T E L E V I S I O N
![[Choice Cuts]](tv970110.gif)
BEAVIS KNOWS BEST
"King of the Hill" is the last thing you'd expect
from Mike Judge: a huggy family sitcom
|
Imagine what it's like to be an artist who has to follow up a huge popular success. Trying to live up to your legend while wrestling with the secret fear that all you've got left in you is "Heaven's Gate" or the second Boston album — it's enough to clog anyone's creative arteries.
Chris Carter, creator of "The X-Files," and Mike Judge, creator of "Beavis & Butt-head," are now in the unenviable position of having to come up with encores to two of the signature pop-cultural phenomenon of the '90s. Carter's "Millennium," in which he works up an existential sweat trying, in vain, to deliver a creepshow with a Big Message, illustrates the dangers of taking one's press clippings too seriously. Judge's new animated sitcom "King of the Hill," which premieres January 12 on Fox after "The Simpsons," is, on the other hand, a relaxed effort about as far from the anarchic spirit of "B&B" as you could get. But while it admirably demonstrates Judge's versatility and his ability to be trusted with large amounts of network capitol, "King of the Hill" is not an incredible lot of, well, fun.
"B&B" fans who tune in to "King of the Hill" expecting to see some of the ol' "He said wood — heh-heh-heh-heh" humor might end up wearing puzzled expressions similar to the ones that cross Beavis and Butt-heads' faces whenever they're confronted with one of those somber art school-type music videos like "Everybody Hurts" or "Lightning Crashes."
"King," which was written and created by Judge and former "Simpsons" producer Greg Daniels, is more sophisticated (it couldn't possibly be less) than "Beavis & Butt-head"; Judge's trademark low energy level and long pauses in conversation are still there, but the characters are more neatly drawn (and human looking), the animation is smoother, the tone is gentler. The main character, Hank Hill, is a suburban Texas husband and father who makes a living selling "propane and propane accessories." Hank is gruff, blue-jeaned and bespectacled with a squared-off head and shoulders indicating uptight uprightness. He's a slow-talkin' man's man not at all comfortable with the emotional demands of family life — showing his little son Bobby affection, sharing his deepest feelings with his sensible wife Peg. Yet Hank is the most rational and sensitive guy on the block compared to his stooge-like buddies, who run the stereotypical cracker gamut from ranting right-wing paranoiac to guffawing car-racing enthusiast.
The early buzz on "King of the Hill" was that it was going to be a cross between "The Simpsons" and "All in the Family," but it didn't turn out much like either. Hank is smarter and more responsible than Homer Simpson, and his head-of-the-household, grumpy old man bluster doesn't recall Archie Bunker so much as it does Bill Cosby. In fact, there's a scene in the first episode where Hank does a slow burn over a young store clerk's ineptitude that could have been lifted intact from Cosby's current CBS sitcom.
What's really surprising about "King," given Judge's previous work, is how aw-shucks sentimental it is. The pilot hinges on a series of misunderstandings that almost gets solemn, chubby Bobby (he looks like a cross between Pugsley Addams and John Candy) put in a foster home. Hank has to prove that he's a good father and even say the dreaded "I Love You" to the kid, and it all gets very warm and fuzzy.
Watching "King of the Hill," you keep waiting for the punchline, some outrageous bit of goofiness or some killer satire, but, nope, pleasantly amusing front porch (well, patio) humor and recycled digs at snobby Northerners and gossipy suburban housewives is all there is.
Let's face it, a major part of the appeal of cartoons is that 'toon characters can get away with stuff that flesh and blood actors can't. And it's hard to think of any prime-time sitcoms with humans in them that are as brilliantly, brazenly satirical about family life, suburbia, religion, public education, adolescence, stupid violent entertainment or the pack mentality of the community as "The Simpsons" and "Beavis & Butt-head." Although Hank, Peg and Bobby are endearingly voiced (by Judge, Kathy Najimy and Pamela Segall), they're unlikely to provoke the kind of passionate response that the Simpsons or Beavis and Butt-head have because, mainly, they're just too nice. What is the point of doing an animated sitcom if the 'toons are going to behave exactly the way they do on mainstream family sitcoms like "Home Improvement" or "The Jeff Foxworthy Show"?
Despite all this, Judge comes out ahead of Chris Carter. "King of the Hill" makes a brave break with the past and, at the very least, it's watchable, which may sound like a rather tepid compliment if you've never seen — or rather, attempted to see — "Millennium." After two months on the air, it is evident to everyone except, perhaps, Carter and Fox executives, that "Millennium" is a bomb. Even X-Philes who otherwise admire Carter (with justification) are avoiding it and with good reason — it's a chore to watch.
"Millennium" is dull, fatally humorless and filled with relentless, show-offy grossness. Its lead character, saintly ex-FBI agent Frank Black (Lance Henriksen), who, you must know by now, has the ability to "get inside the minds" of serial killers, wears two expressions — a scowl and a deeper scowl. Carter strives for Spiritual Importance here, making Frank a member of a cabal of well-meaning vigilantes who solve killings that have messianic/satanic overtones. But Carter loses sight of the fact that this stuff about millennialism and apocalypse ventures heavily into the realm of Biblical camp. All the movies that have made the good-vs.-evil routine work — "The Silence of the Lambs," "The Exorcist," Carter's cinematographic inspiration "Seven," even "The Ten Commandments" — have been a tad over the top.
But Carter takes "Millennium" awfully seriously — so seriously he apparently fails to see the self-defeating irony in the show's imitation "X-Files" opening. In trying to come up with a phrase as meaningful as "The Truth Is Out There," Carter hit upon three lines — "Wait. Worry. Who Cares?" — of exquisitely unwitting self-parody. The Mad magazine spoof is practically writing itself.
|