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 CASE OF THE X "The X-Files" must die--maybe
When you get jerked around on a regular basis, it's difficult not to
harbor bad feelings. And though you determine not to let yourself be ill
used, these days dysfunctional relationships are so much the norm you
just end up going back to face the same old crap. That's how it is with
"The X-Files" and me. On the one hand I can say I love it like an old buddy--my Sunday
night pal. On the other, I can say I hate it, like the flaky friend who,
fun-loving and entertaining as they may be, has stood me up more times
than I can count -- not to mention peppering our entire acquaintance
with evasive and perplexing half-truths before disappearing for weeks on
end. And try as I might to just not care, come Sunday night I know, with
a sense of near dread, that I'll be firing up the VCR to tape "The
Sopranos" just so I can see what's going with Mulder, Scully and Co. And it's all so very frustrating because it's like we started out
on a journey together, Chris Carter, his vision and those of us
long-timers who actually watched Fox -- on a Friday night, no less --
but now our traveling companion is bailing out early and refusing to pay
their half of the freight. I had just about made up my mind to chuck it
-- right after the February sweeps, where we were promised episodes that
would shake the foundations or our very lives, or some such rot, and
ended up with a mostly dead Mulder, followed by four weeks of the Lone
fricking Gunmen. Of course, if we're honest here, things have been on the downward
slide for a while -- ever since Fox began showing the World Series. This
is when the smart types at the mini network decided to start holding the
show's season premiere until November. But it wasn't like the show ran
past May sweeps, which meant a five-month wait before any of the
cliffhangers got resolved. That rankled--a lot. But you get over it.
Just like the move from Friday to Sunday or the increasing insanity of
the plots. You can overlook a great deal when you know there's
something rewarding in it. But then we began waiting longer for junk. Sure, they gave us that
nice "X-Files" movie in 1998, building up the "syndicate" and the
big alien invasion -- only to fry most of them in a horribly
anti-climactic manner right in the middle of season six. And it's
difficult to argue that last season (seven, for those keeping count)
made any progress at all. With no mid-summer movie to help us along, the
wackiness of Mulder in the loony bin with some kind of neurological
problem while Scully headed off to the Ivory Coast to look at some
spaceship imbedded in the sand, simply didn't fly. And there was no
real recovery -- just that one intriguing episode near the end of the
season that hinted of Scully getting dressed while Mulder slept in the
bed. We could have kept going forever on the "did they do it?"
question. Chris Carter, it seems, has a dysfunctional family, too. And thanks
to the joy of the new age entertainment journalism we know every little
detail of every little squabble--David Duchovny doesn't want to play
Mulder anymore; it's not challenging enough. He doesn't want to work
in Canada anymore; it's too far from his wife. He and Gillian Anderson,
apparently, don't get along. And, he'd better be getting all of his
damn residuals from Fox, because it seems they've been selling the
shows off to their other properties at a discount and not rewarding him
for all his years of hard Mulder work. Enter season eight and John Doggett (Robert Patrick). Ironically,
the stories have gotten better. The conspiracy's kind of been on hold,
but Carter, apparently seeing a need to compensate for the lack of
Mulder, has found provided a series of inventive and intriguing
straight-up sci-fi plots. Which would be fine -- except that Anderson
and Patrick have absolutely no chemistry. Nary a spark. You can't blame
Patrick. He's a good actor, but either you have chemistry or you don't
and there's just nothing there. Not to mention that they seem to
believe we, "The X-Files" faithful, have forgotten a lot of details:
What ever happened to the supposedly dead Cigarette-Smoking Man, thrown
down a staircase in his wheelchair ("Kiss of Death"-style) at the end
of season seven? Didn't Krychek lose an arm at some point in Russia
during the episode about the evil black oil alien virus? And is Scully
having the longest pregnancy on record? Now, with May sweeps on the way, here comes our fair weather
friend. One episode with Mulder up and around and it's a whole new
ballgame -- the Doggett/Scully thing doesn't seem so strained and
we've (again) been promised five episodes to rock the very foundation
of our lives (alien baby?). So we'll all tune back in. And maybe this
will be it, forever. Though I'm getting that "Twin Peaks" feeling and
wondering if Carter has it all in his head, master plan style, or if
we're headed for the same merry-go-round. Maybe Duchovny, whose crummy
movie career shows no signs of improving, will come to his senses and
return to the fold. It's more likely that we'll be left with enough
unanswered questions to power Internet chat rooms for years to come.
Damn it.
Also by Elaine Richardson ON DELIVERY
HOT AIR
THE ART OF WAR
GET IN THE GAME
SUFFERING GRACEFULLY
REEL DEAL
BAD BAD THINGS
GHOST TOWN
MIDSEASON SHUFFLE
HARSH REALM
THE HORROR
WINTER WONDERS
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