Final Post
I have thoroughly enjoyed this class and have learned more about myself than I expected to. Because I intend to make a living as a writer, I thought learning how to write as a critic could only help me. Thinking writing like a critic would be something easy to learn, I expected to read work from lots of different critics that would serve as an example of what and what not to do. The class was so much more than that, and I am glad.
I didn’t just learn how to write like a critic. I learned about who I was as a critic. By getting in touch with my pop culture prejudices, I was able to see why I have never been able to write criticly. You can’t criticize something you really know nothing about. All these years I have been building a big wall around myself, only bringing in media I thought was “good”. I’m not sure what made me think I knew what was good from my limited experiences, but my taste was the only one I trusted. Suggestions from friends were often rebuffed because I knew they secretly owned Britney Spears or were very fond of the never-ending songs of what I like to call “hippie twirl” music. So I stuck to my classic rock, branching out only into music my brother liked simply because I trusted him.
Experiencing the full range of tastes that were represented in our class this semester, I realized there was much more “good” stuff out there than I had given the world credit for. When Noel came to visit, I asked him what qualities made for a good critic. Besides just loving music, he said a good critic must listen to lots of music, good and bad.
Another thing I discovered about myself in this class is the deep shame I have for watching television. As I’ve said numerous times, it all stems from my raising. Television was bad all the way around. Then some of it was okay. Now I am free to do what I want, but I feel so guilty for spending as much time as I do watching tv. I am also embarassed that my favorites are the really ridiculous reality shows. But through this class I learned that there is nothing for me to be ashamed of. So what if I enjoyed “I Love New York 2” and made sure I was home in time to watch every single episode? Am I a better person for having watched it? Probably not. But can I now speak knowledgeably about the show and make intelligent (hehe) comparisons of similar shows? Heck yes!
As far as my aspirations to being a critic are concerned, I simply want to learn how to do it so it is in my writing arsenal. I feel that the people who actually make it out in the big, bad world as writers have diversified portfolios. Besides, I get bored easily. It will be a very long time before I am able to sit down and write a novel. I need little things to keep me busy writing. I don’t think I could be a critic for a living, but it is something I would like to do on the side. Through learning my limitations (outlined roughly above), I can see how much work I have to do in order to make my words as a critic viable in the industry. I’ve got a lot of music to listen to and movies/tv to watch.
As for our readings, my most favorite was Klosterman. He was so witty, never afraid to lay it all out there. It made the readings more personal, which I like, and I was more willing to listen to his opinion because I kind of knew who he was. I enjoyed his take on the world. It opened up more possibilities for criticism, showing me there’s more to it than short reviews. It made me feel better about my blog posts, which I often felt were too personal and not very critic-like.
The creative freedom we were allowed with the blogs was much appreciated. I am a lay-it-all-on-the-line kind of gal, usually opting to say too much. Nearly everything I wrote about I have intense feelings for (not counting the last “something new” post), and it was very hard to imagine trying to criticize that thing without involving my feelings for it. So I chose not to. The only time I actually saw myself come close to writing like a critic was with the PCO and COW. I really tried hard to switch gears and think like someone who was evaluating the media open-mindedly. It was hard, because I absolutely adore Cindy Woolf (my COW), and I had to write the PCO right after Noel had been for a visit. I thought he was great. It was hard to put that aside to evaulate his work from a different angle. But I was proud of my work on both pieces and felt I did a good job keeping my personal feelings out of it. At least I didn’t gush over my childhood experiences.
Over all, I loved this class, and I love what I learned in it. Everyone in the class was fantastic. The small number allowed me to get to know everyone on the most personal level I believe possible – through their taste in pop culture. I truly have opened my eyes to things I would have skipped over before. From this point forward, I will always give anything a listen. Or a read. Or a watch. At least once.
Thanks Donna! And everyone! Don’t be surprised if you hear from me some day. I have found that life has a way of bringing us all full circle. I fully expect for us to all cross paths again. I’ll be sure to say hello.
Lost
I had heard of the tv series Lost before this class, but before Rebecca brought a clip to class, I had never seen it. After the clip, I was intrigued. Many of my friends and acquaintances are hooked on the show. Even to the point they must be home on that night to see the new episode, and Rebecca shared the same interest in the show. I decided that there must be something to a show so many people love, so I went online to check it out.
After watching the pilot episode I could see why so many people were into it. Being stranded on a desert island after a plane crash is a fear many people have, including myself. But Lost is no Gilligan’s Island. The humor isn’t there. The characters in Lost take their situation very seriously, as they should. Not only are they stranded on a desert island with people they don’t know, there is a whole bunch of other crazy shit going on.
Because I only watched one episode, I have yet to discover what the noise is or what is knocking down all of the trees. But I appreciate the addition of a supernatural element to the show. Adding a mystery such as that to getting all wrapped up in the characters is an excellent way to keep the story alive on multiple levels.
Besides the setting, the personal situation of each character, and the supernatural stuff, I think this show speaks to people on another level. The idea of being lost in the world is one that resonates with me personally. I often wonder how it is that on such a large planet with so many people that I can feel lost at times. It’s more of a feeling of being lost in humanity, rather than a feeling of not knowing where I am. More than ever, society is focused on the singularity of humans. We have gotten away from the clans and families of the olden days. We no longer rely on each other for survival. I think that Lost revisits this idea of dependence on others. In order for us to be able to understand, the characters are removed from the society they are used to and placed in a situation where their survival is entirely dependent on those around them.
Watching past episodes of Lost is definitely on my agenda. I am glad I was finally spurred to see what it was all about.
The Wild One
The Wild One was made in 1953 and starred Marlon Brando. The story follows a gang of motorcycle riders that raise hell and cause trouble everywhere they go. Supposedly, the story is based on an incident in 1947 when thousands of motorcycle riders took over a California town for a few days. No one was murdered or kidnapped, but this was the first time the public realized the power this new breed of outlaw really possessed.
Given my very sheltered raising, the fact that my father purchased this movie and made us watch it is amazing. It may have had to do with the fact that he spent the first half of his life in motorcycle gangs just like the one portrayed in the movie. Maybe having us watch the movie was his way of sharing part of his life with us. My dad is strange that way.
So back to the movie. The Wild One contains all facets of a proper outlaw movie. The gang leader falls for the police chief’s daughter. She rebuffs his advances. A rival gang arrives and causes trouble just as the first gang tries to leave town. The first gang gets blamed for the trouble. The girl gets chased by drunk gang members with bad intentions, then is whisked away by the handsome gang leader in the nick of time. They kiss, then they argue and part ways. Concerned townsmen capture the gang leader and beat him. The girl talks sense into her father, the police chief, and he lets the gang leader go. Someone dies. The gang leaves town. The end.
Marlon Brando fits the role of outlaw motorcycle gang leader perfectly, and I can’t picture another actor doing as good of a job. Not even James Dean. I suppose The Wild One could be considered the motorcycle gang version of Rebel Without a Cause. I am a big Marlon Brando fan, so that may have something to do with it too.
Growing up watching classic movies, the fact that this film was black and white didn’t bother me. In fact, I couldn’t imagine it in color. In my opinion, this left space for the characters themselves to be the color. Since color movies were in production at the time, I have to believe that the producers chose to use black and white for a reason. Does it matter if the reason was a style choice or budget constraints? Not to me. Because I don’t know what the reason was, I am allowed to imagine it however I would like.
In case you haven’t noticed, I have refrained from using that term “biker gang”, which all other information referring to this movie uses, and have instead replaced it with “motorcycle gang”. There are two reasons for this. One, the gang in the movie is actually referred to as the “Black Rebels Motorcycle Gang”. Two, my dad taught me never to refer to these groups as “biker gangs” or to the people in them as “bikers”. Apparently in his day, that term was offensive and used only by people that knew no better.
Here is the back story on that. Harley Davidson motorcycles were originally used for racing. After that, they were used by the army overseas. Once they were made available to the general public, they became popular with two different types of people. The people who loved motorcycles and just wanted to ride, and the people who used them as a symbol of their rebellion. The American Motorcycle Association actually came out with an advertisement claiming the first group was considered to be 99 percent of the people who rode and that they were clean-cut, upstanding citizens. The second group made up the last one percent and were considered to be troublemakers that gave motorcycle riders a bad name. The rebels looked upon this designation as a place of honor and “real” motorcycle gangs have since been called “One Percenters”. To this day, there is a One Percenter patch that can only be worn by certain motorcycle clubs. Oh yeah. They’re no longer called gangs. They’re called clubs. And you don’t just get the patch by being in one of the clubs. You have to earn it. In his day, my dad spent time in two of the One Percenter clubs.
I suppose that is all neither here nor there, but the gang portrayed in The Wild One was a One Percenter club. The gang wasn’t modeled after one gang in particular, but was meant to encompass the lifestyle of all outlaw motorcycle gangs. I think they did a good job. While the glorification of this outlaw lifestyle isn’t really in keeping with my morals, I can’t help but think it is romantic. That lifestyle is an integral part to who my father is. And while he may no longer life that lifestyle, he doesn’t deny it. I admire that.
I love this movie because I love my dad. For me, he is the star of The Wild One.
The Princess Bride
My all time, ultimate, favorite movie ever is The Princess Bride.
Years ago I was forced to decide upon my favorite movie. There were so many choices that it was especially difficult to arrive at one above all others. I settled on this one, again, for personal reasons. I was 16 when I watched it for the first time, and I was fighting an especially difficult to hide crush on someone much older than me. Such a hopeless romantic I was. And I thought he was my true love.
Within the first ten minutes, I knew it would be a permanent favorite, mostly because the subject of the movie was true love. How perfect. Since I knew my crush would never come to fruition, the fantastic plot of the movie touched me. Many of the scenarios were completely impossible, yet they ended up happily ever after in the end. I suppose that silliness made me feel there was hope for me.
Besides the whole idea of true love, this movie has many other wonderful qualities. Not only do we have the stories of Wesley and Buttercup, but the lives of the Sicilian, the giant and the Spaniard become entwined with theirs. We hear their stories and see how their life journeys have intersected their paths. While some of the stories are unbelievable and don’t really make sense, there is still an ultimate purpose: Wesley and Buttercup were meant to be together.
In the end, they would never have found each other without the help – or interference, however you want to look at it – of the others. Though from their perspective, they weren’t actually helping, they played a necessary part in helping things turn out the way they did. To the giant and the Spaniard, true love was a living, breathing thing that designed a plan to bring the Wesley and Buttercup together.
I love this idea, but don’t necessarily believe it. Unfortunately I have become jaded over the years. To find that hopeless romantic these days, I have to watch The Princess Bride. And however fantastic or unbelievable it sounds, the story always gives me hope that true love does exist and that it can overcome all obstacles.
Even if I reach the point some day where I feel love is a joke (I’m not there yet!!), I will still love this movie. I think I will always be able to remember the feeling I had the first time I saw it. The Princess Bride, however silly it may seem, will always serve as a sobering reminder that love is silly, but I have to believe in it to find it.
Nirvana
Ah, Nirvana. That thing we all wish to reach whether we are Buddhist or not.
By one definition, it is a place or state characterized by freedom from or oblivion to pain, worry, and the external world. By another, it is one of the greatest bands to ever exist on this planet.
I like both definitions. And I for sure agree with the second one.
Though I was alive and well, stumbling blindly through my teenage years while the band Nirvana was at its pinnacle, I did not listen to them. I only discovered them six years ago. Perhaps my love of Nirvana is connected to the way I first heard them. Yeah. I know you’re surprised.
So quickly, here is the scene: my BFF and her new boyfriend broke up, I thought it was the wrong decision, we were at a party, he and I hopped into my car to talk about it, he popped Nevermind into the cd player, and we ended up talking about Nirvana for an hour and a half. That’s how my love was born. (They’re married now, so I suppose everything worked out.)
Naturally, I was at an unhappy place in my own life, so this discovery jettisoned me into a journey of discovery. I researched Nirvana obsessively and purchased Nevermind and In Utero for myself. Those are still the only albums I own. Oh, wait. I do own Unplugged in New York on cassette, but I no longer have a cassette player.
I know I just gushed over Jennifer O’Connor’s ability to tell a story in every song, but I admire Cobain’s ability not to tell stories just as much. His ability, in my opinion, was in finding words that matched feelings whether they made 100% sense or not. For instance, Scentless Apprentice from In Utero. “She eyes me like a Pisces when I am weak – I’ve been locked inside your Heart-Shaped box for weeks – I’ve been drawn into your magnet tar pit trap – I wish I could eat your cancer when you turn black.” Hmmmm. There is no way I can translate that into a story that resonates with me personally. But it moves me, and I love it.
Nirvana chose to have wild, emotion-based lyrics that were often drowned out by the loud, hard sounds of the instruments. This is a musical accomplishment of a different sort. Though I had to break out the lyrics book that accompanied the cd before I understood a word they said, I connected with it immediately. The raw emotion embodied in their sound was too strong to ignore.
I associate strong emotion with Nirvana music. I adore watching their videos, and would hang posters all over my walls if I could justify it. Instead, I choose to roll down the windows and turn up their music every time I’m feeling particularly pissed off at or alienated by the world. Nirvana was really on to something. There is no band that can compare to them. When I’m having a “Nirvana moment” only their music can make me feel better.
Jennifer O’Connor
I found Jennifer O’Connor on NPR. I was killing time one afternoon surfing past episodes of World Cafe and came across her interview. After listening to the songs she played and to what she had to say about life and music, I immediately bought her album Over the Mountain, Across the Valley and Back to the Stars.
O’Connor’s sound is unique, a mix of folk, blues and rock, and her voice is clean and full of emotion. Her perspective is fresh, but there is a hint of an old soul. I’m always a sucker for an old soul.
While I don’t discount the ability of all songs to tell some kind of story, I often find that I am not able to connect with music because I cannot identify with their stories. O’Connor’s stories are interesting and intellectual, and her voice allowed me to feel her stories on a variety of levels.
In Dirty City Blues, she says “If the microphone is broken I will scream in the street – I will love you like the woodpecker can only love the tree – I feel the wasted afternoon trying to clamp its teeth in me – I’m going to try now – I’ll try now to be free.” It spoke to the voice in my head that realizes I am about to turn thirty and is afraid that I have already lived all I can live. That fear, it’s trying to clamp its teeth in me. I acknowledge it, and regardless of whether O’Connor is acknowledging a similar fear, she knows that feeling.
In A Complicated Rhyme, again I was able to connect the lyrics to that grand journey of life. “A morning spent on your own – With too much coffee and a telephone – You navigate the lapse – Between what’s coming and what has passed – A complicated rhyme – A bumpy ride through space and time.” Oh, how many of those mornings I have had, energizing my brain with coffee and cigarettes trying to figure out how to make it all make sense. This particular song also lends itself to the memory of relationships passed and time spent replaying every word only to find the answer to “where did it go wrong?” is completely obvious.
Though she is only 23, you get the sense that O’Connor has a vast reservoir of experiences at her disposal. Whether her experiences are many or few, she does a fabulous job of translating them into beautiful melodies that are on a level anyone can understand. I think this is part of her gift. Her music transcends barriers of age, gender and belief, making her music marketable on every level.
By strumming her own guitar and keeping the tunes simple, she only adds to the intrigue. Instead of cluttering the listeners mind with complicated riffs and loud instruments, every sound perfectly compliments her words. Each song is a poem set to music.
O’Connor sings of things universal; emotions and experiences that everyone can understand. And she does it beautifully, soulfully and originally.
Little Big Town
The last album I purchased was very uncharacteristic of me. It was country. New, current country music, no less.
As with any uncharacteristic music purchase, this one has a back story. And it involves a bar. Heh.
In case you didn’t know, Conway is home to the best bar in the world: The VFW. That’s right, the VFW, or The V, as it is lovingly called. As you would expect, it’s full of old war veterans, including a man that wears an eye patch, and their respective lady friends. Every Friday night at the VFW is karaoke night. It costs two bucks to get in, and they sell pitchers of beer for six bucks. For those unfamiliar, that’s a bargain. I wouldn’t say that I frequent the VFW, but I am on a first-name-basis with the manager, Brandy.
Anyways, one glorious Friday evening my friends and I met at the VFW for a few pitchers and some karaoke (yes, I sing karaoke on occasion, and I’m no good but I don’t care). There were loads of people there, and the crowd was in the mood to party. I wasn’t paying all that much attention to the singers, though I clap and cheer for everyone, and all of the sudden the crowd went wild when this cowboy started singing. By the end of the song, everyone was on their feet, standing up front singing along. I was intrigued. What was this song? Why was everyone going crazy over it? So I did a little investigating among my friends. “It’s Boondocks, Jonelle. You don’t know this song?”
Uh, no. But I wanted to. So when I made it home (the next day) I surfed iTunes until I found it. The band is Little Big Town, the album is The Road to Here. I’m a sucker for a deal and could not allow myself to purchase just one song for $.99 when I could have the whole album, thirteen songs, for $9.99. So I bought the whole album.
I bought an entire album for one song.
Thankfully, the whole album is decent. I actually listen to it in its entirely fairly regularly. The best song is, of course, Boondocks. Because I was raised in the boondocks. And so were all of the people that freaked out over the song at The V. There is something about a song that accurately represents where I was raised that sparks a fire in my heart.
******
I feel no shame
I’m proud of where I came from
I was born and raised in the boondocks
One thing I know
No matter where I go
I keep my heart and soul
In the boondocks
******
It’s not just the words. It’s the music. The twangy, bluesy, slide guitar accompanies a strong, toe-tapping beat and perfect harmonies, making me feel like I’m at a church service in a honky tonk.
But mostly, it is the words. I love where I’m from and can’t imagine having been raised anywhere else on the planet. My favorite place in the world to be is walking up an old dirt road smack dab in the middle of nowhere.
Otherwise known as the boondocks.
Who is Simon without the Garfunkel?
This one comes with a disclaimer:
I know this is unforgivably late, and we basically talked about half of this in class on Monday, but I already had the majority of this written before that discussion. Funny how things work out that way.
So, without further adieu, my oh-so-late blog on my favorite band:
My all time, ultimate, most favorite band ever is Simon & Garfunkel.
Often when I claim them as my favorite band, I have to defend Garfunkel’s presence in the group and his validity as a good musician. Many claim that Paul Simon was the heart and soul of the band and back that up with examples of his success as a solo artist. The fact that Art Garfunkel dropped off the face of the planet is always an issue with people. Just because he didn’t continue to produce music as a solo artist doesn’t mean he was meaningless or a bad musician. Even it he did attempt to be a solo artist and failed, that still does not necessarily indicate a lack of talent.
Simon & Garfunkel were one-of-a-kind. Together they created something beautiful and something that would not have existed if they had never found each other. I can’t think of a time in my life that I have heard another band with a similar sound. Maybe Peter, Paul & Mary?? Maybe? But they were pre-Simon & Garfunkel, so I don’t think they count. And I have never once compared another group to them. I could be jaded, but that’s part of my job if I’m claiming they are my all time, ultimate, most favorite band ever.
Here’s a funny little tidbit: The only Simon & Garfunkel album I’ve ever owned is Simon & Garfunkel’s Greatest Hits. So how in the world could I claim this band as my favorite based only on a compilation of their greatest hits? I don’t have the answer. But like everything else in my life, it stems from my childhood and the place their music takes me when I listen to it.
I have listened to Simon & Garfunkel for as long as I can remember. Whether I heard them on our favorite oldies radio station on the way to church, or on the one tape we owned – Simon & Garfunkel’s Greatest Hits, of course – while wasting away a summer day, they were always relevant. The melodies were simple and beautiful, never oppressive, and their words were poetic, enlightening and penetrating. In my sheltered life, they represented worldliness and experience, two things I longed for. It broke up the monotony and they allowed me to walk a mile in their shoes.
What I liked most about Simon & Garfunkel was that every song told a story. Someone else’s story. I wished I was each character and tried to imagine myself on their path. My limited experiences at that time had not yet allowed me to participate in the life they sang about, so listening to their music gave me the opportunity to see things from a different perspective.
Each song was full of emotion – joy, sadness, loneliness, love. And each one represented a different stop on the bus ride of life. But the emotion was always contained, released methodically and softly, reaching out to dip its fingers into my soul. I was living vicariously through Simon & Garfunkel.
In a way, I still live vicariously through their music. Except now I’ve had plenty of life experiences and can place myself as a character in their songs. When I listen, I go back to the time in my life when I was wide-eyed and innocent, dreaming of how full and exciting life could be. Listening to Simon & Garfunkel has become a quiet reminiscence of all that has been, including that time of innocence. What were once dreams are now tangible experiences, and I am able to set my mind free. I don’t have to think about lessons learned. I don’t wish I would have or wonder what would have happened if I could have, I only bask in the glow of moments that were experienced. The whisper of the words and delicate sounds of the guitar carry me back. I do not believe in having regrets or forgetting bad decisions. They are who I am. I can just be.
And man do I feel groovy.
Ba-da-da-da-da-da-da….
Intervention
I have been watching Intervention, which airs Monday nights at 8pm on A&E, since early January.
How the show works: a documentary film crew follows an addict who has agreed to be in a documentary about addiction, but does not know they will soon face an intervention. In order to be on the show, a family member must contact A&E on behalf of the addict. After being filmed for a number of days, the addict goes to a hotel conference room where they expect to be giving their final interview for the documentary. When they arrive at the interview, they find their whole family, and an interventionist, waiting for them. The intervention is filmed, as is the addicts trip to rehab, if they choose to go.
There are a wide variety of addictions represented, including methamphetamine, alcohol, prescription painkillers, heroine and food. While filming, I’m not sure that anything is off-limits. They present the addicts just as they are. You will see heroine users shoot up, crack-heads smoke crack and mother’s leave their children with someone else so they can go get their next fix. Every episode either shocks me or makes me cry.
Sometimes I wonder if it is all for real. The lives these people lead are almost unbelievable. But on occasion, you can figure out why they do what they do. On a particularly moving episode I saw recently, a 24 year old man was an alcoholic, self-destructive to the point of being suicidal. I wondered what in the world could lead him to want to destroy his life. Then they started interviewing his parents. His mother used to sell drugs out of her house and had only stopped after being busted by the cops and sent to prison for five years. That was a pretty extreme case, but you get the idea.
The most common denominator in each situation is that the addicts were enabled to continue their lifestyle by the friends and loved ones that had turned them in. Some were given money, others a place to live, but none were completely on their own out living on the streets. The inverventionist would often suggest family members attend counseling or AA while their loved one was away at treatment, claiming that the addict could never fully recover unless the dysfunctional family started working on their issues.
Intervention takes a good look at addiction and helps everyone in the situation, including the viewer, understand that choosing to do something based on emotionally painful events is not a good idea. Many times it leads to addiction. You’ve got to tell each other how you feel. Never let it fester. Never try to hide it away or cover it up. Be honest with yourself. It is a sobering message whether you’re addicted to anything or not.
The O.C.
The O.C. aired on Fox beginning in 2003 and was short-lived with only four seasons. Half teeny bopper drama and half adult soap opera, The O.C. was the perfect mix of Beverly Hills 90210 and Melrose Place. It offered something to everyone.
The show was set in high class Newport Beach in Orange County, Calif., and was a look into the private lives of the people that live there. Though they seemed perfect on the outside, beautiful and rich, each character had a secret. Each episode took you further into their past, explaining why their present was the way it was. Their interactions were interesting, and each twist in the plot sucked you further into their surprisingly dysfunctional lives.
One thing that made this show an original was the music. It was always something fresh and Indie, including bands like Death Cab for Cutie, Spoon, Interpol, Sufjan Stevens, Modest Mouse and Beck. Another thing I felt put The O.C. on a higher level than other shows was the time the producers spent developing each character, something I feel is necessary for a quality evening soap opera.
First is Ryan Atwood, who arrived in Newport Beach in the midst of a very confusing teenage-hood. He was raised on the wrong side of the tracks, made some bad decisions and had to create a new life for himself in an unfamiliar environment. After getting arrested, his attorney, Sandy Cohen, took him into his home in hopes it would help Ryan get on the right path. Ryan is James Dean with a dash of JFK, which makes his character attractive, mysterious, engaging and a tiny bit innocent.
Sandy Cohen is a public defender. He doesn’t make much money, but the independent wealth of his wife Kirsten allows him to follow his passion. His Jewish heritage comes up occasionally, but it does not drive who he is. His compassion for others and genuine, likable personality makes him stand out from other characters as an honest guy with nothing to hide.
Kirsten Cohen is an exec in her father’s multi-million dollar real estate company. She and Sandy are very much in love, the perfect couple, and have one child, a son named Seth. Her father, Caleb Nichol, is a run-of-the-mill, ruthless businessman and she often finds herself in moral dilemmas due to his lack of ethics.
Seth Cohen is nerdy, but lovable and cute. He serves as comic relief through nearly every episode. Seth has a natural talent for comic book style art, often finding escape in his superhero characters. He is a kind soul and takes Ryan under his wing, accepting him as a brother.
Marissa Cooper is tall and thin, a classic beauty with the personality to match. She began the show dating the captain of the Polo team, but was set up right away to have a relationship with Ryan. The good girl and the bad boy, madly in love, much to the chagrin of her parents.
Julie Cooper is Marissa’s mother. She is the black-hearted vixen looking out only for herself. Though she has a family, Julie is selfish in all of her actions and is always causing trouble for everyone.
Summer Roberts, Marissa’s best friend and Seth’s secret love, is petite and beautiful, the sexy Newport Beach girl next door. She’s book smart and quick-witted. Her serious, logical side comes out often when giving advice to everyone else.
There were numerous other well developed characters that played an integral role in the plot of the show. The above characters all had boyfriends, girlfriends, stalkers and secret loves along the way. Babies were born and people died. The O.C. lasted four seasons, three of which I have watched.
At the end of season three, Marissa Cooper died. I think The O.C. died with Marissa.
My theory on why the show didn’t make it is that they changed main characters mid-stream. Though Ryan was set up from the start to be the main character, they made Marissa Cooper more interesting. And we all knew she was going to die. They spent season three pushing her and Ryan apart as she fell prey to drugs, alcohol and mis-placed love, one step closer to the edge by the end of each episode. Once Marissa was out of Ryan’s life for good, there was no longer hope they would end up together forever. The romance that waxed and waned between Seth and Summer was not dramatic enough to evoke the same amount of interest from viewers. Attempts to bring new love into Ryan’s life fell short and were always disappointing.
Though I was sad to see The O.C. go, it almost overstayed its welcome. From what I heard, season four was a complete bust and if they had continued with a season five, I’m afraid fans would have only ended up forgetting what made it so good.
I loved The O.C., and some of my “educated” friends made fun of me for watching it. But I was avenged one Friday evening while listening to This American Life on NPR. My love for this night soap opera had been confirmed by a highly regarded, intelligent man. Ira Glass, the host and a nerdy pop-culture icon, was doing a live anniversary show. He wrapped it up by sharing the sadness he felt after watching the last episode of The O.C., as a single tear slid down his cheek while he and his wife sang along with the theme song, California by Phantom Planet, for the last time.
“California here we come, right back where we started from…California!…”
Permission to Over-Analyze 