Freelancette

In hindsight, the death knell for one of my favorite shows on TV, "Veronica Mars," was the de-amped version of the theme song at the start of Season Three. The original song, "We Used To Be Friends," by alt-rockers The Dandy Warhols, was sassy, youthful and defiant. It was the soundtrack to skipping school and to peeling out of driveways; it was the music playing the first time you smoked a joint and the tune you wanted to hear after you told off your ex-BFF. It was the song you blasted when you thought you were living on the edge, before you grew up and realized how steep the drop-off was.

When the CW took over from the WB after Season Two, just as Veronica was starting at Hearst College, the network decided they needed a new theme song to reflect the show's new dark, noir-ish image. Of course, VM fans know that it had always been dark and noir-ish, but the CW really wanted to pound the point home. They took that classic theme song, silenced whatever musical instruments made it so rockin', and snuffed out all the energy. The Dandy Warhols now sounded moody and muted, like they were singing under water. Is this what growing up is supposed to sound like?

The producers also messed with the opening montage. The old credits showed close-ups of the characters in action, with little notebook-paper nametags scrawled with a symbol alluding to the show's central mystery. A little cliché, sure, but cute. And fun! In the CW's too-cool-for-school credits, the images of the characters looked like paper dolls, sepia-toned and mood-lit, peering out of dim corners and staring pensively off into space. The nametags were gone. Worse, the CW commercial breaks featured a sexed-up Veronica strutting down a runway in a hideous shorts-and-suspenders getup that would have been perfect for meeting Dylan, Kelly and Brandon at the Peach Pit, but wasn't very appropriate for running around Neptune solving crimes.

After sticking out the entire third season of Veronica Mars, I have to admit, I'm not that disappointed that the show has come to an end –- albeit an abrupt and rather unexpected one. The show, and its heroine, have changed. Like the theme song, they've become less interesting, less sassy and less vibrant. I've realized that the charming, beguiling Veronica I fell for in Season One left long before the last episode.

Let's backtrack. At first glance, Veronica Mars could be mistaken for any other network starlet. She has shiny blond hair that would prove to be impressively malleable (at least one new 'do in every episode), a chirpy, take-charge voice and an enviably cute figure. If your first encounter with Ms. Mars happened to come halfway through a mid-season episode (like mine did), before you knew who she was or what was going on, you might be so turned off by ten seconds of Veronica's petite perkiness that you would turn off the show, never to return…until Season One made it to DVD and you decided to give VM another chance (hey, millions of ecstatic viewers couldn't be wrong). After watching an episode of the show in its entirety, you would surely realize that there was much, much more to Veronica than met the eye.

Veronica was a true outsider, cruelly mocked and despised by just about everyone at her high school –- and her town. She'd just taken a nasty tumble from the highest perch of popularity, and it had left her bruised and broken. Her best friend had been brutally murdered, her boyfriend had dumped her, she'd been mysteriously drugged and raped at a party -- even her mom had let her down, by cheating on Veronica's dad, giving in to her alcoholic tendencies, and deserting the family. That's a lot for a sixteen-year-old to handle. But Veronica didn't react by locking herself in her room and whiling away the days until college by writing bad poetry and listening to Tori Amos. She responded to the crappy hand life had dealt her by …. well, by dealing with it. She went to school; she walked, one painful, humiliating step at a time, through the halls; she struggled with her homework; and she ate her lunch -- alone. Alienated from in-crowd, embarrassed by her status as a pariah, she threw herself into helping her dad (her hero, the one bright spot in her life) with his private investigator business.

Veronica was emboldened by her new role as PI, and the professional nature of her relationships with her "clients." Before long, she had stopped worrying about what people thought or said about her (she'd already heard the absolute worst, anyway). This freed her to take risks that would terrify most teens –- most women, in fact. Veronica could walk up to just about anyone--security guards, streetwalkers, CEO's, sheriffs, ex-boyfriends, con artists, Irish thugs—and, with a little sweet and/or salty talk, convince them to give her the goods. She spoke her mind, followed her instincts, and developed into one helluva PI. She'd help anyone, even the popular kids who delighted in tormenting her -– for the right price, of course.

But even wisecracking, case-cracking Veronica was still human (and still teenager) enough to break down every once in a while, and to mourn her old dance-squad, party-girl popular way of life, and especially, her dead best friend, Lily Kane, and her BMOC ex-boyfriend (and Lily's devastated brother), Duncan Kane. Veronica's gigantic losses, and her tragic fall from grace, had made her vulnerable and empathetic. In the course of a summer, she'd gone from being a carefree sophomore concerned only with dances and dresses to a hardened old soul. She was deep, man. And she was terribly, achingly lonely. That's what motivated her reach out to new-kid Wallace Fennell and computer-geek Mac. That's also what made her so different from other teens on TV, a unicorn in the stable of stock characters like jock, nerd, prom queen and Goth girl.

Veronica didn't let her emotional baggage drag her down as she plowed through case after case after case. She was a scrappy little fighter, and, when the opportunity presented itself, she even liked to have a little fun. Cue The Dandy Warhols!

That was the Veronica we knew and loved through Seasons One and Two. But in Season Three, Veronica suddenly went from smart-ass to bad-ass. She strutted onto the Hearst College campus, eyes blazing, navel bared, ready to solve some mysteries and pass judgment on some losers! Veronica had developed a solid reputation by this point, and clients were coming out of the woodwork to hire her. It was a good thing that she now possessed an uncanny ability to balance work-study at the library, after-school work at Mars Investigations, schoolwork, a boyfriend, and a social life.

Veronica was the boldest freshman Hearst had ever seen. She'd sharpened her reliably witty comebacks into mean, cutting little barbs, and she let them fly indiscriminately, at students, teaching assistants, professors, even bigwigs like the dean of the college. She brushed off a counselor's sincere efforts to get her to open up about her troubled high school years, smirking at the idea of talk therapy. The new, nasty Veronica seemed to delight in disrespecting authority and telling people off. Everyone annoyed her: the earnest activists, the frat boys, the girly girls, the couples, the loners, the over-achievers, the slackers. It wasn't clear if the dangerous, life-threatening situations she'd faced in the past two seasons had hardened her (in which case, you really couldn't blame her), or if she'd simply developed an uncrushable ego and a snarky 'tude (in which case, you could). Our once-uncertain and searching teen was now blithe and blasé. It really seemed like Veronica had gotten too big for her size-0 cropped britches.

In her passage into adulthood, Veronica had also left some of her compassion behind in high school. Early in the new season, Veronica went undercover during Sorority Rush Week. She allied with the radical feminists at the college paper (don't even get me started on that lame stereotyping), trying to figure out who was behind a string of recent campus rapes. The sorority sisters really tweaked Veronica's ironic-yet-flirty pigtails. She could barely hide her contempt and disgust for them, even though one of the girls who tried to befriend her seemed nice and down-to-earth.

Veronica was also at a total loss to understand why anyone would ever want to be a part of a sorority. The old Veronica most definitely would have related to the loneliness of being a college freshman, and the desire for easy friendships. She may not have become a pledge herself, but she would have been able to see where these wide-eyed young women were coming from. But the new Veronica didn't need friends, never mind sisters –- she had her own clique, thanks.

That's right: flanked by her "new and improved" high-school pals like sportstar playa Wallace, geek-chic Mac, and the newly-sensitized boyfriend Logan, as well as college friends like WASP princess-with-soul Parker and emo-boy Piz, Veronica started to look more and more like … a popular chick! And sadly, despite her best efforts (and the support of countless real-life outsiders), she started to resemble that lamely prototypical teen starlet.

At her worst, the new Veronica wasn't just cool, she was ice-cold. In that same sorority episode, she outed an advisor for growing marijuana on school premises, even after learning that the woman was using it to ease her cancer-related pain. Have a heart, Veronica!

I suppose one could argue that Veronica eventually redeemed herself with small acts like bringing cookies to a student she believed had been wrongly incarcerated, and being a good (excellent, really) sport about Logan's budding romance with Parker. But she was never able to regain that vulnerability, that rawness, that insecurity, that made her so complicated and compelling in high school. Of course, we expected Veronica to come into her own and mature over the past three years, but I don't think she stayed true to herself.

Perhaps the writers could have addressed this with storylines that incorporated Veronica's long-lost mom (whatever happened to her, anyway?), a falling-out with her dad, or some sort of comeuppance for VM herself. Unfortunately, the brains behind the show were creatively and logistically shackled with an uncertain future, a weird two-part season that encouraged viewer drop-off, and a one-stand-alone mystery-per-episode mandate. This didn't allow for long story arcs or rich, complex character development. So by the end of the season, even though I never stopped respecting the indomitable Veronica Mars, I kind of stopped liking her.

And that's why, unlike most die-hard, live-for-Tuesday-night VM fans, I'm not tearing my hair out over the cancellation of the series. Yes, I thought it was amazing TV, fantastically well-written and amazingly well-acted (this last part is especially apparent after watching tonight's dreadful pilot of "Hidden Palms" on the CW), and yes, I'm really going to miss the old Veronica, and the feeling I got from watching her trying to find her place in the world. But it's time to move on. We used to be friends, a long time ago, but we've since outgrown each other.

Posted by Corrie at 11:44 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Well, would you look at that: Veronica's new BF on the now-defunct "Veronica Mars", Stosh "Piz" Piznarski, was named after Mark Piznarzski, who directed two episodes of VM in 2004...including the pilot. Now, in the wake of VM, the Best Show Ever (besides Battlestar Galactica, of course), the real Piznarski is working on what the CW hopes to be its next big hit, Gossip Girl -- which, incidentally, Kristen Bell will be narrating.

Posted by Corrie at 10:38 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Our block appears to have gone Hollywood.

First there was the Keri Russell sighting at the intersection of South Oxford St. and Dekalb Avenue back in April. Looking like she had just come from Fort Greene park, Keri was strolling languidly, chatting on her cell phone. Later, we'd wonder if she had been sharing the news of her pregnancy. (Apparently, Keri likes to invite people to the park to talk about babies: check out the recent interview she gave to EW). Word on the cyber-street is that Ms. Russell has settled--least temporarily--in the 'hood.

Then, this morning, South Oxford was blocked off to accommodate a huge movie crew. South Oxford lost the title of "Best Block in New York" to nearby South Portland by a just few broken windows and disheveled stoops. That may be why South Oxford was chosen as for location shots for "100 Feet," an upcoming thriller by "The Hitcher's" Eric Red. According to IMDb and Daily Variety, the film features Famke Janssen as a woman who murders her abusive husband and is then haunted by his ghost.

This isn't the first time we've seen movie crews in Fort Greene: one cold, dark night last winter, some poor cameramen spent hours circling our block with an immobile Town Car aboard a flatbed truck, trying to get the perfect shot, and a few summers ago, I spotted a group of actors (trust me: they were actors) dressed as Hasidim being filmed roaming the hills of the park. But this is the first time that our entire street has blocked off for the sake of a movie.

I have a bad memory of film shoots in my backyard. Back in 2000 or so, I was banned from entering my apartment on Waverly Ave for hours while an enormous, stressed-out crew finished up with "Vanilla Sky." It was a stinkin' hot summer day, and I was trapped outside with a bag of freshly-laundered, rapidly-wrinkling clothes. All I wanted to do was get back inside my apartment and flop down in front of the fan (we couldn't afford A.C. at the time) but the blockers and stringers or whatever they're called in movie-world parlance wouldn't let me cross the street. I guess they were afraid I'd get caught on film (my mug in "Vanilla Sky" -- the horror!). The experience wasn't New York-cool, it was New York-annoying. I hope that South Oxford St. isn't heading in that direction.

Posted by Corrie at 10:50 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I finally made it to see "Spider-Man 3" this weekend! And I was surprised to find that despite the dizzying arachnid acrobatics and the gripping battle scenes; despite Toby Maguire’s mood swings and hairstyle changes (am I the only one who thought that “Bad Peter” was a dead-ringer for Pete Wentz?) and Thomas Hayden Church’s sad-eyed, gravel-voiced portrayal of the Sand Man as an almost-regular family guy, the most memorable parts of the film for me were… Kirsten Dunst’s teeth.

Dunst has two little incisors that stick out and slightly overlap with her front teeth. The resulting vampiric effect was undoubtedly one of the things that cinched her role, at age eleven, as a baby bloodsucker alongside Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt in 1994’s “Interview with a Vampire.” Since then, Dunst’s teeth have brought touch of realistic imperfection to icons like Marie Antoinette, Mary Jane Watson and Amy March from “Little Women.”

I barely noticed Dunst's teeth during "Bring It On," or even while gazing enraptured at her Marie Antoinette last fall (perhaps I was distracted by the frocks and wigs?), but I couldn’t stop staring at them in "Spider-Man 3." Every time Mary Jane appeared on screen, I’d find myself ogling her teeth. The jagged incisors peeped out from between her lips when she smiled, and she seemed to talking and pouting around them when upset. I wonder if she was working her choppers extra-hard?

I've always been a little teeth-obsessed, but in a negative way. As a kid, I spent four years bound in silver braces. I've have had my teeth professionally whitened once, and personally whitened (at-home) about half a dozen times. I've always taken great pride in my smile, and have even passed up dates with men because of their unacceptably dark or misshapen teeth. However, a trip to Japan a few years ago helped me relax my standards. The Japanese have traditionally considered an extra eye-tooth, something that would be considered hideously ugly here, to be cute in women and kids. It's a mark of beauty, similar to how we regard a mole near a woman's mouth, and therefore desirable, not embarrassing. In the past, Japanese people tended to be much more laid-back about the condition of their teeth -- but, taking a cue from the West, they've recently become much more tooth-conscious, and whitening toothpaste and creams are now popular there. Personally, I've been trying to accept my teeth for what they are. I recently gave up whitening toothpaste because I think it makes my teeth look fake. I've also heard that the silica in most whitening products can permanently damage tooth enamel and irritate gums. I'd rather have healthy teeth than white ones.

Dunst has repeatedly told reporters that she would never get her teeth straightened, believing that they look sexy and bring character to her roles. “It’s a part of me,” she told Newsweek last year. “If someone asked me to [fix my teeth], I wouldn’t want to work with them.”

Good for her! It's become increasingly rare to see a celebrity without blindingly white (or blue) teeth that defy the rules of anatomy in their straightness and perfection. Dunst's teeth, and especially her tooth-confidence, add so much to her charm and sex appeal. She's an individual and proud of it. I love her teeth. And I love her!

I appear to be in the minority. Dunst’s imperfect teeth have earned her widespread ridicule and derision from would-be fans. In fact, mocking Miss Dunst’s teeth has long been a favorite sport of celeb-spotting blogs like The Superficial, Bastardly and Gawker, who have referred to them as “baby corn,” “horribly unattractive,” “angly-weird,” “fangs,” “nasty,” and to Dunst as a “troll” and a "snaggletooth." Apparently, with her natural (“stringy!” "unwashed!") hair and crooked teeth, Dunst has inspired some major ire from a whole lot of people.

But why? Why hate a young woman who has succeeded in the film business on the basis of her talent and skills and (more importantly) hasn't had to sacrifice her identity in the process? Why hate a woman who has made it to the top of an industry notoriously critical of appearance, regardless of her own physical imperfections?

Well, maybe that's just it. People are jealous that Ms. Dunst looks just like them, yet she has the opportunity to star in fun movies and wear pretty dresses, while they're sitting at home, watching "Crazy/Beautiful" on DVD, pausing the film to remove their Crest Whitestrips. The teeth-haters are furious that Kirsten Dunst hasn't succumbed to the pressures of Hollywood, because they have, and they don't have the hot dates, the zillion-dollar salary, or the California mansion to show for it. They've felt self-conscious about their own crooked or gappy or yellow teeth all their lives and have invested in countless teeth-fixing solutions. Now, after a lot of time, money and minutes in front of the mirror, they've finally achieved otherworldly grins, and are psyched to flash their smiles around town. So they go to the theater, pay an absurd $12 for a movie ticket, and there, looming above them, magnified 40 times, is this woman with uncorrected teeth. She doesn't even seem to be aware that her crooked choppers -- LOOK AT THEM!-- sometimes protrude when her lips are touching. The nerve of this woman! How dare she! She's not perfect -- she's not even beautiful. She doesn't deserve the average person's money or attention or affection. "Kirsten Dunst and her freaky freak teeth should die in hole," wrote one fed-up poster "Die, bitch, die!" pleads another.

Kirsten Dunst: I hope you and your crooked little snaggle-teeth are laughing all the way to the bank right now. And I really hope that you aren't going to spend one penny of the money you earned for Spider-Man 3 on orthodontics.

Posted by Corrie at 1:37 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I so wish I could take credit for that astute observation, but it came from Carl Wilson by way of Jody Rosen at Slate. After listening to Avril Lavigne's chart-topping new album, "The Best Damn Thing" one too many times, both critics concluded that behind the spunky beats and cheeky cheerleading riffs lies a disturbingly misogynistic message. As Rosen puts it, "Lavigne has girl issues. She's always been full of unkind words for ne'er-do-well guys, but on the new album, she pours scorn on women." In her latest songs, Avril champions bullying boyfriend-stealers ("Girlfriend") and disses gold-diggers ("One of Those Girls") and "bitches, sluts and psychopaths" ("Everything Back But You"). These critics seem especially bummed out by the video for the album's hit single, "Girlfriend," which features a battle of two Avrils: as a bespectacled prep in a pleated skirt, and as a nasty, raven-haired rocker with an entourage. Bad-Ass Avril pulls some low punches (and kicks, and golf swings) in order to physically wrest Preppy Avril's boyfriend out of her undeserving arms, much to the delight of everyone in the video except, of course, for Preppy Avril, whose only crime seems to be her sartorial cluelessness. Says Rosen, "...the idea that we're supposed to cheer a revolution in which the ruling elite is replaced by creeps who enforce their will with golf-ball beanings seems like a perversion of the punk ideal."

Now, I--like many people, both fans and foes--would never consider the twenty-two year old pipsqueak with pipes to be punk (she's shared producers with Britney Spears and Hilary Duff, and didn't she just get married? In a Vera Wang Dress?), but this is not the time to quibble over Avril's musical or personal style. That's been adequately addressed here, here, and even here (sorta), by Avril herself. It's fair to say that Avril, as a voice in "Over the Hedge" and the star of a manga comic, sold out her authenticity and her punk cred long ago. But selling out her lady-peeps? Her sistahs? Her grrrls? An Avril who puts other chicks down in order to make herself look cool is worth griping about, and I applaud Rosen and Wilson for doing so. The chorus of "Girlfriend" has been translated into no fewer than seven languages (including Mandarin). Here's hoping that other girls and “sk8r bois” around the world taste the arrogant, anti-woman sourness bubbling up in “The Best Damn Thing’s” sugary punk-pop.

Posted by Corrie at 2:38 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

My clueless alma mater keeps sending me mail addressed to "Corrie B. O'Neill." O'Neill is my boyfriend's last name, not mine. He also graduated from Syracuse University. The school seems very eager for us to get married (they're probably hoping our kids will become Orangepeople, too). Maybe this email, sent last night, will set SU straight.

Date: Fri, 4 May 2007 19:14:36 -0700 (PDT)
From: "Corrie Pikul"
Subject: my name
To: newhousealumninyc@gmail.com

For the past year or so, I've been receiving mail from Syracuse University addressed to "Ms. Corrie B. O'Neill." For example, a recent flyer with information about the Lubin House Scholarship Reception was addressed to "Mr. Kerry G. O'Neill & Ms. Corrie B.
O'Neill."

This is a mistake. My boyfriend's name is indeed Kerry G. O'Neill. However, my name IS NOT "Corrie B. O'Neill." My name was, is, and always will be "Corrie B. Pikul."

I am not married -- to Kerry G. O'Neill or anyone else. I have never been married. It appears that Syracuse has assumed that because I share the same address as a man, I must be his wife. The university has also assumed that, as a married woman, I must have taken my husband's surname.

This is an outdated, old-fashioned, and ignorant assumption. I'm offended that my "progressive" liberal arts school has stripped me of my name, my singlehood and my identity. In addition, Syracuse has confused my friends and fellow alumni (many of whom have emailed and called me to ask when I got married!!). My alma mater has done all of this without even having the good manners to send me and my "husband" a wedding gift.

I have telephoned the SU Alumni Relations office about this matter several times. I have been verbally assured that I am listed in the SU alumni database as "Corrie B. Pikul." But this recent mailing has left me unconvinced. Could you please change my listing in the database BACK TO "Corrie B. Pikul"? Could you delete the name "Corrie B. O'Neill"? And could you please send me an email confirming that this change has been made?

I'm also curious to know why Syracuse has acted like a meddling old aunt, and has presumptuously married me off. Can you tell me how and why my name was suddenly (and incorrectly) changed to my boyfriend's? Since graduation, I have shared apartments with several other Syracuse alumni, yet I've never had this problem
until now.

Thanks in advance for your understanding and cooperation.

Sincerely,
CORRIE B. PIKUL
Newhouse, 1997

Posted by Corrie at 7:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)