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Volume 24, Number 2 (2000) FILM & TV LEGAL DRAMA COMMENTARY CHRIS JACKSON* The Winslow Boy Aside from a few times when the film bops us over the head with a distinction between rightness and justice, Mamet’s The Winslow Boy seems a dark exercise in abstraction. Many viewers may nod off, seeking escape. However, escape from untenable roles and situations seems to be what this film is mostly about. Underneath heroic intentions lie the ambiguous missteps and miscommunications that bedevil human endeavors. A garden gate flapping in the rain first presages that the Winslows’ privileged, hermetic existence is now open to the world. Thereafter, the film is peppered with images of enclosure or escape. Almost every major character in The Winslow Boy shows a conflict between being trapped in a restrictive social role and trying to wriggle out. The scene in which Sir Robert Morton (Jeremy Northam) interrogates Ronnie (Guy Edwards) about the alleged theft of the postal order further highlights this potent subtext. After a klieg light interrogation of Ronnie, Sir Robert agrees to take the case: The boy is plainly innocent. Later, Sir Robert tells Catherine (Rebecca Pidgeon) that his questions held a trap and a loophole to test the boy. Ronnie did not step into the trap, a dead-end, or slip through the loophole, an escape hatch, as a guilty person would. Ironically, Ronnie is the only character who fails to exercise those human options. Ronnie’s father, Arthur Winslow (Nigel Hawthorne), has long ago made peace with his upper-class banker’s world. He tells his older son, the black sheep Dickie, I am no gambler. Arthur’s life runs on economics, numbers, and averages, yet he must ask John, the son-in-law hopeful, for a coin to tip the deliveryman. Arthur poses all the right questions to John about prospects and income. Then he taps his cane for wife and daughter to enter. They inadvertently make Arthur look foolish, by failing to hear his prearranged distress signal. Arthur’s many problems with communication undercut his authority. He misreads the meaning of the extra glass on the tray. He can’t find his own glasses to read the letter informing them of Ronnie’s expulsion from the Academy. He is unaware of the notice they receive for the first appointment with Sir Robert. He can’t summon the courage to fire the maid and balance the household budget. He misses the verdict when it is read in court: I would like to have been there, he says wistfully. As the family name suggests, Win-slow, a gradual victory arrives but it is too understated to cause much celebration. In the end, Arthur wonders what kind of statement he should give the reporters and is told, Whatever you say will have little bearing on what they write. Arthur starts the film wearing basic black and wielding his cane as a weapon. He ends up in a wrinkled suit of beige linen, the cane his only support. Arthur changes as he discovers the limits to his trap of money, power, and influence. As Arthur contemplates the Bible’s wisdom of seven years of good luck followed by bad, his family members escape their problems through loopholes. For his wife Grace, the trips to court are a chance to expand her wardrobe. Arthur chides her, This isn’t a cricket match. She comes back with I can’t wear the same dress every day. She pretends to be a servant, and she revels in her disguise. To whatever the reporters ask her, she says, I don’t know nothing. The case gives Grace a loophole out of her role as proper wife, mother, and organizer of the household. Similarly Catherine escapes marriage to the dreary John. The two are clearly incompatible. She pulls away when he grabs her for a passionate kiss. Even Arthur says that she is not acting like a person in love. She studies Social Evil/Social Good when she should be emoting over Lord Byron. Later, we learn that John is engaged to a general’s daughter. He will be one of those first called to the war. Catherine escapes a restrictive role as military wife and no doubt widow. At least now she is free to wear a hat that charms Sir Robert. Asimow notes that At first, we thoroughly dislike Sir Robert. Certainly his legend for courtroom finesse and Catherine’s comment about his dead heart precedes our view of him. When we finally catch a glimpse, Sir Robert is in shirtsleeves struggling to put on his coat. He seems considerate about smoking in front of Catherine and appreciates her directness. He is fierce with Ronnie to counter Arthur’s gentlemanly, code-of-honor questioning. For all his legal solidity, Sir Robert too slips through loopholes, showboating in court or using his trick of being ill. He dodges the trap of an unspecified higher position, saying the robes would not fit. In the closing scene, there is some question about whether the trick of his illness is real. Exhausted, he tells Catherine that it is easy to do justice, hard to do right. But is the court’s verdict right? Usually, the guilt or innocence of the accused drives a legal film toward its conclusion. This case lets loose a storm of publicity. London is raining souvenir mugs, pencils, and political cartoons (No children. No pets. No discussion of the Winslow case.). Yet Ronnie sits, almost irrelevant, at the center of the concentric circles spun from the trial. Is he a thief? A forger? A liar? Like a good defense lawyer, the film cannot press those questions. On the one hand, we have the boy’s persistent, unflinching denials. We see why Arthur buys the boy’s innocence. On the other hand, Sir Robert’s questioning lays bare the possibility of guilt. Ronnie backpedals. He might have practiced the forgery. He meant to say deposit, not cash. He can’t account for twenty-five minutes. This exchange provides our most in-depth view of the case. We never see any courtroom activity directly, a la Court TV. It seems we are always in the ladies’ gallery. Action is reported, muted, or filtered through a screen. Even if we could see, would it help? At one point, Catherine and Desmond discuss that day’s proceedings. Catherine says, The Postmistress restored the Admiralty’s case. Desmond, who was also there, vehemently disagrees. The facts are locked in a stalemate of ambiguity. This film looks at the tangled motivations of those bringing litigation and the personal cost of justice. What does it all add up to? Some reviewers have found it ironic that the previously profane dialogue of Mamet is missing in The Winslow Boy. But this film is exactly what we might expect from the writer-director of House of Cards (1987) and The Spanish Prisoner (1997). In its subtle chess game of move/counter-move, this film dramatizes the missteps and imperfections of human experience. The law as an institution mirrors this imperfect world. Negotiations, plea bargains, appeals, and reinterpretations are not loose loopholes, but evidence of the ongoing resilience of the law. A too rigid code of behavior is its own dead-end trap. The true hero of this film is a responsive legal system. The film ends with Catherine accusing Sir Robert: How little you know about women. He answers, How little you know about men. These are useful reminders for people in the law who must deal regularly with the complexity of human muddles. (March, 2000) Homicide: Life on the Street dramatizes the complex effects of violent criminal behavior on police investigators. Quick cuts and triple shots of the same gesture intensify the chaos. The detectives’ lives are torn apart by the inhumanity they face daily. Alcoholism and depression are common. The Homicide characters are either not married or have been divorced numerous times. If married, their home lives are troubled. Their hearts empty from their profession, they have nothing to give wives, husbands, or children. The last Homicide episode laid out the thorny problems faced by the detectives. Lieutenant Giardello (Yaphet Kotto) realizes that his promotion to captain is meaningless. John Munch (Richard Belzer) gets married. Munch and his fiancee state marriage vows over shots of a white-sheeted corpse on a gurney. Their marital bliss is short-lived as Munch shows up at the bar on his wedding night. Tim Bayliss (Kyle Secor) has a case he can’t resolve. Due to red-tape and delays, the court lets a suspected serial killer go free. “Justice is a bitch,” Meldrick says (Clark Johnson). Later, Tim recalls his early days with partner Frank Pembleton (Andre Braugher). Tim tells Munch, “See, Frank said that I would never be a good homicide detective because I didn’t have the killer’s instinct. Frank was wrong.” The suspected serial killer is found dead, with no clues on the crime scene. The viewer draws his own disturbing conclusion. Betrayed by the court system, Bayliss enacted his own justice. Life is a mystery. Accept it. Tom Fontana wrote this episode. He also created that rock-hard, HBO prison show Oz. Before that, Fontana worked on Saint Elsewhere. He wrote alongside John Masius. Masius went on to add Touched by an Angel to his resume. While Fontana fades, Masius prospers. One Friday night about a month ago, I made a long-distance call to relatives. “We’ll call you back,” they said. “We’re watching ‘Providence.’” The series had arrived to terrible reviews. Critic Ken Tucker called the main character Dr. Feelbad (Entertainment Weekly, 8 January 1999). But I grew up in East Providence, and I was curious. The next week, I set the VCR. Providence is a stress-reducing bubble bath, and the tub is crowded. Created and directed by John Masius, Providence now falls consistently in the Top Thirty. It’s a hit. The show opens to a woman singing In My Life: There are places I remember . Providence never looked better. When I was a kid, the gray Industrial Trust building dominated the landscape like an old elephant. Homeward-bound from college, I drove 95 south through Massachu-setts. From the northeast, the crooked building looked ready to fall over. This show bathes the old Industrial Trust Building in a heavenly glow. Aerial shots of the suburbs are slow-moving and serene, as if filmed from the basket of a hot-air balloon. This is the Providence of myth, suffused with the quality of safety that moved founder Roger Williams to lead settlers to the banks of the Providence River. Syd Hansen is a West Coast plastic surgeon who finds her boyfriend in the shower with another man. Aghast, she seeks haven with her family in Providence. In one episode, the boyfriend shows up to woo her back. He arrives for their date in a limo. When she refuses his offer, the boyfriend rides up front with the hunky limo driver. That old nautical saying is common in Providence–any port in a storm. Syd’s mother (Concetta Tomei) is a whisky-voiced angel, literally. Her ghost appears to Syd in dreams, dispensing advice on life and love. (My Mother, the Car?) Syd’s father Jim is a vet, played by Mike Farrell, AKA B.J. Hunnicutt on M*A*S*H. No doubt a future episode will feature a visit from Uncle Hawkeye, come to play cards and swig cheap gin all night with his former buddy. The unemployed Syd doesn’t mope around the house eating Ring-Dings. She finds a position ASAP in a downtown clinic, a former church. No HMO scandals or malpractice suits here at Saint Somewhere. Dr. Syd doubles as Mother Theresa, saving an adorable adolescent here, a wonderful baby there. She even makes house calls! A decade of razor-sharp medical and crime shows has taught us to expect the worst in the TV universe. This show confounds our expecta-tions by being too nice. Potentially criminal behavior is washed away before two scenes can pass. A pre-teen patient who visits Syd is reluctant to leave a urine sample. Aha, we think. Drugs. The kid returns with a contaminated sample. It turns out that the kid is reporting his mother’s symptoms as his own. She is too busy working to seek medical attention herself. His filial duty even extends to retrieving her urine sample. I fixed the toilet handle so it couldn’t flush. Syd messes up giving a spinal tap to an infant. Aha, we think. Malpractice. Instead the father says, “We don’t want you here.” His rejection bothers her, so she researches the baby’s symptoms to uncover an obscure genetic disease and saves the day. The family is so grateful. When Syd reports a wife abuser to the authorities, we think, aha, he’s going to stalk Syd and seek reprisal for her meddling. Instead, he goes peacefully with the cops. Nine-one-one? Uh, never mind. Syd has a romance with Paul, son of a reputed Mafia boss. A friend in the DA’s office warns that she too might be under surveillance. Syd dreams that she is on trial. Angel Mother is the judge, a tough talker like Judge Judy, with absolute control. All the family members testify against Syd. Judge Mother says, “I find you guilty.” In her waking life, Paul sends a limo for her. Aha, we think, guilty as she is, she will end up with cement overshoes. The limo dumps her, not in the Providence River, but at, gasp, an Italian restaurant, where she and Paul dance to Andrea Bocelli singing Time to Say Goodbye. The DA has exiled Paul from Providence for his own protection, so his father’s criminal activities won’t tempt him. In Providence, when the law plays a role, it’s like the police hauling Beaver Cleaver down from the billboard. Instead, the family is the seat of law and norms. Unchallenged authority resides in the father and deceased mother. Losing the Mafia son upsets Syd. Weeping, she asks her father, “Dad, I see happy couples together. What’s wrong with me?” Because Father knows best, Jim says, “Well, kitten,” (maybe he didn’t really say kitten, maybe I just misheard) “the trick is to keep an open heart to be ready for the next time.” It’s great to know that Jim is still B.J., the open heart man. This show has bedroom scenes, but they all end in pillow fights. We haven’t seen this many glowing windows outside a house since The Waltons. Jim suffers from full-nest syndrome, a house full of grown children who have screwed up their adult lives. The younger sister Joanie bakes dog goodies and sells them at her Barkery. (Happy Days? Joanie Loves Chachie?) She is also an unwed mother. Murphy Brown’s son Avery, who so shocked Dan Quayle, disappeared two episodes after Murphy gave birth. This baby girl, Hannah, gets maximum screen time. We see Hannah eating her breakfast, Hannah being read to at bedtime. But she is cute. Robbie, the brother, works at a bar called “O’Neill’s.” (My Three Sons?) He carries the whiff of prison on him, or maybe just reform school. He says if he had come home and found his girlfriend in the shower with another woman, he would jump in with them. That’s the difference between you and me, Syd. As if the Hansen family didn’t have enough demographic appeal, we have teen angst from the high-school student Lily. One day, Lily hauls her delinquent self into Syd’s clinic. Dr. Hansen acts as any M.D.–she invites Lily to live with them. The girl’s primary sin is that she smokes. (Interestingly, so does Angel Mother.) Marketers don’t know how to present a show that is too nice. Episode previews intimate, Lily burns the house down! Yes, Lily’s smoking causes one attic curtain, an old one at that, to flare up. The next week, she is a full-fledged part of the family, with Jim/B.J. helping her build a Rube Goldberg contraption. Another week, Lily makes all the Hansens breakfast and volunteers to sit for Hannah. Aha, we think. She plans to rob them and steal Hannah. Instead, the time for her to be turned over to a foster home approaches. She wants to stay with them. They all love her and want her. She’s one of them. Here’s what ticked me off about the season finale. Angel Mother tells Syd she is leaving. “You are the mother now,” she says. Angel Mother packs her bags and flies off. In real life, while all the Hansens wait for Lily to celebrate her new Hansen-hood as a non-smoker, Lily’s creep of a boyfriend takes her for a ride in a stolen car. A police car smashes into them. Big explosion. Lily lingers long enough for Syd’s heart-wrenching goodbye. Lily exits. Angel Mother returns. “You still need me, Syd.” Why kill off the poor kid? I come to this chilling conclusion: As an outsider, Lily threatens the sanctity of The Family. Think of the symbolic value of her name. She has to be sacrificed so The Family can be resurrected, reunited in their bond of grief. On another level, the death of Lily reenacts the clash between Homicide: Life on the Street and Providence. Those horrible, nihilistic values of Homicide, as represented by the police car, wipe out Lily, the positive flower of family nurturing. Subversive, but there it is. Remember that cloying bubble-gum musical trio Hanson? We didn’t think so. These Providence Hansens might also mmm-bop their way into oblivion, but I doubt it. In television, imitation is the sincerest way to make a buck. Shows about the complexities of behavior and challeng-ing norms will give way to shows about reconstructed life, 1960s and 70s style, in cities high on urban renewal. Get ready for Cincinnati, St. Louis, and Boulder (no, scratch that), maybe Phoenix. The series Law and Order remains, but for how long? In 1999, a real political scandal has outdone even the wildest SNL sketch. Bombing in Kosovo continues. Boris Yeltsen staggers during public appearances. Teens shoot their classmates. A child beauty queen’s murder remains unsolved. The viewing public is hungry for a little nostalgia. But is the sensibility from thirty-year old shows the answer? John Denvir’s commentary on Ally McBeal and Michael Hayes finds Alley to have much in common with Mary Tyler Moore. In her essay Don’t Call Me Ally, Lisa Friedman makes a strong case that Ally’s short skirts and personal trials are no way to win an actual trial. Denvir is right about Ally having more to do with relationships than the law. Friedman is also correct that David E. Kelly’s “other” show, The Practice, presents more verisimilitude about the legal profession. However, Ally’s character presents a strong “professional in progress” role model. Her courtroom tactics may be feeble, but she struggles to arrive at truths she can believe in. Ally herself is on trial. Ally McBeal is more about personal law, finding a balance between professional and private goals, hearing the music of inner justice. Television shows have a long history of using musical soundtracks, primarily to define the situation, mood, and style of the show. In Perry Mason, for instance, woodwinds play behind suspenseful scenes, and scenes end with a dramatic brass flourish. In the show’s theme song, the understated low brass creeps into a forthright trumpet solo, a sort of musical analog to Perry himself, a go-ahead, definitive-kind-of-guy. Under this musical conflict beat those menacing piano triplets. This Cold War-era justice takes itself seriously. More recent television shows make more complex musical references for character insights or thematic commentary. Murphy Brown, investigative reporter on FYI and seeker of justice, is heavy into Motown. Her musical taste echoes her politics and social values. In Homicide: Life on the Streets, Andre Braugher’s character Frank is unwilling to participate in his baby daughter’s baptism. He questions a nun about where to find his lost faith. Back in the squad room, Death summons him yet again to a dreary apartment house. There he finds a very old woman, dead of natural causes. Ravel’s Pavane for a Dead Princess plays on a radio in the background. The music propels Frank to an epiphany as he recalls the nun’s words about finding the sacred in the everyday. At that moment, his character receives at least a moment of grace, a partial restoration of faith. With the extensive uses of music in Ally McBeal, David E. Kelley demonstrates that he too is a student of sound tracks. Most of the songs we hear on the show fall into the Classic Oldies category. As Lawrence Kasdan’s The Big Chill showed, recycled hits from the sixties and seventies have a strong appeal with baby boomers. Ally McBeal uses music on many levels to convey truths about living and working in law. The loudest example often comes last on the show. After working all day as members of the Bar, lawyers from Cage and Fish practice lifting elbows at another kind of bar. Here, dancing and singing provide a harmony to resolve office conflicts. The law office is upstairs, the bar on the ground floor of the same building. What we have here is the well-rounded lawyer, exercising upstairs logic on cases, and accessing a more visceral “lower level” to defuse daily tensions. With the beautiful singing of Vonda Shepard finding its way into nearly every episode, there is a free-wheeling, party atmosphere to Ally McBeal. Shepard’s piano provides upbeat rock, soul, and blues on tap. Shepard even has her own best-selling CD featuring songs from the show, with a new release just out called By 7:30. In a few episodes, the big-voiced Jennifer Holliday joins the cast as the Cage and Fish group attends a church with a mostly African-American congregation. This situation is similar to the time Murphy Brown, the quintessential WASP, tries to “get down” singing Natural Woman with Aretha Franklin. Whereas Aretha ends up telling Murphy not to sing so loudly, the Ally McBeal characters let loose along with the rest of the congregation. The episodes of singing and dancing in the church are similar to those in the bar. Both places are “big tents” of democracy, cathedrals of expansive acceptance. Office grind evolves into bump and grind at the bar. The women employed at Cage and Fish all rock together. What better way for the girls to bond and rise above petty office squabbles. With their graceful spins, Fish and Ling display a less idiosyncratic courting ritual than finger- licking, hair-spreading, or knee pit massage. Georgia and Billy dance close and make up from their argument du jour. The anal retentive John Cage can forget “taking a moment” and discover why he is “drawn” to Nell. On a recent show (aired April 19, 1999), Nell presents The Biscuit with a birthday surprise at the bar, a live appearance by John’s musical idol Barry White. Office pratfalls show clumsy surface embarrassments, but dancing is the way to get in synch psychologically. Ensemble dancing suggest a blend of individualism and teamwork required of members in a law firm. In the unisex bathroom, John Cage often bolsters his self-confidence by solo dancing to an interior Barry White song. In one episode, Richard Fish walks in on John. Instead of reacting with the expected ridicule, Fish joins his law partner in dance. Then Elaine sees the two and falls into step with perfectly choreographed kicks and turns. We are not surprised at Elaine’s participation. She haunts the bathroom, waiting for juicy gossip and sensuous dance moves. Several episodes have featured a talent show at the bar with members of the firm showcasing their talents. Elaine generally coordinates this effort so she can star. “This show is all about me,” she says. But we are surprised when Ling arrives and adds her high-booted leg to the chorus line. She will practice law with them, so the group also makes room for her in the dance. It is noteworthy that Ally has never been a member of this musical collaboration. More on that later. Music expresses each character’s ideal for developing a workable personal style. In an episode aired the first season, John Cage tells Fish to listen for the bells. When those golden bells ring, the character is ready, prepared to fight in court with the best defense for the client. For Fish, the bells clunk together more often than they ring. This clunk has happened so many times, the sound effect has an additional connotation, less golden bells than brass balls. This motif fits Fish perfectly as he blatantly asserts his masculine power in a way that is never separated from sexual or monetary gains. In one episode (aired April 5, 1999), Fish says that getting fees from both sides is “music to my ears.” The Biscuit used the bells to supplement his smile therapy. What began as a parody of self-esteem exercises has evolved into a more poignant search for understanding. Tracey Ullman has put in a few star turns as Ally’s wacky therapist recommending that each person have a “song” to boost the ego. How can we forget Tracey’s own bubbly dancing to her song entitled, of course, Tracy? Tracey’s flamboyant style contrasts starkly with Ally’s feeble attempts to find inner music. Eventually, Ally conjures up I Know Something About Love, but it plays in her head only at half-tempo. Later in the series, we see the song work its magic, and not just on Ally. Ally stands on a street corner in downtown Boston waiting for the crossing light. She thinks of her song and falls into the energizing beat. Her shoulders shrug, her knees bounce, and before long, all the folks waiting with her bebop to their inner songs. By the time the light changes, the sea of humanity crosses the street in a scene reminiscent of the Monty Python sketch featuring the Ministry of Silly Walks. To be sure, the scene is comic, but in context, it might be viewed as a metaphor for all of The Law. What starts out as an individual aberration, if believed with enough fervency, has the power to change others. If enough join in, the right aberration becomes mainstream. For Ally, hearing a smooth music track in a group of strangers is one thing, but to hear it in the office is quite another. I do not recall any scene in which Ally joins her colleagues in a dance number. She dances, but with the blow-up doll or alone in her apartment. At one point, her solo dance is frantic, almost spastic. She is Nora in Ibsen’s play A Doll’s House. Then Ally’s roommate Renee walks in, and the needle shrieks across the track. The “scratching needle” sound effect breaks into her psyche to tell her that her dream music and reality are too far apart. Ally’s budding confidence is quashed. Ally’s roommate Renee already possesses a powerful inner song. As a present for Ally, Renee sings a duet with Ally’s doctor boyfriend Greg Butters at the bar. In their luminous, untroubled faces, we see that Renee and Greg are happy inside the music. They are a better-matched couple than Ally and Greg, or Ally and Billy, who have never sung together. The camera pans to Ally’s abandoned place at the table. Poor Ally! Whenever she starts on a musical flight of fancy, the needle inevitably scratches across her inner LP. She achieves some transcendence dancing on a wintry street in her sheep-print pajamas. She cannot feel the snow dance in her waking life. She tells Tracey the song therapist that she has day dreams in the office. She cannot wake up. Her inner voice is all wrong for the world out there. The scratchy needle interrupts, and she startles with her trademark big eyes and shocked gasp. In the courtroom scenes of Ally McBeal, justice is not always served. As in reality, money talks, the guilty may walk, and law practitioners are fallible. However, to minimize these imperfections, David Kelley uses music to bring a degree of resolution to each show. Music carries its own internal scale of justice. Harmony, consonance, and the tonic key, or the musical “home,” all push a melody to its resolution. The familiar melodies of these classic hits capture the vitality and assertive-ness of the human spirit. Ally shouldn’t worry. Her inner music is already there. She just needs to listen. The melody most true to her heart is the Ally McBeal theme song that introduces every episode: Now I’m ready to sing, I been searchin’ my soul tonight, I see there’s so much more to life, Now I know I can shine the light, To find the way back ho–ooo–ome.” (December, 1999) The ten-year marriage of corporate lawyer Amy Gray (Amy Brenneman) is over. Nominated for a judgeship in Hartford County’s Juvenile Court, Amy and her young daughter (Karle Warren) flee New York City for the relative quiet of Connecticut. The two move in with Amy’s mother, Maxine (the inimitable Tyne Daly), a semi-retired social worker. Other family members include older brother Peter, a plodding insurance executive, Jillian, his dissatisfied wife upset because she can’t conceive, and Vincent (Dan Futterman), a struggling short story writer running a dog washing business. Vincent’s literary style is, according to his agent, “Anne Tyler with testicles.” What can lawyers learn from this series? So far the drama’s focus on matters of law has been pretty mushy. For Amy, presiding in family court is like returning to kindergarten. In early episodes, Amy learns when to call a recess and where to sit for lunch (with Maxine, of course, who smiles and waves at everyone in the cafeteria). It’s hard to believe that Judge Gray is a Harvard Law grad with corporate law experience. After a family worker’s recommendation to the court, Amy asks, “What does that mean?” The woman responds, “What part?” Amy says, “All of it.” Eventually, Judge Gray suggests that a child’s grandmother may be a more suitable caretaker than a foster family. Maxine would beam with pride. Other cases testing Amy’s ethical and legislative mettle concern a possible conflict of interest, a defendant claiming multiple personality disorder, and a violent juvenile offender. One of her decisions is appeal-ed. Judge Gray has yet to cite any precedents or display legal knowl-edge. The four or five shows I’ve seen avoid actual rulings and are long on continuances. Every episode’s credits end with a clip of Amy scampering down a hall, judicial robe floating behind her. The shot is a mirror image from that saga of teen angst, My So-Called Life. Amy’s professional world of the courthouse is only high school, and all these new people are just cliques in the cafeteria. For real television drama, better watch The Practice or Sam Waterston and Angie Harmon in Law and Order. Spiritual guidance, however, is the series’ strong suit. This is a show in search of wisdom rather than justice. The biggest burden on Amy’s shoulders seems to be balancing professional duties with personal responsibilities. Ironically, Amy becomes a judge in family court just as her own marriage is crumbling. Prior to being sworn in, Amy faces her precocious daughter, Lauren. Amy: This judge thing is really cool but the most important job I’ll ever have is being your mom. [pause for effect] How was that?Living with Mom and other family members represents another challenge for Judge Gray. The show brims with babies and dogs. In some of the at-home scenes, the sap flows freely. Door bell rings. “Now, who comes to visit at dinner time?” Maxine asks, but we already know. Yes, it’s the angry mother who abandons her adorable baby on Maxine’s doorstep. This happens just in time to give the childless Jillian a taste of child-rearing. Who wouldn’t love this big old house filled with wacky relatives? Even the dorky older brother shows his warm side when he and Vincent go out for some brewskys. Despite cornball plots and soft-focus shots of family portraits, the dialogue at home includes some spice. After Amy and Maxine fight, Vincent tells Amy to ease up. Vincent: C’mon. Throw Mom a bone.In another scene, Maxine’s ham-handedness leaves only her and Vincent at the dinner table. Vincent: You sure know how to clear a room.Unlike the guardian angel mother in Providence, Amy’s sage matriarch is all too alive. Her home is a sprinkler system of wisdom. Even the family dog’s name is Socrates. When Jillian leaves Peter and moves in with Maxine, Mom spins out a little homily. “Jillian, did you let Socrates out by himself? You should go with him. Then he will do what he needs to do.” Translation: Go back to Peter. Maxine’s goal is to show her offspring how to be adults. Her advice to Amy about being a judge? “Pee before you take the bench, and make sure there’s no food in your teeth. Trust your instincts.” You never heard such tasty tidbits in law school. Armed with these truths, who needs the fare offered up in a real world law school? While sharp writing and fine acting make the show appealing, there are already indications that Amy on the bench is wising up, and Maxine will display more vulnerability. The focus on a strong family ethos sets Judging Amy apart from other crime and cop dramas. Amy is comfort food for tired, hungry professionals who feel adrift in the career world. They can watch, learn a little something about how to survive mistakes, and feel secure with Maxine’s wisdom that “There are no formulas.” * Associate Professor, Liberal Arts, Nova Southeastern University. |
