"The Catch" Gets Caught Off-Guard

In the increasingly crowded television landscape, few things are more frustrating than a promising series that doesn't quite live up to its potential. Take "The Catch," the latest offering from ABC uber-producer Shonda Rhimes, who is also responsible for such breakout hits as "Scandal" and "How To Get Away With Murder." Coming from that pedigree alone, expectations for the show were already high. Add the verified star power of leads Mireille Enos ("The Killing") and Peter Krause ("Six Feet Under"), and the show coulda/shoulda/woulda knocked it right out of the park. So where did it go wrong? True, "The Catch" beat the odds and got renewed for a second season, but the series needs to patch up a few weak spots if they plan to stay on the air.

Don't get me wrong -- I enjoy the show enough as it is, but the thought that it could be better is always replaying in the back of my mind, even during its stronger aspects. "The Catch" began with a tantalizing premise: private investigator Alice finds out that her fiancée Christopher (a.k.a. Ben) has been conning her before he disappears with her life savings. Between her firm's regular cases, Alice reluctantly works with the FBI to track him down. Looks good on paper, right? Interestingly enough, the show underwent some redevelopment between the pilot being picked up and the series being produced, notably in some plot mechanics and character functions as well as casting. After creative differences with the network, presumably over the tone and direction of future episodes, creator Jennifer Schuur was replaced with showrunner Allan Heinberg. The current version of "The Catch" seems to represent a concept that wasn't originally planned, which is important to keep in mind for my later critiques.

But first, how about some good news? The highly capable cast is easy to watch and a welcome addition to the already diverse ShondaLand family. The dialogue is breezy and never takes itself too seriously given the subject matter, which could have easily tanked a lesser show that didn't know how to strike that balance. Enos and Krause have a dynamic onscreen chemistry as their relationship is revealed through flashbacks, and they smolder with a passion reminiscent of robber George Clooney and federal marshal Jennifer Lopez in the underrated 1998 chase film "Out Of Sight." The series also plays up its caper heritage with a spry score and split-screen cinematography that geometrically refracts the transitions between scenes -- perhaps a clever acknowledgment of the characters' (and the show's) dual natures.

This duality is where "The Catch" starts to struggle. It's common knowledge and a practical dramatic device that some good guys are bad and some bad guys are good. For a show about chasing criminals, "The Catch" is too black-and-white for its own good. As appealing as all of the supporting actors are, their characters need some serious help. Alice runs the PI firm with her best friend and business partner Val, and their colleagues Sophie and Danny help with cases. Though it's nice to see the women in charge, we barely know anything about the latter three's personalities or their lives outside of work. As a result, we end up getting more background about the villains than the heroes. Ben's partners-in-crime have more to do in the plot and their interactions are more multifaceted, making them worthier foils than the bland, reactionary contagonists deserve.

I keep wondering if these shortcomings are byproducts of altering the show's original incarnation? I wouldn't be surprised if "The Catch" was first envisioned with an edgier, antiheroic focus, but the network brass likely insisted on fleshing out the Alice-Ben romance to center stage in order to match the soapy inclinations of Rhimes' Thursday night lineup. In doing so, the show has alienated genuine opportunities to set itself apart. It doesn't need to overstuff its characters and subplots the way that "Grey's Anatomy" does, but it could use just a touch more of the wicked satire from "Scandal" and the moral ambiguity found in "Murder." Either way, it's clearly problematic when you find yourself rooting for the con artists simply because they're more believable and better equipped to carry the series.

Meanwhile, the biggest issue facing "The Catch" is whether or not it has the legs to keep the story moving and the viewers tuning in. Several key conflicts and questions were resolved too quickly in the first few episodes, let alone over the rest of the season. It took all the fun out of figuring out who's really up to what when we knew almost from the get-go that Ben was forced to con Alice and his feelings for her are real. The show could have scored a much bigger and more satisfying payoff by keeping the characters (and the audience) guessing about the relationship and how it plays into their present situations. It also came as no big shock that taking down the syndicate Ben works for would be the endgame of one of his cohorts all along in order for that person to take over. I was almost desperate for a ridiculous plot twist -- like Alice is really working for Ben's team, or the FBI agent is the mysterious benefactor that the syndicate keeps alluding to -- just to prove that the writers weren't settling for safe and ordinary. Viewers will only make a true, long-term commitment to this kind of show if they can't see all of the turns in the road ahead.

Unless the series plans to do shorter, cable-length seasons for the rest of its run, "The Catch" has written itself into its very own catch-22. On its current trajectory, it can't possibly continue for much longer. Knowing broadcast network politics, the show won't start adopting a grittier tone now for fear of losing the viewers it has, but it'll also have a hard time attracting new viewers with such lazy, transparent storytelling. Shows involving heists and capers require a certain level of cat-and-mouse intrigue to maintain their mystery and suspense. As it stands, "The Catch" is too mousy, and it needs to start roaring.

"Moon" Waxes And Wanes Poetically

Radiohead, alternative rock's iconic chameleons, have done it again. "A Moon Shaped Pool," their ninth studio album, is a case study in the unpredictability of life and the inevitability of its many changes. To herald the album's impending release, the band erased their entire digital past from the Internet, making a commercial statement as well as a symbolic one. It was less about a marketing ploy -- though the buzz in its aftermath was certainly warranted -- and more about hitting the refresh button on their vision and their career.

It's tricky to rank or compare the sum of "A Moon Shaped Pool" to any of Radiohead's previous music. "Pool" isn't as rock-forward as their early albums or as symphonic as their middle work, but it splits the difference beautifully. Without question, these songs are compelling, but they don't break new ground or change the game like many of the band's past releases. Admittedly, the scale of objectivity might be tipped; the Radiohead of the '90s isn't quite the same as the Radiohead of the '00s or the current decade. Yet somehow, every song on every album unmistakably reflects their style and sound, and this collection is no exception. It's truly a sign of successful experimentation and evolution that the band's artistic core has remained so remarkably intact over the years.

Still, even above-average Radiohead is better than most bands at their best, so "Pool" rightfully earns its place in their discography as an illuminating step sideways rather than forward. Recurring themes of uncertainty, disillusionment, heartbreak, paranoia, and misplaced passion converge to form an accessibly angsty existential crisis that only a Radiohead album can deliver. When regrouping in the wake of personal struggles, starting over isn't a one-step process, and many of these new tracks feel like the resonant echo of lead singer/songwriter Thom Yorke's inner monologue as he weighs which path to follow. Across the album, Yorke's inimitable vocals wring the meaning out of every lyric, rewarding us with haunting interpretations of common sentiments. While I was initially surprised that the band chose not to include their rejected Bond theme for "Spectre" (a great Radiohead song that just didn't fit the franchise), it would have disturbed the natural flow of the album.

This atmosphere is ultimately sustained by the way that several tracks seemingly blur from one into the next. "Daydreaming" is a sweeping, almost disorienting ballad that's the auditory equivalent of its namesake, while "Decks Dark" and "Identikit" feature lush choral backing and fuzzy instrumental distortions that manage to be both magical and melancholy. Such combinations are no easy feat, but Radiohead continues to spin fresh variations on those motifs. Even on the edgier tracks, the band knows just which triggers to pull. "Burn The Witch" patiently builds its raw nerves into a delirious crescendo, and "Present Tense" has a vivid urgency and immediacy befitting its title, thanks to Yorke's lulling words and the spiraling melodies. "Tense" also supplies us with one of the album's most startlingly frank lyrics -- "It's no one's business but mine that all this love could be in vain" -- followed by refrains of "In you, I'm lost." It's a one-of-a-kind feeling that listeners could easily direct toward the band as yet another of their riveting musical journeys carries us away.

Just as "Pool" looks inward lyrically, it also does so musically by revisiting older flourishes. "Ful Stop" (yes, with only one L) is a mesmerizing track in its own right that proves the band's ongoing knack for uniquely stylized song titles. "The Numbers" even shares a few elements with the band's contribution "Talk Show Host" from the 1996 "Romeo + Juliet" soundtrack (it's hard to believe that was 20 years ago!) The songs' guitar licks and chord progressions are eerily similar, but "Numbers" builds nicely on itself with swelling string orchestrations before the parallels become too blatantly obvious. Closing track "True Love Waits," a staple of the band's live performances for years, is finally cemented here as a proper album cut. It's a lot different than how you're probably used to hearing it; this bare-bones arrangement is just Yorke and a piano, but it's no less affecting.

The inclusion of "True" also acts as a perfect bridge to span the band's multiple eras, proving their longevity as well as their fluidity. There are many things to listen for in "A Moon Shaped Pool" -- in fact, it takes a few listens to fully absorb all of its intricacies -- but as always, there is only one Radiohead.

"Hush" Rides A New Wave Of Smart Horror

Most scary movies being made today aren't really that scary. They rely on cheap thrills, awkward laughs, and too much blood and guts to be taken seriously. Even the rise of found-footage thrillers -- first popularized by 1999's "The Blair Witch Project" and later revived in 2007's "Paranormal Activity" -- quickly abandoned their initial promise of innovative fright by mindlessly recycling tired horror tropes.

In the last few years, however, independent films have ushered in a new wave of what I like to call "smart horror." Yes, there are still supernatural forces to be reckoned with and villains that need to be vanquished (or at least faced). But instead of the endless onslaughts from the Freddys, Jasons, and Michaels -- who lost all credibility when they were sequeled to death -- smart horror uses its primal, psychological themes to create a more lasting fear that buckets of corn syrup just can't match. It's one thing to be afraid of the boogeyman, but it's more unsettling to be afraid of why that boogeyman exists.

Following in the recent footsteps of critically-acclaimed genre offerings like "Creep," "The Babadook," and "It Follows," "Hush" is a lean, mean, smart-horror machine. The film debuted in March at the SXSW Film Festival, where it was acquired by Netflix and released via streaming in April. Clocking in at barely 80 minutes from fade in to fade out, "Hush" tells the story of a woman alone at home who is being stalked by a masked killer. Sound familiar? Think again! This movie wastes no time in ejecting the cliches and standard plot mechanisms to create a refreshingly original and disturbing work of horror cinema.

Plenty of movies try to reinvent or reinvigorate their genre, but few actually succeed. First and foremost, "Hush" is surprisingly empowering for an industry that treats women as disposable and marginalizes people who are differently-abled. Our heroine, Maddie, is deaf. Rather than having her condition become her downfall, or worse, a joke (like the borderline-insensitive Deaf Taylor Swift character in the first episode of Fox's "Scream Queens"), her situation is legitimately explored as she is forced to adapt her fight for survival. That realism, courtesy of Kate Siegel's potent screenplay and her bravura performance as Maddie, is largely what makes "Hush" work.

There's no suspension of disbelief required; instead, the chills are genuine because we experience how such an ordeal would actually play out for someone like Maddie... and in turn, how it could even happen to any of us under other circumstances. Long stretches of the film have little if any dialogue, and at times, the sound is strategically removed. There's also an inspired sequence of fight-or-flight deliberation that catches you off-guard with its panic factor and shock value in a movie that already prides itself on delivering the unexpected. Yes, some gore is visible, but only an amount that's absolutely necessary to tell the story, and it's all medically accurate (no red geysers here!) These details put the audience right in the main character's shoes, which is what every horror director should aspire to for maximum investment in what's happening on the screen.

This deeply rooted connection to Maddie's plight would have been enough to set the movie apart from its contemporaries, but "Hush" throws away the map and takes a few of the roads less traveled. When the killer first looks through Maddie's window and slowly realizes that she's deaf, there's the faintest sign of hesitation or even remorse for what he plans to do. In any other movie, she'd probably be dead right away and he'd be on to the next victim. He even takes off the mask to bond with her (in his own twisted way), as if to prove that he's a flesh-and-blood human and not some unkillable monster, daring her to challenge him.

As the killer continues to toy with Maddie, threatening to only enter the house once she gives up hope, we learn next to nothing about this man. Not his name, not his backstory or motive -- just that he's there and he needs to be stopped. Maddie rises to the occasion, of course, but it could be argued that the randomness of the killer's presence is a metaphor for all the nameless, faceless evils that exist in the world and how we choose to fight back. And what better forum is there to grapple with the daily perils of society than a horror movie?

Understandably, some of the suspense evaporates when the killer finally makes his move, but the film still generates intensity right up until its final frames. By using point-of-view and tracking shots throughout to subtly reveal the layout of the house, we're made subconsciously aware of the inevitable showdown without it being any less cathartic. That release of tension is certainly earned, and the overall experience of "Hush" sticks with you viscerally as well as intellectually. The movie is over, while life in this crazy, messy world goes on. You may not double-check the locks to keep out the boogeyman, but you do it anyway because he represents something out there that we don't want to think about. It takes smart horror like "Hush" to remind us of what it really means to survive.

"The Good Wife" Says Goodbye

After seven seasons of invigorating legal and political drama, "The Good Wife" aired its series finale on Sunday night. I have mixed feelings about the show ending -- not just because it was an extraordinary series, but also because the final episode suggested that there could have been at least one more season's worth of stories to tell. Then again, "The Good Wife" never played by the same rules to which many CBS dramas past their prime so desperately cling, making its seemingly unfinished finale that much more realistic and satisfying.

"Wife" followed Alicia Florrick (played by Julianna Margulies), who chooses to stand by her husband, a disgraced public official, after his various scandals come to light. At the same time, Alicia is re-entering the workforce; after law school, she decided to start a family, but now it's up to her to support them. She starts at the bottom of the ladder as a junior associate in a prestigious firm, and over time, the series perfectly interweaves her senses of personal and professional upheaval in a fast-paced world that's content to dwell in so many shades of gray.

Margulies, already an Emmy winner for her role on "ER," collected two additional Emmys as well as a Golden Globe and Screen Actors Guild awards for her multifaceted portrayal of Alicia. (If you ask me, THIS scene alone from earlier in the year could easily net her another award or two.) Margulies walked her years-long tightrope of conflicting emotions with impeccable precision, knowing that one slip would spell disaster for Alicia's level head and even keel. She performed her job, as an actress and as a character, above and beyond the existing merits of the show. It's Alicia's humanity that forms the core of the series, as she grows over the years with dignity and grace and rises through the ranks to become a stronger and more capable person despite her circumstances.

Aided by a reliably solid ensemble cast and an A-list cadre of guest stars, Margulies and "The Good Wife" tackled their weekly cases, long-term plot and character arcs, and commentary on current events with both deft humor and delicate drama. The heroes don't always win, but they're not always perfect either. "Wife" was at its best when it argued cases we've seen countless times in other media, or even those drawn from real life, but used them to explore the characters' shifting senses of duty versus morality. This was never a show that relied on soapy melodrama, ridiculous plot twists, or structural gimmicks like a non-linear narrative. Instead, week in and week out, it was simply and straightforwardly one of the best-written and acted shows on television. Given the dimming quality and originality of most broadcast network series, that in itself was quite a stunt.

All of this background sets the stage for where we found Alicia going into the final episode: at a crossroads. The series had come full circle, with her once again facing the choice to stand by her guilty husband or follow her career and her heart to a fresh start on her own. The choice seemed simple, given her independent trajectory in more recent episodes, but the consequences were what genuinely surprised me. Alicia's last interaction with a colleague from day one, who started as her mentor before treating her as a peer, was so terse in its final moments that my jaw literally dropped when they parted.

On any other show, the main character's ending -- happy or otherwise -- is met with some amount of positive reinforcement. Here, it's less of a definitive ending and more of an uncertain new beginning. Alicia finally has what she wants, or at least she's in the position to get it, but we don't get to savor that moment of victory. Instead, we only see her resolve, fully aware that while this chapter of her life is over, her work is hardly done to keep what she's earned. To me, that conclusion works far better for such a character-driven story than the often-misleading platitudes of "happily ever after."

In one of television's most spot-on music selections in recent memory, Alicia's deliberation near the beginning of the episode and her decision right at the end are set to Regina Spektor's bittersweet ballad "Better," which implores its subject to feel something, anything, other than sadness. It's almost like the show's creators (who wrote and directed the finale) are using the song to simultaneously apologize to and thank the audience. They can't make you feel better about the series coming to a close, but they can still make you feel proud to have been part of Alicia's journey.

Life's Lemons Make Impressive Music

Surprise! Beyoncé dropped an album last week. Well, it wasn't a total shock (it was teased for weeks, unlike her 2013 self-titled release that appeared out of thin air) -- but the real surprise lies in the power and sheer artistry of the album itself.

"Lemonade" finds Beyoncé delivering a near-perfect album that deals with life's imperfections and shares her journey to understanding and overcoming them. Critics are quick to try to label it, but it's not just a "black" album or a "woman" album or simply a relationship-drama album. "Lemonade" is important music for everyone, shared through the filters of how Beyoncé explores her various levels of identity: her race and gender, her sexuality and spirituality, her marital versus maternal instincts, and her political and professional statements.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, but Beyoncé isn't just any woman. She'll pray for you to confess, but she's ready to fight if she has to. On the tongue-in-cheek "Sorry," she doesn't play the blame game, making her subsequent sound and fury signify many different things. The album's unpredictability is irresistible; ever-growing as an artist, Beyoncé eagerly experiments (and succeeds) with unique vocalizations and musical styles that never feel forced or betray the album's meticulously crafted vision.

"Hold Up" gives us tongue-twisting lyrics and trilling, staccato notes, while perky, plucky strings underscore her musings about whether it's worse to be jealous or crazy. "Don't Hurt Yourself," a stellar if unexpected collaboration with Jack White, doesn't just fuse R&B with rock -- they collide with enough force to propel her words into the stratosphere. "6 Inch," featuring The Weeknd, is sultry musical noir at its finest, right down to its strained, plaintive whispers of "come back..." "Daddy Lessons" basks in country and jazz influences, while "Sandcastles" is a simple, stripped-down piano number that's the beating heart behind the album's pain and struggle. When Beyoncé's voice goes ragged and cracks near the song's middle, it's a defining moment for a singer of such caliber to be so transparently human. "All Night" has a soaring, affirming chorus that could melt even the most jaded cynic, and I dare you not to get goosebumps during the stirring anthem "Freedom." You can't help it, because this album moves the body as well as the soul.

To watch the film that accompanies "Lemonade" is to experience the album on a masterfully elevated plane. Eloquent, voice-over interludes of Beyoncé reading the feminist poetry of Warsan Shire are matched with luminous visuals that illustrate those words as well as the songs. Combining black-and-white and color footage, we also get some truly avant-grade cinematography. (Let's talk about that stunning underwater bedroom segment!) In the ultimate chicken-egg scenario, it's hard to discern which came first: the music, the lyrics, the imagery, or the poetry. They all work in tandem so astonishingly that the film demands repeat viewings just to absorb all of its striking parallels.

It's increasingly rare to hear an album where the songs work on their own but also tell a complete story when listened to in order. It's easy to call "Lemonade" a concept album, but it's clearly an album with a message and a purpose, and closing track "Formation" is its call to action. I've never really been on board with calling Beyoncé "Queen B" like the rest of her fans, but "Lemonade" has compelled me to recognize royalty when I hear it.