When you turn on one of the “Law and Order” shows and it’s styled to look as if it’s been “ripped from the headlines,” what that really means is “ripped off” from the headlines. Tuesday’s episode of “Law and Order: SVU” looked like it had been ripped from the headlines of three years of investigative reporting that cost me a lot of sweat and shoe leather.
No, I did not get a dime. And no one from NBC even called to say how truly inspiring my work was, or how the truth really can be stranger than fiction — or even that the damn episode existed. Instead, my dad saw a commercial for it on TV and sent me an e-mail.
In Tuesday night’s season finale, two otherwise wholesome New York City police officers suddenly turn evil, beat up their wives — one murders his wife — then attempt suicide; one survives. Detectives Olivia Benson (Mariska Hargitay) and Elliot Stabler (Christopher Meloni) figure out that the two cops served in the same Army Reserve unit in Afghanistan and that a pattern of bizarre behavior began once they returned.
It turns out the Army gave these two cops a controversial anti-malaria drug the NBC attorneys decided to call “Quinium” that can make you go nuts long after you take the pills. (In addition to NBC’s legal issues for fictionalizing the drug name, most anti-malarial pills are related to a class of drugs called quinolones, which are known to have psychological side effects. They are a man-made derivative of quinine, the age-old substance for fighting malaria from the cinchona tree.)
The wily detectives then figure out that a similarly weird kind of violence happened before, in the summer of 2002 at Fort Bragg, when Special Forces soldiers returned from Afghanistan and tragically murdered their wives and then killed themselves. Those soldiers, on TV, also took “Quinium.”
What was really freaky (and most surprising) about the “Law and Order: SVU” episode is just how eerily close NBC got to what actually happened. In 2002, three Fort Bragg soldiers came back from Afghanistan, murdered their wives and killed themselves. I was a reporter at UPI, and my partner, Dan Olmsted, and I obtained 1,500 pages of internal drug company documents suggesting the possibility that a malaria drug being used in Afghanistan — and one taken by all three Fort Bragg soldiers — might be causing suicide, violent behavior and general madness. We jumped on a plane to Fort Bragg to begin what would become a three-year effort to gather string on the drug.
The drug we wrote about is called Lariam, or mefloquine. It was invented by the U.S. Army in the 1970s. It’s great for preventing malaria, but it has some minor drawbacks, like causing psychosis, suicidal thoughts, depression and paranoia, which have been reported to last “long after” taking the pills, according to the FDA. There is some evidence that it may permanently damage the brain stem of some people who take it, though the drug manufacturer, Roche Pharmaceuticals, says it is safe and effective. Roche also says there is no credible scientific evidence showing that if you take Lariam you might do something crazy like kill yourself or somebody else.
That is what the makers of “Quinium” said on TV last night, as well. And that’s not all. On “SVU,” the standoff with police and the suicide attempt of one soldier-turned-police-officer on his front lawn closely matches the successful suicide of a Special Forces soldier on his front lawn in Colorado Springs, Colo., in March of 2004. The TV officer survives, and is later charged with cowardice, like the real-world Staff Sgt. Georg Pogany, whom the Army charged with cowardice, apparently for suffering a panic attack from the drug in October 2003. (The Army later dropped all charges.)
The side effects portrayed on TV were shockingly accurate: panic attacks, hallucinations, paranoia (one police officer is convinced his neighbors are tapping his phones). The violent attack by one police officer on his boss is really close to the sudden, uncontrollable rage described by folks who say they got sick from the real drug. He also describes dreams as bordering on hallucinations, of spiders coming out of his hands — like a Peace Corps volunteer I once wrote about who hallucinated giant spiders on her bed. The cop describes hallucinating the gross distortion of faces, something Dan and I heard countless times.
He also says that in the mornings he has the almost uncontrollable urge to slit his own throat with his razor. That is chillingly just right; people reported sudden, uncontrollable urges to do crazy stuff from this drug. That means murder. That means suicide.
On TV, the police officers call the day they took their weekly malaria pills in Afghanistan “Manic Mondays,” because they would feel really nuts on those days as the drug began to build up in their bodies. Yup. That’s what they call it.
In the story, the Army totally stonewalls Assistant District Attorney Casey Novak (Diane Neal). I think describing the Army’s response to Dan and me as “stonewalling” might be too polite.
“SVU” cited studies by the drug company showing that probably one in 10,000 people goes nuts on the drug, but a British study puts that number at one in 140. That was ripped from the pages of some real scientific journals about Lariam, as well.
On TV, there is a military doctor who figures out that the drug is causing permanent brain stem damage. He later recants under what looks like extreme pressure from the Army, shattering Novak’s case and letting the military get away with murder. He is the real coward. In real life, some soldiers have alleged the same thing about a Navy doctor, whom Dan wrote about.
The one thing I don’t think Dan and I saw in our reporting was rape, but “SVU” had these police officers raping their wives. Maybe that was a contrivance necessary to put the case in the hands of the special victims unit.
And here is another really screwy contortion of the facts: The reporter in the episode is portrayed (at least initially) as a bottom-dwelling catfish, at best. We first see him in the episode picking through the trash! Stabler and Benson want to get the truth, but the ornery reporter from “The Sentinel” doesn’t want to cooperate. He just wants his scoop. “Call me when you get a conscience,” Stabler yells in anger.
OK. Do you know how many times I tried to get cops interested in this stuff? Can you possibly imagine how much a reporter would like to cooperate with a district attorney who wants to go through the Army’s underwear drawers?
Later, the reporter has a change of heart. At least NBC notes that this particular ink-stained wretch was way, way ahead of the game and had it all figured out. But he hands all his electronic files over to the cops. No reporter would ever, ever do that. But the reporter’s comment when he does it gave me chills: “Now go see how far the rabbit hole goes, as they say.” Every investigative reporter wonders that about his story, every story — if there’s an end, and how far it can lead. In that fleeting moment, even the wretch seemed realistic.
At Fort Bragg in the summer of 2002, Dan and I documented a whole list of odd behaviors among the soldiers that seemed to mimic the known side effects of Lariam. The Army tried to say we were nuts. But we had other evidence, including thousands of pages of internal drug company documents showing Roche tracking violent and suicidal behavior among folks taking Lariam for over a decade. We would later do hundreds of interviews with Peace Corps volunteers and soldiers who said they had been horribly harmed by the drug. Soldiers say the drug has ravaged U.S. troops since the Somalia debacle in the early 1990s, the last time it was handed out en masse prior to the war on terrorism. In “Law and Order: SVU,” the Army was well aware of that damage to troops.
Then in 2003, the Army started giving it to some units in Iraq. You may recall the Army also had a serious suicide problem among troops there in 2003, which has since disappeared — the same time the Army stopped handing out Lariam. In fact, Dan and I showed that of the suicides in 2003, half of the dead soldiers came from units taking Lariam, contrary to what the Army’s top doctor told Congress. Once the Army stopped dispensing Lariam in Iraq, the suicide rate dropped — by half. The reporter portrayed on NBC last night rattled this off as a shocking statistic. We agree.
We also showed that the last six Special Forces soldiers who committed suicide — a type of soldier rarely known to kill themselves — had taken Lariam.
But there was one last leap of logic that TV could take, but we couldn’t. The detectives decide at the end of “Law and Order: SVU” that the military is well aware of what the drug does to soldiers. That they have made a cold, hard cost-benefit analysis that it is worth the deaths of some soldiers — and even their wives — to prevent malaria. They think this drug is better than the alternatives and they don’t care who it hurts and they will cover it up if they have to.
Dan and I never found any evidence that that was the case. We may never know. “But at the end of “Law and Order: SVU,” the detectives worry about how many GIs might be ticking time bombs. We wonder, too.
Nicole Kidman and Clive Owen in "Hemingway & Gellhorn"
Here’s something you should consider doing before watching HBO’s inadvertent comedy “Hemingway & Gellhorn,” a disastrous two-and-a-half-hour CliffsNotes on the passionate, dysfunctional love affair between Ernest Hemingway (Clive Owen) and his third wife, the war correspondent Martha Gellhorn (Nicole Kidman), which airs Monday night. Find some Hemingway — take it off the shelf, download it to a Kindle, load a page of “The Sun Also Rises” onto your computer via Google books — and leave it within arm’s reach. You are going to want to read from it at fairly regular intervals to remind yourself that though he may have been a drunk, a brute and a womanizer, Ernest Hemingway was not a complete and total idiot. And then you can also use it to shield your eyes from the movie’s myriad crimes against sepia, its extensive use of what appear to be Instagram photo effects, the hot pink blood, Metallica’s Lars Ulrich in a beret, and the scene toward the end of the film in which Kidman’s face is superimposed over real footage of emaciated bodies at Auschwitz and Dachau.
Hemingway and Gellhorn met in Florida in 1936, when she was 28 and he was 37, already famous and married to his second wife. The two covered the Spanish Civil War together, then lived with each other for a few years, married in 1940 and were divorced by 1945. Despite the fact that Gellhorn covered every major conflict between the Spanish Civil War and Vietnam, she is best known as Ernest Hemingway’s third wife, a designation she bridled at both in real life and in the film. “Hemingway & Gellhorn” purports to rectify this. She, not Hemingway, is the movie’s protagonist and narrator. It begins on a close-up of Kidman, in old-age makeup — she looks good wearing all those wrinkles she’s fought so tirelessly to erase — speaking to a documentary crew in a smoky, deep contralto about her life. But though the film pays lip service to making Gellhorn more than, as she put it, “a footnote to someone else’s life,” it chooses to do so by focusing only on the period of time in which … she was that footnote. With friends like these, better they not be filmmakers.
At least Gellhorn does not come across quite as badly as Hemingway, who brays and screams and generally behaves like an overgrown child. When we first see him, he is drinking, smoking and cackling maniacally while reeling in a marlin, the Not That Old Man and the Hunter S. Thompson Outtake. It gets more Gonzo from there, as in when he and Robert Duvall, playing a USSR general, clench a red scarf between their teeth and threaten to play Russian roulette before Tony Shaloub calms them down with vodka.
Clive Owen has been stripped of all sex appeal — future directors take heed: Wire frames and a mustache are Clive Owen’s sexual kryptonite — despite having lots of sex. (I can imagine Corey Stoll’s incredibly dashing Hemingway, from last year’s “Midnight in Paris,” pointing at this version of Hem and cackling.) As for his writing, though he is occasionally seen standing up, typing away, and floating his pages into the trash, of the two lines of writing we hear, one is plagiarized from an earlier conversation and the other is “If a man can stand he can fight” — the sort of stereotypical stinker of a Hemingway line that makes people hate Hemingway.
But the disaster of “Hemingway & Gellhorn” isn’t on Owen, who gives this silliness his all, or Kidman, who devotes herself and even, occasionally makes it work. In almost every instance, the script and direction settle for the simplest, dullest explanation of its main characters’ behavior, even when that’s in direct contradiction of something mentioned earlier. (Philip Kaufman, who in an earlier life made “The Unbearable Lightness of Being,” is the director here, and he keeps insisting on inserting Kidman and Owen into real historical footage like he’s Forrest Gump with access to iMovie.) In the very first scene, the older Gellhorn narrates that she never liked sex, a comment she made in real life as well. But every time she and Hemingway bang in this movie — in one endless sequence, they screw while actual bombs are going off on the street outside — she seems as into it as the most gifted porn star.
In this movie, when Gellhorn saddles up to Hemingway at a bar in Key West, all sass and ass, it can’t be because he cuts such a dashing figure — after all, he’s drunk, covered in blood, and a dead ringer for Groucho Marx — but because he’s Ernest-effing-Hemingway. Martha Gellhorn was a major, ballsy, charismatic operator, a woman driven and brave enough to crash a boys club and go to war, time and time again, but the movie ignores all the hundreds of spiky, complicated, difficult, even selfish reasons that a person as interesting, intense and ambitious as Gellhorn might want to be with someone of Hemingway’s stature. (When Gellhorn insists on leaving Hem to go cover the end of WWII, Hemingway cheats on her. In real life, Gellhorn cheated too, but that detail didn’t make the cut.) Instead, Gellhorn loves Hemingway, but she can not shirk her duty to bear witness to world events. Hemingway loves Gellhorn, but he needs to be the center of attention.
At the end of the movie, the documentarian asks an older Gellhorn about her relationship with Hemingway, and she bristles. The man has been dead for nearly 40 years, she’s moved past him, and she’s lived a plenty interesting life on her own terms, she says. Then the crew leaves and she goes directly to her desk to read a letter from Hem, because, whatever the movie pretends, it doesn’t believe her.
The final episode of any season of “American Idol” is always a smiling show of force, a confetti-laden massacre of time. After a nearly 40-episode season, along comes the gargantuan finale, an enormous spectacle that contains exactly one minute of real content — when the winners are announced — and two-plus hours of filler. Last night’s episode was nominally about who would be declared the winner of the 11thseason of “Idol” — Phillip Phillips, the humorously named yet handsome guitarist with a twang in his voice and shirts cut to display exactly the appropriate sliver of chest hair, or the huge-voiced, personality-less 16-year old Jessica Sanchez. But sleepily good-looking white guys (and Scotty McCreery) have won the last four seasons of “Idol,” and Phillips was pretty much a lock before the night even began. And so it is a commendation to the near-military professionalism of “Idol” that somehow, for the last half-hour or so, I was riveted to the screen.
The beginning went by in a busy, boring blur. Ryan Seacrest in his tuxedo informed the crowd that 132 million votes had been cast this year (the number of votes cast in the last presidential election: 129 million. Though that doesn’t count teenage girls voting over and over and over again for a guy named Phillip Phillips.) John Fogerty and his mop top of dyed dark hair clanked his voice against Phillips for a while. One of this year’s contestants kept distracting me from the group numbers with her uncanny resemblance to Florence Henderson. Chaka Kahn flirted dangerously with camel toe. Steven Tyler was filmed playing with a three-toed sloth, revealing that he and a three-toed sloth have the exact same hairdo. Jennifer Lopez performed a medley in a sparkly dhoti.
And then Ryan Seacrest invited former contestants Diana Degarmo, who was 16 when she was the runner-up in Season 3, and the long-haired Ace Young, a contestant in Season 5, up onstage. They waved hello, and Young said, “This has always been home to us, and I felt this was the perfect place to ask a simple question.” Ryan chirped, “Dim the lights!” And then Young proposed to a surprised-looking Degarmo — with the help of David Webb jewelry. (Never forget your sponsors.) “I love you to death, you’re my best friend, and I will do anything in my power to have the most unimaginable, amazing life together, if you’ll have me. Diana Nicole DeGarmo … will you … marry … me?” he asked on bended knee. She nodded yes, the “Idol” theme music swelled, and these two newly engaged people, having significantly boosted their chances of getting some reality show company to pay for their wedding, embraced onstage as the show hurried mercilessly, ceaselessly on, this time to the thematically appropriate duet “You’ll Never Walk Alone.”
A wave of emotions crashed over me. I realized I had been screaming at the television. (“Nooooarghhhahaahaeeeee” or something like that.) While this was, on a human level, so ill-advised — what is wrong with doing private things in private???— it was also undeniably entrancing television. The “Idol” machine had struck again. What if these two kids had chosen to get engaged off camera? In the relative privacy of, say, a Cheesecake Factory? Would we, the audience, have been forced to watch a supercut of Steven Tyler’s most lascivious comments instead? One of Jennifer Lopez saying sweetie over and over again? Or just more commercials? When I thought of it this way, I could almost appreciate the utilitarian sacrifice of Degarmo and Young’s privacy and dignity: The entertainment of the many outweighs the needs of the few.
But this engagement was not the highlight of this episode. No, the ever crafty “Idol” had waiting in the wings a tactical tour de force: Jennifer Holliday, the Tony Award-winning actress who originated the role of Effie in the Broadway production of “Dreamgirls,” and so is the ur-performer of “I’m Telling You I’m Not Going,” that canonical musical competition song and a number the teenage Jessica Sanchez has been singing for nearly her whole life. Holliday and Sanchez came onstage to do a nominal duet of the song, which turned into an extended solo. (Sanchez’s willingness to let Holliday steal this number right out from under her is the most likable thing she’s done all season.) Holliday, who looks like she can dislocate her jaw on command, and at various points seemed poised to inhale Sanchez with no need for chewing, absolutely destroyed this song, and did so in such joyful, reckless disregard for what she looked like while doing so — here aresome gifs of her in the act — that it almost wiped out the sourness of the engagement sequence. Here was a public act, one that was meant to be public, performed with such passion, it felt private: Who can possibly know what is going on inside of a person’s body or mind when they are as possessed by anything as Holliday was by this song?
When Ryan Seacrest finally told Phillip Phillips he had won, after 10 o’clock at night, he picked up his guitar and began to sing. Ever since Kelly Clarkson cried her way through “A Moment Like This” in the show’s first season, the winner is expected to perform their new single at the end of the show. But halfway through “Home,” Phillips broke off, to sob. The background singers kept singing, and the confetti kept falling, but Phillips didn’t even try to get back on the mic. For about a minute, he stood on stage, quiet music playing in the background, trying to pull himself together, to do what was expected of him. He couldn’t. He didn’t sing again. Instead, he walked offstage to his family, who pulled him into a big group hug, inadvertently hiding his face from the cameras. At which point, I think that I got something in my eye.
There are a few times of year when network television can typically be relied upon to be as interesting as cable: The fall, when the networks vomit out dozens of new programs; February, when the networks cough up a dozen or so more; and May, when all the series that have survived the year try to end in spectacular fashion. During this last period, season-finale time, couples couple, get married and have babies; characters quit, get fired and die; disasters occur; buildings explode; guns blaze; hatches are discovered and protagonists are left dangling off cliffs, both actual and metaphorical. It’s the TV equivalent of blockbuster season, and like blockbuster season, it can and should be fun. Though in recent years cable shows have been responsible for a disproportionate number of the “Holy crap, did that just happen?!” finales (hello, Gus Fring and his brand-new face!), network shows are usually good for at least some insanity, some drama, some transcendent event that will get people talking around the storied watercooler. Not this year. Nope, this year, season finale season has been a bust.
The dearth of enjoyably over-the-top finales both is, and is not, a coincidence. Some of the shows that went big in the past opted to take a more low-key approach this May. Last year “The Good Wife” ended with Alicia and Will finally smooching outside a hotel room; this year it ended with Kalinda sitting in her apartment, gun in hand, waiting for her front door to open. Last year, “Community” wrapped up with its balls-to-the-wall, two-part spaghetti-western paintball extravaganza; this year it ended with a relatively understated episode about Evil Abed, leaving everyone to talk about Dan Harmon’s firing instead.
What isn’t a coincidence, is that there are very few good, tentpole network dramas, and it’s those dramas that usually provide the crazy come finale time. The two long-running series that ended this year, “Desperate Housewives” and “House,” both ended quietly, which is to say in exactly the mediocre fashion they’ve been plodding along in for years. For either of these shows to have had must-see finales, they would have had to wrap up seasons ago, before they got creatively stale. Meanwhile, many of the new shows that started the season with the sort of mythologies that tend to make for the most memorable finales flamed out in one way or another: The mediocre “Alcatraz” and “Terra Nova” were canceled, “Person of Interest” exists in the CBS procedural ghetto, and very few people watch “Awake.” The only show left that could plausibly deliver a juicy season-ending event is ABC’s super-soap “Revenge,” which finishes tonight. Its creator has promised someone “important” will die. My fingers and toes are all crossed.
Even the shows that have heeded the command of finale time — go big — have felt flat. On “Castle,” the show’s longtime will-they-won’t-they couple finally fornicated, following a very by-the-numbers “here I am on your doorstep all wet from the rain, at long last ready to have sex with you” moment. Last year had an equivalent event, when “Bones’s” longtime will-they-won’t-they couple Dr. Brennan and Booth paired off, but in a stranger and therefore more interesting way. Without so much as an on-screen kiss, Brennan told Booth she was pregnant with his baby. As far as twists go, surprise baby trumps emo sex against a wall.
One show that did bring its A-schlock game to its finale was “Grey’s Anatomy,” which stranded six major characters and a pilot in the woods after a serious plane crash, and crushed one to death underneath the fuselage. (At the time the episode was written, the cast members had yet to re-sign their contracts. Presumably, had they failed to sign, there would have been more fatalities.) This amount of carnage would have been a lot more stupendous if extreme violence wasn’t a staple of “Grey’s,” which had a grieved and crazed gunman shoot up the hospital and its staff two finales ago. The characters have long since taken to calling their workplace “Seattle Grace Mercy Death,” a joke about the number of horrible coincidences that have befallen them there (car accidents, fatal bus crashes, shootings, suicide attempts, exploding bombs, etc.). At this point, I wouldn’t bet against a dirty bomb showing up in next year’s finale. Which, come to think of it, sounds just insane enough to be spectacular.
Mick Jagger and Kristen Wiig during the season finale of "Saturday Night Live"
What, you didn’t get to dance with Mick Jagger, hug Jon Hamm and be serenaded by Arcade Fire the last time you left a job? I guess you’re not Kristen Wiig.
After seven years on “SNL,” Wiig said goodbye on Saturday night’s season finale that will go down as one of the sweetest, most choked-up moments on the show since Steve Martin said goodbye to Gilda Radner on the day of her death almost exactly 23 years earlier.
Even without an official announcement, Wiig’s twirly, teary departure is enough to make even the most casual fans of the show crank up the Adele and mainline a tub of Edy’s Grand. It doesn’t matter that fellow castmates Andy Samberg and Jason Sudeikis have reportedly moved on from the show as well. They leave behind established male cast members like Seth Meyers, Fred Armisen and Bill Hader. Wiig, on the other hand, blows a gaping hole in the show’s female lineup. The 24-year-old Abby Elliott, who moves up the rung to the show’s senior lady cast member, is now its biggest female star. But she’s yet to display that versatility or command the clout that Wiig has. Kate McKinnon may yet bust out into full-blown “SNL” stardom, but she’s only been on the show for five minutes.
And so, after years of cultivating a stunning roster of formidable female talent — Tina Fey, Maya Rudolph, Amy Poehler and Wiig — the show is, for the moment anyway, back to a state of relative desolation it hasn’t seen since the ’90s, an era that reached its nadir when Janeane Garofalo bailed midseason. It’s a strange, disconnected moment for “SNL,” right as women are making grand enough strides in television and film comedy that we’ve magically attained “labia saturation.” And though Wiig will no doubt continue to dominate in movies as a writer and performer, it’s sad that she leaves behind no true heirs on a show that, especially in an election year, remains so influential.
Visibly emotional and flanked by current cast members as well as the likes of Chris Kattan, Rachel Dratch, Steve Martin and Chris Parnell, and an especially rollicking Amy Poehler, new alumna Wiig didn’t depart “SNL” alone. She took with her Gilly,the tiny-handed Judice, Target Lady, Suze Orman and even Tan Mom. Why were so many people red-eyed on Saturday? Because on the stage that night stood a woman with incredibly big shoes to fill – and one very small hat.
A recent episode of NBC’s “Community” floated the possibility — debunked by episode’s end — that the seven main characters had not spent the previous three years navigating life, each other and paintball fights at Greendale Community College, but instead, had only been imagining them. In the episode, the recently expelled Greendale Seven found themselves in a group therapy session with a nefarious shrink, keen to keep them away from their college using any psychological means necessary. The therapist temporarily convinced them they had spent the previous years in a mental institution and that everything they remembered happening at school, except their friendship, had been a collective fantasy, a “shared psychosis” dreamed up in the asylum.
As I was watching this episode, “Curriculum Unavailable,” I remember calmly thinking something like, “Huh. That would really explain Leonard.” The possibility that “Community” might be about to “St. Elsewhere” its audience (“St. Elsewhere” ended on the reveal that everything that had happened in the series had all taken place inside the mind of an autistic boy) was not particularly alarming to me. Group psychosis explained a lot about the show’s extremely dark psychology, and, anyway, on “Community,” stranger things had happened.
As of late Friday evening, when “Community’s” creator and showrunner Dan Harmon was abruptly fired by Sony from the show he obsessively oversaw, I’ve realized that the real reason I was unphased by “Curriculum Unavailable” was because I was already very comfortable with thinking about “Community” as the figment of someone’s feverish imagination. That someone was just Dan Harmon.
Writing about “2 Broke Girls” recently, I noted that there is a fault line running through television where art rubs up against commerce. I should have saved that metaphor, because this “Community” situation is like an 8.0 on the art-commerce Richter scale. Consider the aftershocks: The perpetually low-rated, but fanatically beloved “Community” was just renewed by NBC for a fourth, 13-episode season. Why renew it just to fire the guy responsible for it? To escape the bad press of canceling a critically acclaimed series? Or is it the opposite impulse — to make enough episodes to get the show into syndication?
Harmon is an infamously — and self-proclaimed — difficult guy to work for and with. Earlier this year, he got into a public fight with “Community’s” Chevy Chase after Harmon played an incensed voice mail from Chase at a public event. Harmon apologized, though not to Chase, and a few weeks later was back to calling him a jerk on Twitter. If Harmon’s behavior was bad enough to get him fired, it was also the same crazy mentality that made “Community” one of the strangest shows to ever air on network television. How badly behaved does a great artist have to be to get kicked off his own creation without so much as a phone call?
Speaking about “Community” last week, before the news about Harmon was public, Bob Greenblatt, the head of NBC, said “Shows lose showrunners all the time and do well.” This is and isn’t true. Workaday TV shows, procedurals, sitcoms, long-running dramas, change showrunners all the time. But for the growing number of auteurist series driven largely by one personality — everything from “The Sopranos” and ‘The Wire” to “Louie” and, yes, “Community” — a showrunner change is not common, and is usually about as imaginable or advisable as Matt Weiner getting fired from “Mad Men” and that show soldiering on without him. It happens — Aaron Sorkin left “The West Wing” after four years, for example — but the shows are never the same.
“Community” seems to me particularly poorly designed to continue without Harmon. If “Community” were a more standard comedy, the new showrunners — two writers from “Happy Endings” — would just have to take the seven characters and make them funny. But causing belly laughs seems secondary to “Community’s” précis, which emphasizes being exhilaratingly clever, formalistically inventive and impressively bonkers over being laugh-out-loud hilarious. Harmon’s approach to television has always been almost athletic: With each episode, he sets out to break his previous record for genre bending, to outdo what everyone else has done before. To make “Community” “Community” then, the new writers don’t just have to tell jokes, they have to maintain its outdo spirit. They have to outrun or at least keep pace with Dan Harmon’s brain.
And because of his “let’s boldly go where no TV show has ever gone before!” ethos, Harmon has long since made his brain a major, off-screen character on “Community.” More than most other showrunners, even the great ones, one can feel Harmon in each episode, egging the show on to new heights, exposing the mechanics of the genre. I could watch Troy and Abed do their secret handshake 1,000 times a day, but I don’t watch “Community” for Troy and Abed, adorable besties that they are. I watch for the episodes with multiple timelines, for Dungeons & Dragons games come to life, for claymation Christmas specials, and for “My Dinner With Andre” and “Die Hard” spoofs. I watch for Dan Harmon’s unmatched and, now it seems, unsustainable ambition. Oh, damn it. I guess I mean watched.
Nicole Kidman and Clive Owen in "Hemingway & Gellhorn" 
Gabriel Mann and Emily VanCamp in "Revenge" 
Mick Jagger and Kristen Wiig during the season finale of "Saturday Night Live" 
Dan Harmon (Credit: AP/Matt Sayles) 
