I was annoyed reading Alex Pappademas’ Grantland piece on Treme, mostly because I was anticipating five years from now, when Grantland Editor-in-Chief Bill Simmons will lecture all of us about how great the show was. Simmons hasn’t written about Treme, but admitted on his podcast that he dismissed it after a few failed attempts at watching. I guess it bothers me when a pop culture tastemaker with such incredible reach ignores a show as good as Treme, a gift from a mind whose work has given us the best the medium has to offer. It’s probably unfair to be so irritated by Simmons glib reaction to Treme. In fact, I’m sure it is. But here I am anyway.
Alex Pappademas is a good pop culture writer, his piece on MTV’s Teen Wolf is fucking awesome, and he had the decency to at least watch and think about Treme before deciding it was no good. I read his piece as I was in the midst of a Treme binge, catching up on season 2 in a six episode burst that moved me to tears on more than one occasion. A lot of his problems with Treme reflect exactly what I love about it, the very same qualities that make it one of the five or six best things currently on TV and a worthy successor to the single greatest show in television history.
The Expectations
Pappademas claims that “…[Treme] wasn’t The Wire: Port of Call New Orleans, which for a lot of viewers was a dealbreaker.”
Has an audience ever tempered its expectations more than they did for the new David Simon project? For months leading up to the Treme premiere, we were told: “It’s different. It’s not like The Wire. Really. I’m telling you. It’s a very different show. You can’t expect The Wire. I’m not joking. Seriously. It’s not The Wire.”
We were ready. I can’t imagine anyone stopped watching because it wasn’t about cops and drug dealers. Almost everyone who tuned in knew it wouldn’t be. Yet, I agree it would be possible for Treme to have been crushed under the weight of its own expectations. Not because of subject matter, but because of sheer quality. How could anything measure up to what is frequently and sincerely called the greatest show ever? The fact it will be entering its third season next year is a bit of a miracle unto itself. The reason it has been a (qualified) success is that is does compare nicely with The Wire – not in its plot, but in the effortless way it juggles its huge ensemble, its incredible ambition, its passionate moral outrage, its performances, its attention to detail, its understanding of the human condition, its respectful treatment of local culture.
It’s true that these qualities are all in service of a character study and not a densely plotted crime drama, but Nashville and Short Cuts didn’t have a plot either. Nor did Before Sunrise or Dazed and Confused. If you told me I got to spend an hour a week with those characters, I’d do it.
Pappademas writes:
“Treme behaves as if genre is a crutch, as if using twists and reveals and stakes-ratcheting cliffhangers to keep people interested would somehow cheapen what the show has to say about the resilience of the human spirit and the fierce, ornery native culture of New Orleans.”
Well, wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t genre be a crutch for a show like this? The world of The Wire, with its stories of crime and violence, naturally had those elements that would keep people guessing, but it was hardly a genre cop show. In fact, for at least two of its five seasons, the cops were on the periphery of the action. It defied nearly ever genre rule imaginable with its characters that existed in shades of grey, its willingness to delve into the muddled waters of local politics, and its commitment to the realism of good intentions gone awry.
In Treme, wouldn’t it feel forced to apply a genre? What genre should be applied? The musical? I would argue that Treme comes in the tradition of not only the films I mentioned before, but of Magnolia, Slacker, American Graffiti – the subgenre of “ensemble humanist dramedy.” It shouldn’t be lost that every episode has its fair share of subtle chuckles and at least a couple out loud moments. None of the reviews ever seem to mention that it actually has a sense of humor. As far as cliffhangers, I don’t know, but whether or not these characters can rebuild their home, get their album out, find love, recover from tragedy, make it in New York City, start a band, reconnect with their father, find safety, maintain a business, have artistic integrity, raise their children right, save a marriage, find peace with their job, take advantage of a broken political system, get along with their family, accomplish their dreams — what can I say? I’m fucking riveted.
The Music
Pappademas again:
“The music is controversial. I know at least one person who jukes the show’s pace by fast-forwarding all the songs, a bit of utilitarian sacrilege which cuts every episode down to a comparatively brisk 45 minutes or so.”
Sacrilege indeed! My recommendation is to stop knowing this person. This is not the kind of person you want to know. Look, it’s within everyone’s right to like or not like a show, and if the music bothers you that much, I understand, just change the channel. The music and the characters are so intertwined, I can’t imagine what value one would get from watching Treme by fast forwarding through the musical performances. That would be like saying, “Yeah, I watch Breaking Bad, but I fast forward though all the meth cooking scenes because they make me feel icky.” These scenes are emotional touchstones that move the story forward, establish mood, convey meaning, hint at motivations, and expose the core of the characters’ love for their city. The music scenes are the soul of the show. To not see this is to miss the point entirely.
He goes on:
“…in order to actually like these scenes, you have to like New Orleans music as much as Simon et al clearly do, even when it’s played by bands that sound like the Commitments.”
First of all, at the risk of losing all credibility, I like the fucking Commitments, okay? That movie makes a nice punching bag for writers who like to shit on people who have the nerve to love something so much that they can’t help but go out and do something about it, but if that movie doesn’t make you smile at least a little bit, then I don’t know what to do for you. The Commitments and Treme are both about people with genuine passion. I dig that.
Secondly, New Orleans Jazz is not my preferred musical genre. I don’t listen to it around the house, but I’ll be damned if the music scenes in Treme don’t get my feet tapping. Before I started watching, I didn’t know Kermit the trumpet player from Kermit the Frog; I didn’t know who John Boutte was, and sure as shit didn’t know he could sing like Sam Cooke. I still don’t know most of the musicians who the characters and the camera angles make a big whoop about every week. So I clearly don’t love the music as much as David Simon and company, but the show has gone a long way in helping me appreciate it. I don’t think you need to be a fan of jazz to like the music scenes, I just think you just need to be open minded enough to give it a chance. There’s something so primal and necessary and historic about this genre that makes it just about as close to empirically good as music can get. But there’s no accounting for taste, I guess.
The Passion
Pappademas spends much of the second half of his piece taking the writers to task for the way they write the musicians’ dialogue, pointing out several lines that admittedly sound silly on the page, but are not that jarring when you’re watching. Pappademas admits that it’s hard to talk and write about music, but still refuses to give them a pass for certain lines. I would argue that this is a show about people who are so punch-drunk in love with something, so passionate, so committed, that, yes, sometimes they sound silly when talking about that thing they love. Sometimes words fail your emotions and you overreach. That applies to both the characters in Treme and the people who write it. Haven’t you ever loved something that much? Can’t you relate?
Pappademas does give props to the Davis McAlary (Steve Zahn) storyline because he saw it as “a smart, sharp satire of white-hipster-dork carpetbagging.” He enjoyed seeing Davis fail in his attempt to start a political hip-hop jazz fusion act and read this failure as the writers taking the character to task for not being authentic enough, for being more narcissistic than politically conscious.
Pappademas finishes his piece with this:
“Davis’ comeuppance was a more realistic portrayal of how music works in life than anything else we’ve seen on this music-obsessed show thus far. Because, sure, sometimes musicians really are sages and culture martyrs and revolutionaries and self-sacrificing keepers of historically important flames — but sometimes they’re oblivious soul-patched narcissists who can’t quite manage to make art as good as their intentions. A flawed vessel like this show should sympathize.”
But it does sympathize! Which is exactly why he’s wrong in his interpretation of the Davis storyline. Sure, the show pokes fun at Davis’ exuberance, but it does not loathe him. It does not see him as a pure narcissist (just part narcissist). Davis is David Simon and company. He is their avatar — white, privileged, outsider, wannabe musician. Davis is their admission that they are all those things, but he is also their plea that they are fucking trying – that they love this shit. That even though they are not from here, that maybe they don’t always get it, that maybe they sometimes sound silly, they have no choice but to scream from the mountaintops about their love for this city and this music.
The final scene of the season says it all. After Davis quits the band and realizes his efforts have been for nothing, he returns to the radio station where he used to DJ and spins one last record. As “Wrap Your Troubles in Dreams” by Louie Armstrong plays, we get a montage of all the characters. In his flawed way, Davis feels these characters through the song. He feels New Orleans as David Simon feels New Orleans. When the song ends, Davis, a little misty, leans into the microphone, “Sorry for the dead air…. But that one got me.”
He apologizes. The last line of the season is Davis apologizing, but also stating that he just can’t help it. He can’t help himself from getting emotional, from expressing himself, from doing all he can do to be part of this community. Davis, like Simon, can’t be a successful musician. So instead, he has to do this. He has to play the music like this. That last moment is Simon admitting that the show is indeed a flawed vessel, but it is one that sympathizes. It’s one that tries like no other show on TV, and that counts for a lot more than Pappademas gives it credit.
After all, as Coach Taylor from Friday Night Lights taught us, “That’s what character is. It’s in the trying.”
