Fine! I’ll be the one to start the Star-Crossed discussion.
I’ve begun watching the ABC FAMILY/CW/leaked-internet-pilot series, Star-Crossed. It’s a show about a godly alien boy having a star-crossed (!) love affair with a simpering human girl.
(Just considered writing this from the POV of an alien, tossed that thought aside, requires too much “in knowledge” of Star-Crossed)
So yeah, this happened to me. Or maybe I made this happen? I wish I could say I turned on Star-Crossed S1E1 (that’s ‘season one episode one’ for you non-depressed readers) at 9:45 in the morning because I had just learned that I have an inoperable brain tumor, or some similar event traumatic enough to so cleave my personality in two that I did something so crazy, so out of character, like start a show of this ilk. Alas, wishes.
Anyway, Star-Crossed is dumb as fuck. The most surprising thing about it, which, crazily, no one mentions, is that the aliens are humans. I mean, come on. Imagine FUCKING ALIENS land here, & it turns out they look exactly like beautiful humans with whimsical tattoos airbrushed onto their faces. Are the environmental factors at play in their home planet identical to Earth’s? How do all these back-up organs they keep referencing –“My heart stopped. Good thing I have another!” (thoroughly paraphrased)—fit into completely human-seeming bodies? Furthermore, if we’re going to corral them & put them in ghettos with curfews & shit (pretty dark, Star-Crossed), then why would we allow them to grow cypur (?) in their greenhouses? I mean sure, it’s the literal cure for cancer, but it’s also a biological weapon that can devastate the planet.
Speaking of cancer, the makeup department on Star Crossed couldn’t even be bothered with that pretty dying girl. There she is in hospice, with mere hours to live, after an entire childhood ravaged by disease, & the only differences between her appearance pre- & post-cure are outfit and hairstyle. Think cancer’s a joke? Try lying on a bed in a oversized sweater & a low pony tail! That’s when you know shit’s gotten real.
Wear your sunscreen, people! But really, I’m sure the makeup people were working around the clock on these tattoos. And they’re cool, there’s no denying that. Alien 20-somethings with face tattoos are always the coolest kids in high school.
This got me thinking about tattoos. Why hasn’t some genius come up with ink that only lasts on skin for a few years? Imagine the market for 5 year tattoos: everyone would get them. Even people really into forever-tattoos. Don’t deny it, tattooed hordes!
Even if you’re one of those people who imbues the permanent aspect of your tattoos with metaphysical mumbo-jumbo, & love to blow the minds of those townie squares with your heady rejoinders (“oh yeah, you think this tattoo is permanent? Only as permanent as my body, you fucking philistine. Nothing is permanent! Nothing lasts! I hate you, Mom!”), even YOU would get a few 5 year ones. Your boyfriend’s band & shit like that.
So here’s my idea. I learned recently that the Kennedy Space Center has closed. Setting aside the deep blow this has dealt Floridian children on field trips, it can, more importantly, be used to get this 5-year tattoo thing going. Just put those now-unemployed scientific minds on the 5 year tattoo project & bam! We’ll all be sporting awesome undulating fantasy tattoos on our faces by the time environmental calamity levels us.
This idea was brought to you by Star-Crossed, the show I’m not going to finish because it’s awful. I don’t even know why I started. What leads a woman to watch a series that was cancelled after one season? It’s almost guaranteed to suck, & even if it’s good, it’ll leave you unsatisfied. So why take the plunge? Just chasing that Firefly dragon? Or something deeper? Something deep-spacier.
It’s a melancholy impulse, really, almost romantic. The bloom’s already off the rose. The girls been plucked. Over before it began. Not dissimilar from the insufferable tattoo/body permanence paradox mentioned above. Its over, yes, but then, all the shows will one day be over. Except SVU, which will feature the reanimated corpse of Mariska Hargitay in the year 2319.
Even worse than tv shows being over, this will be over too. This-this. The internet & coffee & thunder & makeup & time spent reading in your bathtub. Your mom. Your daughter. You. Because, you know, death.
Which leads me to the series all about death, & the only small-screen moment any of us really need when grappling with mortality: the Six Feet Under finale. Yeah, I’m going there. Deep cuts.
The scene: Claire is leaving, she’s taking her impossible red hair to New York to take photographs & eat ecstasy with bipolar twins or something. She takes a final photo of her (remaining) family members in front of the funeral parlor. She’s crying— ugly crying, like she always does— & when she snaps the photo, Nate’s ghost appears & whispers the line that triggered Dumbledore-death-levels of crying for teenage Bri & the rest of humankind. He says it, there’s no pause in the scene, no lingering at all, everything just moves on (to The Montage, which will be discussed in about a dozen posts later on, and played at my funeral).
The line, you ask?
Say it with me now, and despair:
“You can’t take a picture of this. It’s already gone.”
So goodbye, Star-Crossed. Consider this the tribute you never deserved.