Junk food. Junk science. Junk newspapers. Junk literature. Junk shops. “Junque” shoppes. Junk yards. Junk men. Junk mail. Junk jewelry. Junk bonds. Junk sales. And junk TV.
Almost anything can—and is—called “junk” (although the 21st century slang for genitals as “junk” escapes me, just another “junk” euphemism”) and I’m game. Unless Utz potato chips and Cheetos are classified as “junk food,” I’m fairly clean on that front: haven’t had Kentucky Fried Chicken (so far removed from the era when you could taste them “18 herbs and spices”), McDonald’s, Have-It-Your-Way Burger King, Ben & Jerry’s ice cream or Nestle Crunch bars in decades. I do take a chance on “junk novel” (“beach” or “airport” reads) from time to time; the latest was from best-selling author Freida McFadden, a barely-literate book called The Teacher, and why I chose to waste two days on that is a mystery I’d rather not share.
Junk TV is different. I watch, sporadically, a lot of the Dick Wolf Empire shows, such as Law & Order, FBI, Chicago PD and Chicago Med, as well as the new Pitt, ostensibly to get a bead on Hollywood’s instantly-dated view of American popular culture and politics, but really I just like procedurals. At least I won’t barf, as I did the last time I had a double-meat, double-cheese Whopper in 1985.
It’s not often I take advantage of our Netflix subscription, since that streamer is the King of Junk (latest example: the incomprehensible Robert DeNiro/Joan Allen left-wing dud Zero Day), although I thought Ozark and Peaky Blinders were “prestige TV.” But a couple of weeks ago I took a chance on The Perfect Couple, a six-episode murder mystery/attack-the-wealthy show that’s set in Nantucket. It wasn’t bad—I finished it—and Nicole Kidman as novelist Greer Winbury was so good it almost erased my memory of her dreadful performance in the dreadful film Babygirl. I’m not much of a Liev Schreiber fan (he plays the philandering, lying, alcoholic husband, half of the “Perfect Couple”) but he provided a few laughs. Donna Lynne Champlin, as the “townie” police detective also stood out, and that about does it for the remainder of the cast, although I’ll note Dakota Fanning was crummy as the pregnant wife of another philandering, lying, alcoholic Winbury.
It’s not a good sign that I nailed the murderer by the third episode; say what you will about Agatha Christie adaptations, but this show didn’t have the heft of David Suchet’s long-running turn as Hercule Poirot. The exaggerated opulence of the Winbury estate—the hush-yo-mouth, eyeroll-a-minute staff, the bunting (the show’s set on a July 4th weekend), the manicured lawns and about a dozen inside and outside bars—is meant, I guess, for viewers to feel satisfied that this arrogant, promiscuous and not very bright family (save for Kidman’s character) is laid low.
I’m very familiar with Nantucket and The Perfect Couple isn’t—surprise—a particularly accurate portrayal of the island that’s a Hamptons alternative for rich Northeasterners. The town can be stuffy—outrageous zoning laws—but almost everyone’s friendly and relaxed. My family spent the summer of ’97 there, and my late brother Jeff and his wife built a magnificent year-round home in a secluded area, so it was the locale for any number of extended family gatherings, including a wedding and 60th birthday party. It was at the latter event, in 2004, that my sons and I learned of Nomar Garciaparra’s trade to the Cubs, which helped lead to Boston’s improbable World Series win that fall. I also liked the small but reliable airport, even in the post-9/11 era, with planes that got us from Nantucket to LaGuardia lickety-split.
The picture above is of my sons Booker and Nicky, in the master bedroom of a hotel I can’t remember—perhaps in Puerto Vallarta or London watching the tube, and if the show was Doug (starring bull terrier Porkchop) that decidedly wasn’t Junk TV.
Look at the clues to figure out the year: in a Tiger Woods year, Michael Clark II is the PGA’s Rookie of the year; Sweden wins the Men’s Handball European Championship; John Mellencamp receives an honorary “Doctor of Music” degree at Indiana University; the UK deports Augusto Pinochet to Chile; Dickey Betts is booted from the Allman Brothers; Bobby Witt Jr. is born and Screamin’ Jay Hawkins dies; the comic strip “Bringing Up Father” ends an 87-year-run; Dora the Explorer debuts on Nick Jr.; Robert Ludlum’s The Prometheus Deception and Christina Hoff Sommers’ The War Against Boys are published; and The Wall Street Journal’s Paul Gigot wins the “Commentary” Pulitzer Prize.
—Follow Russ Smith on Twitter: @MUGGER2023