Neither Nor

Even at its best (no laughter, please), Californication can come off as a middle-aged version of Entourage. Granted, any show that deigns to wallow in the swanky hedonism of the outer rim of Hollywood, whether it’s for the purposes of some higher callling or simply for some exploitative ya-yas, is going to have to make with the drugs and the drink and the titties at some point. Ostensibly, this skene (no Variety) concerns the fall from grace of former critically-acclaimed author / perpetual man-child Hank Moody, so it wants to gussy up its flin flarn filth with some honest-to-goodness soul-churning turmoil and angst. Sometimes, specifically those “even at its best” times referred to in the introductory sentence, the show manages to do that. Sometimes, it even manages to do so while indulging in its basest instincts.

The reason these few-and-far-between moments happen is strictly due to the work of David Duchovny. As Moody, he’s able to play both sides of his character – walking fuckstick and tortured artiste – with aplomb and charm. That this happens in spite of the ham-fisted bon mots the writers keep shoving into Moody’s mouth only shows how good Duchovny can be. When Moody’s making time with the ladies, there’s (sometimes) a serious melancholy simmering beneath the tawdry come-ons. Conversely, when he’s pitching family-man woo to his baby mama (Natasha McElhone’s Karen) and the love of his life (daugher Becca, played by Madeleine Martin), it always feels like he’s one short skirt away from once again sticking his dick into the wrong hole.

The show wants viewers to believe that Karen and Hank are perfect for each other, which is one of the things the show gets right. They’re both party-down types, but Karen knows when enough is enough, which is an impulse Hank never bothered to learn. Unfortunately, it’s that sort of wanderlust that makes Hank so desirable in Karen’s eyes, and it’s also the thing that’s kept these wacky kids from finally settling down together. Most of Hank’s past transgressions are merely hinted at, but the series knows enough to make sure the works are gummed up by a mondo-sized monkey wrench.

Not even halfway through the debut episode, our erstwhile horndog gets into the panties of young Moody super-fan / budding writer Mia Cross. Ms. Cross, of course, turns out to be the daughter of the man that Karen is planning on marrying. (I’m going to pretend the subplot where Karen’s fiancée hires Hank to blog about LA didn’t really happen.) In case that wasn’t awkward enough, she’s also only 16 years old. On top of that, his illegal dalliance inspires the usually blocked-up Moody to write a semi-fictional novel centered around his underage encounter. And since Moody’s the sort of artiste that uses a manual typewriter instead of a word processor, his manuscript is pilfered by Mia and passed off as a memoir about her run-in with an older gentleman. Befitting the level of subtlety the show likes to work at, the book is called Fucking and Punching. Mia sells the book and becomes The Next Big Thing, which of course turns Moody into the true personification of his surname. That is, when he’s not indiscriminately fucking anything that breathes and menstruates.

I’ve just described / spoiled most of Season One in those last few sentences, though it doesn’t take a crystal ball to figure out where things will lead. (Give yourself a cookie if you guessed that Karen leaves her hubby-to-be at the altar and runs off with Hank.) Unfortunately, while that initial season did a fine job fleshing out Hank’s key relationships – Karen, Becca, his agent Charlie Runkle, and Runkle’s wife Marcy – it didn’t really do much in terms of addressing his dalliance with Mia. Instead, the show spends upwards of two years dancing around the issue; Hank falls back in with Karen, something happens that causes another falling out, something happens to bring them together again, and that wheel keeps on spinning. Meanwhile, Mia’s star continues to climb, and she shows up every so often to rub his nose in it and/or make a whole lot of awkward passes. And Hank has lots of sex. With women other than Karen. Because cable shows need titties.

If there’s any non-qualitative saving grace for Californication, it’s that it gives attractive actresses in their late 30s and early 40s (the Searching For Debra Winger types) a chance to strut their stuff in various states of undress. Besides McElhone and Pamela Adlon (the aforementioned Cokey Smurf), the show’s given the time of day to oft-neglected ladies like Paula Marshall, Madchen Amick, and Justine Batemen. Usually, they have to pretend to enjoy Moody’s sardonic world-weary quips as he grinds on their pelvic bones, but such is the life of the working actress. It goes without saying that any women appearing in Californication, age notwithstanding, will undoubtedly end up feeling the sting of Moody’s prick. Unless you play a prostitute (like Judy Greer did), or you’re a Karen surrogate that a Hank surrogate is trying to win back (like Amick), or you’re a blood relation of Hank. Otherwise, you’re gonna get Moody in your pants.

Season 3, the most pointless season of a series that wasn’t exactly covering itself with glory during its intermittent high points, was the most egregious offender, as Moody found himself laying pipe all over academia. He bedded his teacher’s assistant (Diane Farr), the wife of the school’s dean (Embeth Davidtz), and one of his creative writing students who also happened to moonlight as a stripper (Eve Amurri). Couple that fuck-silly nonsense with subplots involving Runkle being coerced into sexing his boss (a gruff and tumbled Kathleen Turner) and Marcy getting anal from Rick Springfield (as Rick Springfield), and I doubt even the most depraved horndog (like yours truly) would have anything favorable left to say about this show.

That is, until the S3 finale, when the creators decided to actually go back and address the consequences of Moody’s dalliance with Mia. The truth about Mia’s literary theft threatens to come out, which forces Hank to finally come clean. For a show that’s had limited success in showing how good a writer Moody actually is, the choice to have Moody’s confession to Karen be filmed without words is a sound one. It might milk the drama a bit more than needed (possibly due to some over-the-top music choices), but both Duchovny and McElhone do a great job of showing the toll that Hank’s mistake has taken, and will take, on their relationship. Of course, because it’s not enough to end on that perfectly fine dramatic moment, Hank ends up sucker-punching a cop soon after coming clean, which gets locked up in jail as the season comes to a close. Even when the show does right by its characters, it can’t help but overdo it.

The same thing goes for the Season 4 premiere, which tries to have its meta-aware cake and smear it all over a girl’s rather pert breasts. No doubt one of the things that interested Madeline Zima in the role of Mia way back when was a chance to distance herself, with great force, from her most recognizable role as the oldest daughter on that nearly-forgotten CBS sitcom The Nanny. And if you want to kick your child-actor image to the curb, there are worse was to do it than to take off your top, mount David Duchovny, and punch him in the face.

S4 kicks off with the recently bailed-out Moody taking a meeting (at Runkle’s request) with a young ingénue, Sasha Bingham, looking to distance herself from the family-friendly Hollywood fare that made her name. With the truth of Fucking and Punching finally out in public, some folks are interested in making it into a film, and Bingham wants to play the film version of Mia. Of course, Bingham is being portrayed by an actress (Addison Timlin) no doubt looking to distance herself from her squeaky-clean low-profile. Timlin, as Bingham, in the interest of researching the Mia character, ends up restaging the fuck-punch with a vaguely protesting Moody. There’s an attempt to infuse the dry-hump with a smidgen of pathos, though, as Moody urges Bingham to keep punching him until she gets it “right.” It allows Moody to punish himself for all his fuck-ups, while also giving him a chance to relive that moment over and over again (possibly both as punishment and pleasure).

That’s about as deep as this show’s willing to get, though. Four weeks into the season, and it’s a given that Moody’s going to end up sticking it to his lawyer (Carla Gugino), and maybe Bingham a few more times, all the while continuing to ineffectually wallow in self-pity over fucking up with Karen yet again. It[s gotten to the point that, in lieu of actually doing something with the inherent drama of the Hank / Karen thing, they just have Duchovny stare longingly (puppy-dog style) at McEhlone from a distance at least once an episode. Meanwhile, some semi-notable guest stars (Michael Ealy, Rob Lowe) will show up and do some semi-ribald stuff; in addition to Lowe pretending to be a bad-boy Hollywood asshole, Stephen Tobolowsky gets to play a well-hung producer, and Fisher Stevens cashed a check to portray a super-horny multi-millionaire with a sadly fatal fondness for auto-erotic asphyxiation.

And, of course, because there are some other characters in the show besides the Moodys, some of the non-Hank non-Karen players will get involved in half-assed subplots put in place to simply justify their continued existence. A show that can’t find anything for the refreshingly profane Adlon to do except piss and moan about being knocked up my some mystery cock is a show that doesn’t deserve to have her around. And while Evan Handler’s a lovable obnoxious sort as Runkle, his quest to get his dick wet as often as possible doesn’t look to be promising. I almost want to say that this “development” is some staffer’s comment on how pointless and fuck-focused the show has become. There’s still a chance that something less insulting will emerge from the half-ass attempts at wit and drama that this show usually trades in, but something’s got to give, especially now that the show’s already been renewed for a fifth season. Either the creators’ delusions of high-quality drama lead to a story worth a damn (either the one they already have set up, or something else), or they fully embrace their LCD tendencies and learn to write better pussy jokes.