Six Feet Under
Untitled

Episode Report Card
Djb: B- | 3 USERS: B-
YOU GRADE IT
Untitled

Props to M. Giant for a sick job last week. My own work on this show during my week-long vacation included Stee hitting pause on the TiVo when we were watching the opening scene and asking, "Okay, Mr. Recapper. Let's see how well you know this show. Who bites it?" I looked at the busy carful of angry yuppies and their spoiled children and announced without hesitation, "All of them." It was a triumphant moment, but was quickly overshadowed by Stee asking my brother, "Okay Mr. Musician. What instruments are used in the first chord in this show's theme song?" With zero hesitation, the answer came forth, "I think it's possible that's a zither." Blau: 1. Blau: 0.

"Hello?" So asks the slightly panic-tinged voice of a man who, upon fade-from-white, reveals himself to be a balding, tie-clad, middle-era Brando type. Like, post-Last Tango but probably pre-Superman, but the former without the nudity (thank god) and the latter without the songs of Margot Kidder (thank god). Anyway, this gentleman -- oh, what the hell, let's just throw caution to the wind on this week of all weeks and call the man "Brandon't" -- holds a black phone receiver in his hands, at the end of which is what your grandparents will explain to you later is a "cord." Said "cord" runs into the wall of an elevator, in which this Brandon't seems to be stuck. But no matter how many times Brandon't hits the receiver button or barks increasingly vehement hellos, his calls to 867-530-nein go unanswered.

"Dammit!" he exclaims, because the script told him do, and he hangs up the broken phone for similar reasons. An aerial shot of the elevator reveals that there are three other people in there as well: a young blonde woman in a pink skirt whose Vapors Of Vulnerable Femininity have induced her to sit slumped in a corner; a younger African-American gentleman who is wearing almost the exact same hoodie Wing Chun made me buy (a fashion item which recently inspired a married female friend of mine to tell me she thought I looked "hot," thank you very much ["but for the record, I didn't want you to get it in order to attract married women, since...you know" -- Wing Chun]); and a business-clad woman who very well may not be Tina Fey. Brandon't stabs awkwardly and repeatedly at the alarm button, causing Hoodie Guy Who Isn't As Hot As I Am to observe, "If it hasn't worked for the last forty-five minutes, it's not gonna work now." Tell that to the last fifteen minutes of every Six Feet Under episode this season, Hoodster. Not Tina Fey blames the nighttime security guard in their building, positing, "He must be drunk and deaf." Or, blue-collar day laborer that he is, maybe he's just unable to hear their cries for help, drowned out as they are by the sound of him whistling into a large jug with three X's emblazoned across the side. The poors. Such adorable, dirty, heathen darlings. Pink Lady sits up and tries her cell phone, but Hoodster pulls some backstory from those big, comfy pockets and reminds her, "We don't get reception up here, all right? Just wait for the rescue teams." Apparently the cause of so much hope lo these last unfilmed forty-five minutes, those so-called "rescue teams" must be out looking for an ATM in Echo Park, because sister...they ain't coming.

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Six Feet Under

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