Popular science

The sultry sci-fi superhero ofDark Angel. Plus, Queer As Folk; Barney Fife

by Robert David Sullivan

It may be the biggest news in genetics since Dolly the Duplicated Sheep. Scientists at the Cartoon Network had already discovered they could create female superheroes whom boys would watch (The Powerpuff Girls). Now the Frankensteins at the Fox network (who else?) have proved that you can attract even larger audiences with a female superhero who looks good wearing leather pants and sporting a bare midriff. Dark Angel (Tuesdays at 9 p.m.) features a genetically enhanced fighting machine who can climb walls and kick ass with the best of them, but rest assured that Max (no last name, and probably no deliberate allusion to Maxwell Smart) is in touch with her feminine side. It takes one of the Y-chromosome soldiers to explain to us why Max hangs around with her new friends in Seattle despite the government agents who are poking around the city trying to recapture her: "She lets her judgment get clouded by her feelings and emotions. One day, it's going to get her killed." Apparently, even women with Jean-Claude Van Damme's DNA are from Venus.

Dark Angel is one of the few modest TV hits of this autumn, and its overdrive publicity campaign will probably guarantee respectable ratings at least through the winter. The producers of last season's Now and Again -- also about a reluctant soldier assembled by a shadowy branch of the American government -- can't be happy to see their idea being used more successfully by Titanic egoist James Cameron, Dark Angel's producer. Now and Again, with an older male hero and a fondness for show tunes on its soundtrack, never generated enough sex appeal to land its star on magazine covers, whereas 19-year-old Jessica Alba was visually compelling enough to appear on all of TV Guide's covers last week, the editors having decided that it was too soon to expect Dark Angel fans to purchase 23 different "collector's" editions with characters from the show. Inside, series creator Cameron explained that "a strong female character is a no-lose deal." Fortunately, the man who proclaimed that "size does matter" while picking up his Oscars didn't get too specific about what makes the pouty-lipped Alba so popular among male viewers. TV Guide also pointed out that both Cameron and Alba "insist" they've never seen Buffy the Vampire Slayer, television's most highly regarded show about a young woman with extraordinary abilities. This bit of braggadocio is like hearing a pilot tell passengers he's never actually watched a plane take off.

Dark Angel isn't bad, but it hardly redefines science-fiction television. The bar code tattoo'd on the back of Max's neck -- which so far has not prompted angry essays about the commodification of women -- is an obvious stab at social commentary, and besides, it doesn't make any sense. (If the government is breeding normal-looking people to serve as super-soldiers, why make them readily identifiable to the enemy?) Dark Angel takes place in Seattle a few years into the future, after a terrorist attack -- not a conventional bomb but an electronic "pulse" -- has erased all the computers in the United States and destroyed the economy. So most of the scenes take place in littered alleys and underfurnished lofts, with occasional visits to the high-security penthouse occupied by Max's chief partner in fighting evil, a wheelchair-bound journalist and computer hacker (Michael Wetherly). Although it's clear the American government has been taken over by sinister forces, I haven't yet seen any villains from Washington on Dark Angel. (I suggest watching a videotape of a James Baker press conference before each episode to set up the context.) For the most part, Max uses her supernatural strength against arms dealers, gangsters, and a beady-eyed fascist (John Savage) who's trying to drag her off to a camp in Wyoming where she can be re-educated. Her goal is to find fellow escapees from the GI Gene factory; meanwhile she earns pocket change at a bike-messenger service, where comic relief regularly ensues.

As on Buffy, the elaborate plots often end in fistfight scenes that can be defined as Mannix with better costumes. That's not necessarily a flaw, and some of the better moments on the show are bereft of sci-fi trappings -- as when we learn that Max's chief pursuer, a recovering alcoholic, attends AA meetings just to berate the other participants for becoming dependent on AA meetings. As on Buffy, the writers here seem to recognize that a few touches of well-placed irony can make up for a lot of plot holes.

But there are also moments that are simply anachronistic. The plot of one episode hinges on Max's overhearing a message as it's being left on an answering machine -- technology that's already obsolete in today's world of cellular phones and voice mail. Not that you can really blame the writers here -- technology is wiping out plot devices faster than medicine is wiping out incurable diseases. There was a time when a set of fingerprints on a drinking glass could get someone framed for murder; now there's got to be DNA evidence all over the crime scene before the police will take any interest.

Another episode hinted at a more ominous development for Fugitive-type TV dramas: a minor character was implanted with a computer chip, without his knowledge, that let the bad guys track him wherever he went. You can imagine how law-and-order politicians across the country might salivate over that idea. In fact, last week's Dark Angel was interrupted promos for the 10 o'clock news touting the newest way to thwart kidnappings: "A digital chip implanted in your child's body!" Nothing in the series is as scary as the thought that a handful of child abductions could cause people to accept total government surveillance of their lives. (Once those chips go in, they're staying in forever.)

Of course, Dark Angel isn't out to frighten viewers. Female fans will dream of looking like Jessica Alba (will she interrupt her own show to hawk cosmetics, as Sarah Michelle Gellar does on Buffy?); male fans will dream of tearing off her clothes. When Alba engages in a little B&D, strapping a bad guy to a chair and telling him, "One wrong move and you're an organ donor," we're really not so far from Charlie's Angels. Or is that Three's Company?

SUDDENLY, WILL AND GRACE doesn't seem so daring. The first two episodes of Showtime's Queer As Folk (Sundays at 10 p.m.) featured bare butts, rim jobs, and a main character who proclaims, "I don't believe in love. I believe in fucking." It ain't uplifting, and there's nary a positive role model to be found, but gay men can finally enjoy a trashy TV series with same-sex sluts -- as opposed to straight soap operas with fleeting glimpses of noble, celibate gay characters. I'll have more to say about the show in a future column.

LAST WEEK Jay Leno tied together classic and contemporary TV in a joke comparing Robert Downey Jr., who joined the cast of Ally McBeal this fall and promptly got busted yet again for drug possession, with Otis the town drunk, who regularly checked himself into jail on The Andy Griffith Show almost four decades ago. This joke stuck in my head because I'd been at a party a few days before at which a friend began to tell a story about a run-in with a small-town cop who took his job too seriously. My friend hesitated, trying to describe the guy, and all I had to say was "Barney Fife" (another Griffith character) for him to continue the story, knowing that we all had the right image in our heads.

Barney Fife is one of the dozen or so most indelible characters in TV history, but Otis is far from the top of the pantheon of classic TV characters. Still, I can't think of many names from current programs that would be as widely recognized, even among viewers who weren't yet born when The Andy Griffith Show ended production. Maybe it's a tradeoff. We didn't know or care much about Hal Smith, the guy who played Otis, but we know everything about Downey's personal life, and that exposure makes it almost impossible for him to disappear into a role. He's good on Ally McBeal, but he's still Robert Downey Jr., and no one's going to remember his character's name a year from now. (It's Larry.)

And though Martin Sheen is great fun to watch on The West Wing, I never forget that I'm watching a liberal activist playing his ideal of a US president -- and keeping a protective eye on his character's dignity. Whereas Carroll O'Connor, another liberal Democrat, was utterly convincing as a right-wing bigot on All in the Family, perhaps determined to turn the name "Archie Bunker" into an insult that would make just about anyone stop short and take a hard look at himself. (Calling someone a "Josiah Bartlett" is, at best, a confusing compliment.)

Are there any current characters destined to join Archie and Barney (and Lucy and Ethel, and Ralph and Ed) as cultural references 50 years from now? Homer Simpson may be the best bet -- what two words better describe clueless American optimism? Of course, being a cartoon character, Homer has the advantage of being two-dimensional in the most literal sense. On a darker note: you can't beat Tony Soprano for a shorthand description of someone lusting after the American dream in the worst way.

But most of TV's classic characters have come from sit-coms, and that genre is in pretty bad shape this year. Bette Midler, Michael Richards, and John Goodman, among others, are trying to come up with larger-than-life creations, but none of them has made much of an impression. There's plenty of smart writing on prime time this season (almost all of it on hour-long dramas); I just wish there were a few more characters (not actors) who can hold our attention no matter what lines they're given. If you can think of any, I'm accepting nominations.