I would respectfully ask that my wife, if she is reading this, stop, immediately. I deeply respect the fact that she loves CSI Miami and feels personally injured whenever I comment on said program. In lieu of airing my comments in a verbal forum, I have decided to take to the net, as they say, so that the love of my life need no longer suffer my cynicism. In encourage her to tune in for one of my next entries, which will actually contain thoughtful reflection on the formation of the Canadian literary canon, as per conversations I held with both her and the lark in the last two weeks.
Truthfully, I love CSI Miami, but for all the wrong reasons. I love it in the same manner in which I love the US election; I thrive on farce. To be fair to this beleagured program, I am at heart a ruthless cynic that is rarely touched on an emotional level by any programming. I attribute this to the deep shame that I felt as a child when I found myself crying over the death of the mid-wife at the beginning of "Willow", which remains a favourite movie of mine to this day. I have since battle-hardened myself, and remain difficult to please when it comes to mass media. I blame my mother. No, really, I do. If you ever watched us watching television together, you'd agree with me. That being said, my assessment of CSI Miami should come as no suprise.
My first issue lies in the name of the program itself. It should be renamed "Cleavage Miami", as the female characters are often converted into eye candy with utter impunity. Apparently, Medical Examiners wear tank tops that dip lower than the grand canyon. Who knew? If you're about to label me a pervert, forget it, my mother noticed the breast-fest and pointed it out before I did. And don't even think of calling my mother a pervert, or I'll see you in the playground after school. Also, if this program is going to retain the "CSI" moniker, then we have to revise the old-school Vegas version to be referred to as "Good CSI". Incidentally, "Good CSI" rules. I would die happy if I got to spend one day as Gil Grisham, or at the very least got to sound like Sean Connery.
Horatio Cane is Gil Grisham's absolute foil. Where Gil is cool and collected 99.99% of the time, "H" is in a perpetually agitated state. Cane speaks with a snide whisper and quiet intensity that makes one feel like he's ready to snap any minute. Upon discovering the victim of a heinous crime, he throws out a lame comment that may as well be "I bet he never saw that one coming", "Too bad he didn't get the message that he's dead" or "Someone's earned a spanking today". Coupled with his compulsive desire to either take off his glasses outside or put them on indoors five minutes into the episode, one has to wonder who pissed in his cornflakes. True to form, he works out this latent agression in the field; he easily has the itchiest trigger finger in the entire Miami PD. Apparently, someone forgot to tell him that he's no longer working with Dennis Franz. I'm also working on a theory that wardrobe and make-up joined forces to sneak into Caruso's trailer and permanently glue his hands to his hips. Through what is undoubtedly an act of God, he has somehow managed to avoid beating the tar out of any of his suspects. He does make it a point every second episode to give his suspects notice that he's coming for them. By now, you would think that half the city of Miami would have clued in to this factoid. When a mid-life crisis induced Irish forensic cop with NYPD separation anxiety and latent agression tendencies shows up at your door promising to eventually find evidence that you offed your boss, it's time to leave town. Inexplicably, these idiots manage to stick around long enough to get dragged into a conversation that features Cane proudly trotting out all of the brilliant obscure evidence that manages to prove that, lo and behold, they're guilty.
Keeping things real is "Speedle", who is pretty down to earth, and .... oh, wait, they killed him off. Way to go guys.
I actually like the science of the show, and the plot is not without appeal. It's all in the delivery, really. Of course, the delivery is made a little creepy by Alex, the ME, who has this strange necropheliac bond with the corpses that she examines. I challenge you to find me more than a handful of episodes that don't feature Alex stroking the foreheads of the victims, and/or uttering lines such as "Who did this to you, baby?". "Baby?!?" It's hard to pay attention to her analysis when I keep on thinking about how she looked ready to either molest her dead subject, or at the very least dress up in their clothes and try to avenge their deaths.
Oh my. I think that I'm spent. Comments are always welcome.
- ▼ 2004 (20)