Numb3rs 5.22: “Greatest Hits”
You don’t see this done this well too often, but at a blog called The Original Spy a couple of regular bloggers from the late lamented recap site, The Recapist, are attempting a sort of directed stream-of-consciousness team blogging—the direction being their immediate reactions to episodes of their favorite TV shows as they watch them. One of their favorite programs is Torchwood, another one is Numb3rs.
(For a show I’m not particularly fond of, I do end up posting more than once about Numb3rs, don’t I? Not to mention I mentioned it in my interview with Dave Herrle. Three guesses why.)
Confession. I broke my vow to never watch the show again after the “Oriental” episode—even for Stephen’s sake—but TOS’s post on the fifth season’s penultimate episode intrigued me enough to catch it On Demand. Also, May is sweeps month, which hinted at more provocative (if not better) scripts. Now I understand their cryptic phrases, such as “Bank robber newsletter?” and “The Fonz saved the fire extinguisher of DOOM”. (I’m also now familar enough with the back story to recognize “Robin mention! SQUEE!!!!”)
At any rate, in reply to TOS’s remark “Stephen Gyllenhaal likes his shootouts, doesn’t he?”—he really doesn’t. It just so happens that he’s very good at directing advanced gunplay. He hates it, but if it’s in the script, what’re you gonna do?
(Sidebar. Why he was never asked back to direct The Shield: He loathed the character of Vic Mackie, just loathed him. Oh, he and Michael Chiklis got along fine, but he just hated Mackie, couldn't “get” him. This is so typically Stephen.)
Like a lot of other directors who have directed theatrical features, Stephen has no taste for doing TV dramas. The thing is, he’s damn good at it. I have a friend who says he’s the best set runner she’s ever seen. Stephen used to try to get his mind off his work by calling me during breaks in shooting, and once, during a particularly trying time in Vancouver with a so-so thriller called Time Bomb, he wrote this poem which he sent me by email:
Night JobAs for the cliffhanger that ended this episode, I’m hooked. Can’t wait to see Amita in the season finale next week as the kidnapped love slave of a sinister cult leader played by an earnest young actor from Battlestar Galactica (another show I haven’t really paid much attention to).
I’m putting on the red dress, Ma,
and heading back onto the trucker’s lane
to spread my legs (all hose pulled tight),
and bra that pushes me down toward heaven
to do my due
and give a few (the tired and poor)
a swim along this once pure shore
(my closest friend the crack boy on
his scarred four who sells the minutes
on the city's parking meters just off Fifth
at half the price).
Negotiate. I know my job, for everything’s
negotiable and what remains is that small
moment in the hay
where I must always
give my heart away.
Sidebar. Quoting from the Bible, Numbers 5:22: “And this water that causeth the curse shall go into thy bowels, to make thy belly to swell, and thy thigh to rot. And the women shall say, Amen, amen.” Interpret this as you will.