Beach karate
It’s been 10 episodes and six lifetimes’ worth of torrid melodrama since we last checked in with Revenge. Since the show resumed after the hiatus following its initial 10-episode run, it’s made good on its promise to become this generation’s Falcon Crest (I’m not willing to invoke the mighty spectre of Dallas — not yet). While the first half of the season followed a delightfully predictable one-dramatic-downfall-per-episode structure, the remaining half has strayed wildly from that, cramming as much intrigue into its various plotlines as most soap operas cover in five years: prescription pill addiction, a high-profile wedding engagement, a murder trial of the century, a host of new characters, lost loves reunited (and then promptly torn asunder yet again). But the greatest change that Revenge has seen over the past ten episodes is its title sequence: where once the titular noun was set against a tasteful black backdrop, it now hurdles towards the viewer, floating atop the heaving waves of the Atlantic, a silver moon against a blood-red sky; the turbulent tides of…REVENGE!
I keep waiting for the show to jump the shark, although I do wonder: with a series this trashy, what would shark-jumping look like? After all, we’ve already been introduced to a slew of eye-rolling absurdities: curvy sexpot Fake Amanda, played by the Russian-born Margarita Levieva, who delivers all her lines as if she’s storing a mouthful of vodka; the tempestuous and passionate Artist-with-capital-A Dominik, my favorite ludicrous stereotype for obvious reasons, whose every gesture is a torrent of unbridled expressiveness (also, for a man with a failed career, he sure does live in a swell Manhattan loft); Satoshi Takeda, ruthless Japanese businessman, devotee of beach-side karate practice, Emily’s tutor in the delicate arts of Revenge, and vague rip-off from the Kill Bill movies; to say nothing of the Christmas list of cartoon thugs on the evil Grayson’s payroll.
There are still some stalwart constants to comfort me in the midst of this maelstrom of novelty: the most significant tchotchke in the history of network television, a portable webcam so integral to the plot that it now has its own name, the whale-cam; Nolan’s insistence on layering collared shirts (his neck emanates a Lacoste rainbow); the producers’ inability to secure any kind of technology sponsorship. (My favorite thus far is Emily’s go-to ubiquitous search engine, “GoQuestGo.” Don’t know how to get to Montauk? Just GoQuestGo-Map it! GQG-chatting makes it so easy for Charlotte to arrange her oxycodone deliveries!).
Of course, I don’t watch this show because of its dramatic profundity. If it ever started to offer me actual drama, genuine intrigue or a sliver of believability, I would stop. What’s more, if it actually tried, the whole thing would collapse on in itself. Admittedly, part of me wishes that Revenge were like an HBO miniseries, something with an end in sight, at least — the thought of this central conceit stretching out into perpetuity, much less a second season, exhausts me. They’ve already pushed the boundaries of ridiculousness in trying to fill the initial 21 episodes.
The first season wraps up on Wednesday. When last we left our ice-maiden heroine, she was in the middle of a filler episode, waiting for her ethically dubious hubby-to-be to finish dressing for his evil parents’ New Year’s Party, reminiscing on how she came to this life-consuming mission of hers. The final moments of the episode hinted that Emily had something dastardly to unleash on the Graysons and their unsuspecting guests…a devastating PowerPoint lecture perhaps? Although, hasn’t she already offed all the minor players in her father’s downfall? Best not to think too hard about these things. To paraphrase Takeda-san, one must approach Revenge with a mind uncluttered by rational thought.
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Sholem Krishtalka is the Toronto Standard’s art critic but he contains multitudes.
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