Since I last posted, several momentous things have happened:
1. I moved.
2. Nikolas Cassadine was allowed to leave the show with a tiny smidge of dignity.
3. Nathan Parsons cut his damn hair. FINALLY. GOD.
Let’s start with the item that most affects my enjoyment of the show. A moment of silence, if you please, for the pony tale of FUG:
RIP, pony tale. May you live on in bad hair heaven.
You might say I’ve had a complicated relationship with Ethan’s hair in the past. If, by complicated, you mean horrified fascination. Clearly, this calls for a retrospective:
ETHAN’S STAGES OF FUG
STAGE ONE: Bowl Cut With A Flip
FUG RATING: Medium. But extremely doofy.
STAGE TWO: Slicked Back Pony Tale
FUG RATING: High. And really, really douchey.
STAGE THREE: Escape of the Pony
FUG RATING: EPIC.
STAGE FOUR: WTF, I Don’t Even Know What’s Happening Here, Is That A Mongoose On His Head Or What?
FUG RATING: NO WORDS.
STAGE FIVE: Short And Sweet
FUG RATING: Actually, this is reasonably attractive. Kudos.
I’m pleased with Ethan in general at the moment, because his beautiful (if somewhat futile) dockside set down of Kristina last week was almost everything I’ve wanted to yell at her lately. Also, he somehow manages to make Abby seem slightly more interesting than cardboard, and that’s a feat in and of itself.
Rock on Parsons. You’re on my good list this week.
NIKOLAS: Forget my reasons for leaving. Why in a million years would you want me to stay after everything?
LUCKY: Because this is where you’re supposed to be. I want you in my life, okay? I want you in my children’s life. You’re my brother. And I love you. And like I said, that’s non-negotiable. And that’s not just because of blood. You’re one of the only true friends I’ve ever had.
LUCKY: You’re not what you think you are, Nikolas. You didn’t just wake up one morning and decide, ‘hey, I’m going to betray my brother.’ It didn’t happen like that. There was a lot of brokenness with all of us. You’re not the villain you think you are. And I’m releasing you from that right now.
NIKOLAS: Only my brother. Well, I need to at least attempt to try and articulate what I think happened. I loved her. At least I thought I did. I had this grand vision in my head, you know? The American dream, or whatever it is, the white picket fence, the laborador retriever and all the stuff that goes on with that. And then I realized it wasn’t my dream. Just another substiute what what I can never have again. That’s what it was.
When you’re lying on your death bed and you’re about to take your last breath, what do you think you’re going to think about? Some big case you cracked that nobody else could solve? Some nice vacation you took with all your friends? Not even that intervention that you had with Luke that apparently didn’t do any good. You’re not going to think of any of that stuff. You’re going to think of one thing and one thing only. And that is, just before you pass and you hold your hand out, the only thing you’re going to care about is whose hand is on the other end, brother. That is it. If you can answer that riddle, then you’ve figured it all out.
LUCKY: I’m gonna miss you
NIKOLAS: And I you.
I was all set to write a grudgingly complimentary post about the writers managing to pull together some dialog that was respectful of history and characterization… when I found out they actually had nothing to do with it. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that the actors actually understand and care about the integrity of their characters more than the writers do, but I still think it’s a little amazing that Tyler Christopher and Jonathan Jackson managed to come up pretty much the only even slightly reasonable explanation for the Elizabeth/Nikolas Clusterfuck of Doom we’ve had in the past two years.
(Psst, Garin Wolf — can we have this Nikolas back, please? I don’t actually want to punch him repeatedly in the throat. It’s a nice feeling.)
The rest of the show’s been swallowed by insulting and idiotic brothel shenanigans — about which I have nothing to say but: damn, those are some nice gams, Julie Marie Berman — and the neverending Jacks family custody debacle.
Custody trials, in general, are one of my least favorite soap tropes. And this one has been plagued by the involvement of pretty much all of the most overexposed, least interesting characters on the show; contrived conflict between Sonny and Brenda that will most likely lead to a highly unsatisfying end to Vanessa Marcil’s entire unsatisfying return; and the twisting of Jax — who is actually completely justified and correct on most counts — into an unsympathetic douchenozzle because GOD FORBID anyone criticize the mob without coming across as a total jackass.
But most of all, this story involves a truly unbelievable amount of hypocritical rage on the part of Sonny:
SONNY: What kind of a father wants to keep his daughter away from her mother? Okay? What if I had done that with Kristina?
ALEXIS: It wasn’t bad enough, what we went through?
SONNY: Well, you know the hell that Carly has been through. She’s trying to be reasonable. Jax doesn’t want to compromise. He wants to hurt Carly because she’s divorcing him. […] He’s a vindictive ass, I’m sorry.
ALEXIS: You are in no position to throw stones about entitled, vindictive asses.
Boy, I’ll say.
Let’s take a little walk down memory lane, shall we, to one of the nastiest custody battles I can remember on this show:
“As of now, you have no children.”
“Now arrest her.”
“You’ve proved you’re an unfit mother by allowing our children to have any contact with [the violent criminal I happen to hate].”
“Make her look like a liar. […] Make her cry.”
Of course, these days, Sonny cannot comprehend why anyone would object to him being around children:
SONNY: So I’m so dangerous to be around? So why is Brenda’s little boy sleeping upstairs?
Um, because Brenda’s a moron? Look, Sonny. Can I introduce you to you, circa 2004? He has something he’d like to say:
“I’m living in a dream world if I believe that my sons are safer with me.”
In conclusion, Sonny Corinthos: winner and reigning champion of the Entitled, Vindictive, Hypocritical Ass award. Long may he hold the title.