Nip/Tuck

Nighttime TV hasn’t been this full of vitriolic vim and vigor since Krystle and Alexis took that immortal dive into a swimming pool, Lucy stocked prescription meds in her handbag, and Connie Sellecca paced the gilded lobby of her “Hotel.” But will Fox and FX, the first to dive unabashedly into an abyss of sequins and Seagram’s, manage to avoid slipping down that soapy slope into melodrama? Can they jack up the stakes without falling prey to goofy conspiracies and long-lost twins? Can their actors give subtle performances when delivering lines like “Sometimes I hate being your daughter!” or “When was the last time we went to bed when you didn’t hate me?”

My sources say no. But would we even want them to? The nighttime soap is built like a DeLorean: fast, conspicuous, impractical and notoriously unreliable. We can trust “The OC’s” portrait of Orange County about as much as we can rely on “The Jetsons” for an accurate glimpse into the future. Accuracy is sacrificed for campy, glittery fun, and we wouldn’t have it any other way. The important question for such shows is similar to that which you’d ask of reality TV: Does it leave us wanting more? For the newest nighttime soaps, the results are decidedly mixed.

Surprisingly, FX’s “Nip/Tuck” is perhaps the most melodramatic of the three shows, resembling “Six Feet Under” in its format (only here, the new clients being worked on are alive), but replacing artfully crafted dialogue and subtle shifts in the psychosocial atmosphere with on-the-nose shouting matches and a steady parade of circus freaks. Womanizing Christian (Julian McMahon) and uptight family man Sean (Dylan Walsh) are old friends and plastic surgeons who share an ethically unsound practice that services a debased and deranged clientele, from the obese, gun-toting girl who stopped taking her lithium to the illegal immigrant hotties smuggling heroin across the border in massive breast implants. Our intrepid heroes, meanwhile, are wildly reactive and deeply confused. While Christian is prone to sleeping with everyone from the twins who get surgery so they won’t look alike anymore to the clerk at the tanning salon, Sean spends his free time daydreaming about a sexy co-worker, threatening to quit the practice because it’s sick and dirty and soul-sucking, and hurling hatefulness at his equally bitter wife, Julia (Joely Richardson), who also happens to have a not-so-unrequited crush on Christian.

Needless to say, the whole mess is more than a little absurd. The lunatics behind “Nip/Tuck” seem so intent on keeping our attention that they throw believability and good taste to the wind without a second thought. Take, for example, the episode where Julia flushes her daughter’s hamster down the toilet and the plumber dangles it in front of her and a guest in the dining room, saying, “There’ll be no charge! I don’t want your money! What kind of a mother are you?!!” You can almost see a similar scene unfolding on “Six Feet Under,” but director Alan Ball would handle it with humor and absurdity. The mood on “Nip/Tuck” isn’t quite right, though — less sly and artful, more blunt and crushing, like a kick to the jaw. Thus, when Julia shows Christian her bare breasts under the auspices of getting his advice on whether she needs a boob job (“They’re perfect!” he breathes), or when Sean and Julia’s son Matt (John Hensley) attempts to circumcise himself, the effect is one part “Whoa!” and two parts “Oh, brother.” Even when a little humor is allowed to roam around a scene, it still feels uncomfortable there, like it can’t quite find a place to sit.

And in the purely tragic scenes, like when Christian unwittingly takes money from a pedophile who wants surgery so little girls will like him better, everyone tends to lay it on a little thick. McMahon plays Christian with convincing smugness, when it doesn’t seem to slip too far into a Kevin Spacey impression. Walsh as Sean is so high-strung and bitter that he’s flatly unlikable, and Richardson as Julia seems to turn up the volume a little too high. Every time her husband steps into the room, she seems to either be sobbing or shaking with anger, and the continual high pitch instructs viewers not to take her hysterics too seriously. Still, the acting is able enough, and the scripts are well-written enough on “Nip/Tuck” that, if they turned the volume down and played within the boundaries of reality a little more, the drama would be better served.

Of course, as long as you’re being compared with “Six Feet Under” you shouldn’t feel too bad. Fox’s “Skin,” which premieres Monday, Oct. 20, after weeks of heavy promotion, falls more in the realm of cotton candy entertainment — sugary, fluffy and liable to leave you with a stomach ache. Like a cross between “Dynasty” and Baz Luhrmann’s “Romeo & Juliet” both in terms of style and content, the pilot of “Skin” dashes at light speed over a gossamer-thin web of story lines, weaving the content of two suspense thrillers into one hour of flashy television. The story centers on a love affair between a pornographer’s daughter and the D.A.’s son, but you probably know that already from one of the clumsy promos, in which mean D.A. daddy bellows, “Can you imagine what will happen if the press gets ahold of this? The D.A.’s son and the pornographer’s daughter? It could ruin me!” See how D.A. daddy only cares about his image? That jerk! See how porn daddy is ethnic-looking and thus much warmer and more human despite his naughty, naughty (but fun to ogle) empire? These are snippy cartoon characters spouting hopelessly literal lines that not even the most disciplined performance can save from the “Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride” of melodrama.

The style of “Skin’s” direction and production is at least distinctive, if excessively hip and a bit shallow. About half of the scenes are more like montages or highlights (“Last week, on ‘Dynasty’”!), with the dialogue spliced into a nonlinear collage. The extreme close-ups, glowing, unreal lighting and rapid cuts add to this effect, and with the supernaturally hot models who play Jewel (Olivia Wilde) and Adam (D.J. Cotrona) dominating the screen, the whole thing feels more like a Levi’s commercial than an hourlong drama. The few extended conversations that occur are as concise as a telegraph (“I don’t give a damn if Goldman’s enterprises appear to be legal or not!” “Find the dirt, people. Find a weak link and go after it!” “Honey, his father wants to destroy my business. He wants to ruin our family, do you understand that?” “Why does it matter who my parents are?”) The effect is like fast-forwarding through an entire season of “Dallas,” pausing only for the parts where Sue Ellen is drunk, Lucy is leering from the chaise lounge, and J.R.’s eyes are dancing wildly around the room, his teeth set against his own obvious culpability.

Still, we are talking about a pilot. And pilots seem to get more and more pilotlike by the year, presumably because network executives expect to offer the promise of every roll in the hay and kick in the capped teeth of the entire season in one hourlong sitting. Emerging bug-eyed and confused from an overly dense pilot isn’t a side effect, it’s the desired effect.

Unfortunately, “Skin” does such a good job of fulfilling pilot protocol, painting every conflict in such bold colors, that the viewer is left with very little curiosity about the rest of the season. Likewise, “Nip/Tuck” evolves over time, but the kooky surgery seekers are far too bizarre and occupy far too much of the show’s dramatic real estate not to make the whole show feel empty and repetitive.

Which brings us to “The OC” (new season debuts Wednesday, Oct. 29, at 9 p.m. on Fox), already a hit after a brief summer debut, and a show that, for all its goofy plots and clichés, somehow leaves us wanting more each week. Part of the strength of “The OC” rests in its characters, which are somewhat unknown to us yet feel fleshed out, and its talented cast. Benjamin McKenzie plays Ryan Atwood, a rough and tumble kid whose delinquent felon of a brother got him into a world of trouble right before his alcoholic, no-account mother abandoned him. Enter pro-bono lawyer and all-around good guy Sandy, played with lovable fallibility by Peter Gallagher, who takes Ryan home to his massive cheesy mansion overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Within days, his pretty wife, Kirsten (Kelly Rowan), and nerdy kid, Seth (Adam Brody), will have their lives turned upside down by this wayward thug, who, like most thugs I know, is adorably scrub-faced, incredibly mature, and sweet as a puppy dog.

Still, the set design is intoxicating, from the glamorous druggie parties populated by pretty boy meatheads and hot babes in bikinis, to the casino fundraisers and charity fashion shows, inevitably shot during magic hour, so that all the rich folks look damn good and utterly empty-headed, throwing back glasses of red wine and whispering about the wanting lineage of the new boy in town.

While the emphasis on class reminds me more of the South than of Southern California, “The OC” offers all of the vicarious thrills of “Dynasty” but with snappier dialogue and sexier Sammy Jo’s. Plus, the shows writers seem to have a knack for choosing satisfying story lines. As puppy dog Ryan bounds around his new home, trying not to make a mess on the floor, his brand new geeky brother gains confidence and actually starts getting invited to parties and flirting with his lifelong crush, Summer (Rachel Bilson). Meanwhile, the snotty neighbor lady (Melinda Clarke) gets her comeuppance, Nellie-style, when her husband (Tate Donovan) is investigated for fraud by the SEC. And you can’t deny the chemistry between Ryan and the ultrahot girl next door, Marissa (Mischa Barton). Something about the way they look at each other can give you butterflies in your stomach.

The outsider/thug routine looks so hopelessly dorky and overplayed from a distance, yet McKenzie is wisely given few lines, left to capture our curiosity and concern simply by blinking those big peepers when, say, his drunk jerk of a mother leaves him high and dry, or when Kirsten and Sandy decide to take him in permanently. And Brody, Gallagher and Rowan are each so charming and lovable as Ryan’s family, with both Brody and Gallagher showing great comedic timing and boyish hangdog looks, they add a warmth to the family’s scenes together.

Ultimately, “The OC” isn’t a soap at all, it’s “Little Orphan Annie.” Just as Annie got us through the tough times of the Depression by letting us daydream about being swept away to a mansion by Daddy Warbucks, “The OC” offers an apolitical, sun-dappled landscape where the biggest concerns are kissing your crush, punching your enemy and playing video games. If “Nip/Tuck” and “Skin” are sour grapes for tough economic times, exploring characters constantly forced to balance their ethics against their desire to be richer than God, then “The OC” presents an escapist world where wealth may be shallow and corruptive, but we suspect the wine still tastes better, even when it’s thrown in your face.

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Strangely, I still wake up feeling confused and exhausted just as often.

Am I good enough? Obviously not. Where’s the coffee?

Just one word: Plastics

The insecurity of adulthood looms around every corner this season on “Nip/Tuck” (premieres 10 p.m. Wednesday, Oct. 14, on FX), a show that has reinvented itself more times than most of the plastic surgery addicts who frequent the offices of McNamara/Troy. After all, since its first season back in 2003, “Nip/Tuck” has been, at various times, a medical soap, a melodrama and a murder mystery. But based on the unexpected hilarity of this Wednesday’s season premiere, “Nip/Tuck” probably should’ve been a comedy all along.

No, it hasn’t been a comedy all along — don’t even try. With all of the psychobabble and shouting and gratuitous gore and nastiness, every halfhearted chuckle and surreal twist on this show has always been overshadowed by a predominant feeling of depression and doom. Playboy plastic surgeon Christian (Julian McMahon) is a self-centered sociopath, after all. Sean (Dylan Walsh) is a self-pitying, self-deluded jerk. On the surface, they look like a pair of master manipulators, but once you get to know them a little better, they’re both just sad little boys, easily controlled by their greed and their libidos.

That’s not to suggest that these are rich, interesting characters. Unfortunately, these two have all the depth and layers of young children. What’s his problem? What’s her point? They ask themselves. Why isn’t she in love with me, when I’m obviously delightful? Am I drunker than everyone else here? Thankfully, though, this season, they’re realizing that being self-involved isn’t nearly as sexy when you’re in your 40s.

Despite its glossy exterior and moderately intriguing premise, “Nip/Tuck” has always lacked nuance. The dialogue typically alternates between coy banter and outrageously overstated, repetitive, melodramatic tripe, with characters who confess their hatred for each other and then admit their lust for each other in every other scene. The situations and stories are largely cartoonish, but they’re often too disgusting or harsh or pathetic to be amusing.

Take this scene from the first season, in which Christian tells Kimber what she needs to be a perfect 10. Obviously it’s absurd, but it ends on a truly ugly note. What if it were funny instead? The jokes are all in there already; what feels sour is that, thanks to the suspenseful music and Kimber’s unraveling and Christian’s smug puppet master routine, it lands in the realm of: Bleccch. Get me away from these people.

Now swap in some different music, a few wisecracks and a punch line, and this scene could actually be entertaining. It doesn’t need that much levity, it just needs to take itself much less seriously.

But the writers of “Nip/Tuck” have always been too attached to romanticizing these deeply cynical heroes, as if we’re sadistic enough to want to watch them feed on the insecurities of others over and over again. We’re supposed to see them as survivors and pragmatists in a deeply sick world, roaches who can wriggle out of any bind; we’re supposed to feel sorry for them, sure, but we’re also supposed to get a vicarious thrill from their swaggery, semi-abusive ways. How else do you explain a scene like this one between Christian and his conquest of the moment, Gina? (There’s a scene like this in at least every other episode of the show.)

Just as it’s way too easy for Christian to win Gina over here, all of the characters on this show give in too easily to everything: fighting, sex, money, pills, divorcing, reuniting, you name it. Everyone follows their whims to the point where each episode feels like a big, sloppy brainstorming session by a roomful of caffeine-addled, horny, impatient writers.

Maybe the real problem is that they’re comedy writers, yearning to breathe free: Wednesday night’s premiere demonstrates just how good “Nip/Tuck” would be if it dropped the parade of bleak stories and became a dramedy overnight. From the droll voice-over to the steady flow of absurd scenes where Sean and Christian realize that they’re no longer the rich, young, carefree men they used to be, this episode is a gem that anyone, fan or not, could enjoy.

Take the ridiculous scene between Sean and Christian and their son, Matt (Sean’s kid who he eventually discovers is Christian’s biological son — yes, exactly the sort of stupid plot twist that has made this show crappy). Matt (John Hensley), who has always haunted Sean by being the most nightmarish and irritating teenager ever, is explaining why he’s blowing a huge pile of cash on a workshop with a master mime.

“Look, you know how they say when you find your bliss is when the money starts rolling in? Well, I think I’ve found it,” he tells them. “Mime is so amazing, man. It takes us beyond our petty egos, beyond language, and unifies us! It’s a great art form, OK? The pure, universal language of gesture!”

Christian isn’t having any of this. “Listen, Boxcar Willie,” he tells him. “We can rent your room, OK? So you either kick in, or you’re out by the first. So get off your unicycle or whatever the hell it is that mimes drive these days and get a real job.”

“You know, it’s a waste of time trying to share anything with you two,” Matt says, storming out.

The whole episode continues along these lines, from Sean and Christian’s sudden business partnership with much younger, more fit, more successful plastic surgeon Mike (played brilliantly by an oft-shirtless Mario Lopez), to their decision to begin offering vaginal reconstruction as a means of saving their business, which has been hit hard by the recession.

“This simple outpatient procedure restores the architectural integrity of the vagina,” Christian smilingly explains in their brand-new infomercial. See how a line like that is depressingly repugnant on a show that paints Christian as the flawed but charming lady-slayer, but it actually works on a great big foolish farce where Christian is just another over-the-top parody of macho self-delusion?

Maybe the success of “his other show, “Glee,” has alerted Ryan Murphy to the fact that comedy is his one true calling. If “Nip/Tuck” were a dramedy, after all, all of these flat characters could drop the pointless conflict and angry outbursts — which is about as intriguing as watching children push each other down in the sandbox — and focus instead on absurdity, farce and flights of fancy.

Sadly, the second episode of “Nip/Tuck” has none of the laughs and excitement of the first, but the eerie, uncomfortable, dumb-teenager darkness of the previous five seasons is back. Why? Why do the writers insist that we take Sean’s stupid affair with a self-injuring, pill-popping psycho seriously? Why do we have to meet yet another deeply unhinged teenager with parents who just don’t understand?

Obviously shows like “Six Feet Under,” “Deadwood,” “True Blood” and “Dexter” prove that darkness can work just fine, as long as we’re not asked to believe the unbelievable, or to cheer on the unlikable. “Nip/Tuck” has never found a way to make its unbelievable, unlikable characters worthwhile — until now.

You know how they say when you find your bliss is when the money starts rolling in, Mr. Murphy? Comedy is so amazing, man. It takes us beyond our petty libidos, beyond crappy dialogue, and unifies us! It’s a great art form, OK? The pure, universal language of humor!

Of course, what you really want to know is: Are you good enough? No, not yet. Now get back to work. 

But irony is just the carcinogenic Red No. 2 maraschino cherry on top of this toxically, hysterically, deliciously off-kilter sundae. For anyone who was ever wrapped up in the supreme competitive dorkiness of high school show choir and all of its attendant absurdities, for anyone who ever tolerated outsider, insider or in-betweener status in high school, for anyone who obeyed orders from a fascistic cheerleading coach or a gruff but distracted football coach, for anyone who enjoyed a gooey, five-part show-choir arrangement of a bad pop ballad in spite of themselves, “Glee” feels like a sinfully sweet, delightfully mean-spirited, adorably earnest indulgence.

Of course, it’s impossible not to have mixed feelings about show choir, even when you’re 17 years old and trapped by its queasy logic. The highs ­ — singing and dancing to gloriously sappy, spirited or catchy show tunes onstage, in front of a big crowd ­ — are so high for a teenager, but they’re also constantly leavened by the lows ­ — staying late after school to listen to an awful goody-two-shoes with a Disney princess voice sing her predictable rendition of “On My Own” from “Les Misérables” for the 18th time, just for example.  “Glee” creator Ryan Murphy (“Nip/Tuck”) captures all of the hilariously trivial yet somehow earthshaking conflicts and contradictions of the experience so beautifully, with such perfect pitch, that I had to pinch myself several times throughout the show’s first hour.

We begin with just the right leads: There’s Rachel, the nerdy girl vocalist with the “Little Mermaid” voice who, despite her inherent repugnance, somehow captures our affections by the end of the pilot; and the object of her affection, Finn Hudson (Cory Monteith), the sweet but passive jock whose teammates cruelly refer to Glee Club as “Homo Explosion.” (The group’s real name, “New Directions,” is almost as bad.)

Next, we have the soft-spoken teacher Will Schuester (Matthew Morrison), who would love to turn his Glee Club into a thing of beauty but finds himself up against an indifferent school principal, a scornful student body and rival show choirs with professional levels of talent. (Their over-the-top sugary rendition of Amy Winehouse’s “Rehab” will feel like a particularly vivid traumatic flashback for anyone who’s ever attended a show choir competition.)

On top of that, Will finds himself in hot water with his wife, Terry (Jessalyn Gilsig), who demands that he get a better job to help fund her expensive craft projects and Pottery Barn excursions. (“Don’t go in the Christmas closet!” she warns him during one altercation.) While Terry’s demanding ways keep Will from realizing his dreams, a sweet little redheaded nutritionist at school, Emma (Jayma Mays), is pining away for Will in secret –­ when she’s not disinfecting everything in sight (she’s germ phobic).

There’s also the football coach, Ken Tanaka (Patrick Gallagher), who’s less than helpful and supportive when it comes to recruiting members. (“I can’t see any of my guys wanting to join Glee Club. Last month they held down one of their teammates and shaved off his eyebrows, just because he watched ‘Grey’s Anatomy.’”) But my favorite character of all is the ever-brilliant Jane Lynch as the tyrannical yet smug cheerleading coach who wields power because of her team’s past successes. (“Well, I have a phoner in a couple minutes, that’s an interview on the telephone with a major media outlet,” she condescendingly informs the teachers and coaches in her midst.)

Instead of taking on a big, obvious target like high school show choir and going for the most obvious punch lines, “Glee” draws on a head-spinning range of influences in order to do justice to its subject. The show combines elements of “High School Musical” with Alexander Payne’s brilliant dark comedy “Election,” plus a heady dose of “Rushmore,” “Arrested Development,” “Freaks and Geeks” and “Office Space” thrown in for good measure. Its wry take on American suburban life is understated but over the top, ironic but sincere, giddily funny but heartfelt, sweet but nasty.

By the time the first episode wraps up with a head-spinning rendition of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’,” which the club performs in order to demand respect from its detractors, “Glee” will have your heart in its gloriously kitschy clutches — or should I say, jazz hands? Former show choir geeks, Broadway show tunes crooners, “American Idol” fans, cheerleading masochists and pretty much anyone who remembers the merciless absurdities of high school life a little more vividly than they’d like to will savor this very clever, very original new comedy.