that's so dreadful. Even when we lose, we win.
It's equally tough to muster much compassion for those of us covering this press tour event. We sit with tape recorders and laptops and pens, recording, making light, firing out probing and/or condescending questions. Then we eat like there's no tomorrow, drink like fish, rub elbows with stars at parties, collect swag, hunker down in our high-end hotel room and gather respect and admiration from those who think we're cool simply by virtue of having this job. There is zero heavy lifting. We need not go down into any coal mines and risk our lives. We don't have to scrub any toilets or clean up anyone's mess. And in this job, we get to be on offense all the time (in every sense of the term).
All in all, not a bad litle deal, you know?
But I have another reason for feeling grateful just to be part of this fairly privileged club. Cathy Seipp, long a fellow critic and longer an adored friend, is very sick with lung cancer right now. The keeper of the superb blog Cathy's World always sits beside me at these events and has regularly been my irreverent partner in crime, poking fun at those in our midst with fairly relentless abandon. She gave it her best shot today but was able to stay in Pasadena only about an hour before pain and fatigue forced Cathy to make her exit.
I fear I won't have Cathy at my side throughout much of this critics extravaganza. I'm not going to get maudlin about this, as it would only inspire her to beat me senseless. So instead I'll simply use these feelings of anguish at her condition to take a perspective inventory that I share with all critics in attendance as well as anyone who reads this blog. Any critic who's feeling resentful for having to endure this occupational speedbump should know that one of his esteemed colleagues finds it sufficiently important that she used literally every ounce of her strength to make it there, however briefly.
In Cathy's honor, I promise to be extra-probing and even a little prickly while attending the critics shindig this week and next. But I also vow to appreciate just how sweet simply showing up can be.