Eliza Dushku’s not so hard on the eyes, either. Too bad both of them are well nigh impossible to watch on Joss Whedon’s new, post-Firefly disasterpiece, Dollhouse. (I wonder if Tahmoh Penikett would rather bump uglies with Lachman or former BSG castmate Grace Park?)
Beyond his eye for exceptionally good-looking young ladies, I never really understood Whedon’s appeal. If Buffy was a campy, allegorical exploration of the microdrama of suburban teen life, and Angel wrestled with the demons of post-adolescence — like, say, unwanted and “unresolved” pregnancies [EN: that second link is absolutely lousy with spoilers] — what the fuck was up with Firefly? Thirysomethings in space? And now why is Dollhouse — a less campy allegorical exploration of America’s Hollywood complex? — SO UNREDEEMABLY BAD? My best guess: it’s too hard to suspend disbelief at the model of value it’s proposing — ie, the “exuberant” [sic] price tag for watching Dushku try to act her way out of a wet paper bag. At least the worst actor ever to tarnish a David Simon production, Mike Kellerman, P.I., has found work again.
(And for anyone keeping score, It’s always sunny in Philadelphia‘s version of “The most dangerous game” TOTALLY schools Whedon’s.)