Salon.com > Rescue Me

After seven seasons, “Rescue Me” ends with a cough and a smile

Thu, 08 Sep 2011 02:01:00 +0000

[This article contains spoilers for the series finale of "Rescue Me." Read at your own risk.]

I don't know who made the decision to sync the end of "Rescue Me" to the 10th anniversary of 9/11, but it was a bad one, because it guaranteed that an intriguingly relaxed, sometimes brilliant final season got lost amid the din of remembrances. I didn't expect it to end as strongly as it did. The show's saggy middle stretch -- approximately Seasons 3 through 6 -- was mostly exasperating. Leary and Peter Tolan's firefighter drama had a terrific pugnacious spirit and a what-the-hell, let's-try-it attitude, but it kept succumbing to its worst impulses, to the point where it got lost in its own identity as an "outrageous," "searing," "powerful" drama and just started to seem desperate. How many times would Tommy alienate almost everyone, then make up for it with a spectacular act of heroism? How many horrendous, random deaths and other traumas would he endure before the ghost of "NYPD Blue" death-cursed hero Andy Sipowicz materialized before him and said, "You win, kiddo -- your life is worse"? "Six Feet Under," a series that the death-obsessed, ghost-haunted "Rescue Me" occasionally resembled, had the same trouble balancing rude but droll comedy and out-of-nowhere tragedy, and a similar tendency to go grandiose when a more subdued approach might have served better. And yet it, too, rallied in its last year, building toward a finale whose sentiment felt earned.

“Rescue Me” recap: 7×3 “Press”

Thu, 28 Jul 2011 15:15:00 +0000

Men are from Mars, women are from Venus -- and when they talk on the phone, they're divorced by a split-screen. We learned this from 1960s-era romantic comedies, and "Rescue Me," of all the damned shows in creation, reminded us yet again in last night's episode, "Press." Andrea warning Tommy not to come home too early, Colleen pouring liquid bubblegum into the anxious Shawn's ear as they planned their wedding -- these conversations and others were separated by an actual, graphic divide, a sharp black line bisecting the screen and putting the men and women into actual, observable boxes.

It was a good, jokey way to represent the show's sexual politics, which more than any other element seemed defined by the standup comedy traditions that forged star and co-producer Denis Leary. ("Women, can't live with 'em, can't shoot em -- but seriously, folks, I love women! Let's have a big round of applause for the ladies in the house.") It was also unsettling. The more sensitive and caring these guys become, the more emasculated they seem, like big, hairy plush toys. In his wedding-planning conversation with his fiancee, Shawn paces as nervously as a little kid who has to use the bathroom but is afraid to tell mommy because he should have gone before they left the house. ("Forty-five hundred bucks for a dress?" he growls after talking to a starry-eyed Colleen eyeballing gowns in a bridal shop. "That shit better be made out of crusted diamonds and shit.") And poor Tommy Gavin just looks miserable, like a guy sitting in a doctor's waiting room for news that he just knows will be horrifying.

“Rescue Me” recap: Season 7, Episode 2: “Menses”

Thu, 21 Jul 2011 14:30:00 +0000

The first few episodes of the final season of "Rescue Me" are strong, maybe the show's strongest since Season 1. Why? The fact that series co-creators Peter Tolan and Denis Leary have a firm end date probably has something to do with it; there's nothing like a final deadline to raise the stakes for a show. But another factor -- maybe coincidental, maybe not -- is the deft way that "Rescue Me" is integrating the firefighters' work and home worlds.

Throughout the run of the show, these worlds were in opposition to one another even when there was overlap; the firefighters went to the firehouse and did their thing, and after hours they'd deal with their wives, girlfriends, kids, aging parents, etc. The struggle of balancing it all created stress fractures in the characters' minds. A lot of the plotlines in this final season -- including Black Shawn's engagement to Tommy's daughter Colleen, and the business with the news crew doing the piece on Jimmy in this episode -- can't be easily pigeonholed into "Work" or "Home" categories. They suggest that the two worlds have merged, or are merging, and that Tommy and the rest of the firefighters just have to deal with it. That came through strongly in last night's episode, the appropriately titled "Menses."

“Rescue Me” recap: “Normal is dead and buried”

Thu, 14 Jul 2011 11:15:00 +0000

"Mutha," the first episode of the final season of "Rescue Me," offers further proof that shows tend to gain focus when they know the end is near.

I never really warmed to the series for reasons I'll dig into in a moment. But for now let's boil them down to 1) its vision of straight white guys as persecuted martyrs; 2) its tendency to project that persecution fantasy onto the female characters, so that they validated the guys' perceptions of them as emasculating shrews, crazy bitches, easy lays or some combination; 3) its indiscriminate use of tragedy to make the show seem capital-I Important, and 4) the cocky badass stylings of its co-creator/cowriter/producer/lead actor Denis Leary, which often played like an edgy comedian's daydream of movie stardom. (Tommy Gavin is an alcoholic screw-up, but dammit, he's also the bravest firefighter alive, and no woman can resist him! Whatever, dude.)

Beyond rescue

Thu, 20 Nov 2008 11:30:00 +0000

Denis Leary is anything but apologetic. From the hapless machismo of his character on "Rescue Me," the fireman drama he created and writes for FX, to the title of his new book, "Why We Suck: A Feel Good Guide to Staying Fat, Loud, Lazy and Stupid," Leary has a knack for pushing buttons with brash views that sometimes feel like empty provocation. Cast even a cursory glance at the chapter titles of his book -- "I Had Sex With Kathie Lee Gifford (And She Was Amazing)," "Matt Dillon Is a Giant Fag," "Autism Shmautism," "We'd Hate You Even If You Weren't Black" -- and you'd assume that the entire tome is filled with nastiness and ignorant, insensitive opinions.

But Leary's book and his views are a little more informed and evenhanded than they first appear. Although activist groups have taken issue with Leary for suggesting that autism is caused by bad parenting, in his book Leary very clearly takes on the parents of kids who aren't autistic -- autistic kids are smart and industrious, not lazy and stupid, he points out -- but who seek out the diagnosis as a means of explaining away their kids' flaws and their own ineptitude.

I Like to Watch

Sun, 11 Jun 2006 20:00:00 +0000

Deadwood like me
Welcome, tender cocksuckers and the like, to this weekly fucking missive, concocted by the foul and narrow mind of an ink-stained wretch who dreams up rambling reports for finks, loafers and sad, sallow fucks, so that they might stay abreast of the latest televised entertainments, whilst perhaps saving themselves the time and concerted fucking effort of attending to such base and poorly conceived amusements themselves. That's right, my jaw is set with impatience and disgust so yours need not be!

If you require resupply and respite, you stopped at the right fucking place. However, if you're here to stir up trouble or whine about my disregard for some of the precious entertainments you happen to fancy, maybe you don't value keeping your fucking guts inside your belly enough. I won't stand for those who trumpet my intentions or herd me like a steer or question my cleanin' up a little yella for my goddamn efforts. I've acted on your commission all along, keeping my eyes on whatever frivolous fucking tripe I figured you might relish whilst you pursued your preferred activities, and I'm mighty grateful for your fucking attentions. But I beg you to remember, them that butt into other people's business and make the business of others their own are meddling no-good cocksuckers. I can see to my job the way I'm goddamned able, and that's all I can goddamned do. The gist is, fuck yourself.

I Like to Watch

Mon, 30 Aug 2004 20:00:00 +0000

Speed bumps ahead
"These Olympic games" are over, and thank God for that so I can finally get some sleep. Trying to squeeze six hours of TiVoed coverage into an hour or two of midnight viewing isn't easy. For some reason, no matter how tired I was, I couldn't miss a single swimming or track event. I never watch swimming or track under any other circumstances, but the suspense of high stakes plus minuscule margins sucked me in. One one-hundredth of a second less than your opponent in the 100-meter sprint, and you're the fastest man in the world for the next years.

Didn't it seem like Maurice Greene or Shawn Crawford could've just thrown their heads forward a little more and taken the title from Justin Gatlin? I loved it when Crawford won the 200-meter dash -- didn't they call them "dashes" back in the day?