MURPHY'S FLAW

I watched the pilot of “Glee” when it first aired. It blew me away. So fresh, so much feeling. I could root for the characters and I loved how the episode ended with a killer version of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin.’” I was thrilled to learn it was directed, co-created and co-written by Ryan Murphy, a gay rising star in Hollywood. I watched the show for at least four of its six seasons, finally drifting away after too many casting changes and the inevitability of something fading out after too much hype.

 

Still, I couldn’t wait to see Ryan Murphy’s next acts of greatness. I’m still waiting. 

 

That’s an unpopular opinion, perhaps especially among gay people. I’m well aware how people have raved over various seasons of “American Crime Story” and series such as “Hollywood,” “Halston” and “Ratched.” For me, his post-Glee fare has been heavy on glitz and headline fodder while lite on heart. Sometimes, I’ve watched a pilot only to be turned off by something outlandish (“American Horror Story’s” Rubber Man or “Ratched’s” gory priest killings) that strikes me as too desperate and, frankly, distasteful. Not my thing.

 

Other times, I’ve watched an episode or two and simply been bored. Everything is pretty on screen, particularly the actors, but the performance feel intentionally detached, even wooden. The lead character of “Hollywood” had zero personality. I liked no one in “The Politician.” “Halston” was pure plastic. While I love actors like Ewan MacGregor and Jessica Lange, it’s maddening to see them cast in work for which I can’t summon an ounce of interest.

 

Ryan Murphy doesn’t need me. He continues to be praised. His work continues to be screened. Any mention of a new Murphy project does nothing more than generate a shrug from me. I get the sense he wanted to dissociate himself from being The Glee Guy and decided on darker fare like “The Assassination of Gianni Versace” (with “Glee’s” Darren Criss). It may have been compelling and well-acted. I just have zero interest in glorifying a murderer. No chance I’ll be watching Murphy’s upcoming miniseries about Jeffrey Dahmer either. Give me Blaine and Kurt, not gay serial killers.  

 

I still want to see “Pose” and I’m hopeful it will redeem Murphy. Please don’t let it be another misfire like “The New Normal.” Or schmaltzy like “The Prom.” Or grating like “The Boys in the Band.”

 

Mostly, I ignore Ryan Murphy. If a group of people starts to talk about one of his shows, I usually take that time to hit the restroom or check tennis scores on my phone. I can scroll through Twitter if the rhapsodizing runs long. If I’m lucky, Ryan Reynolds has done something funny and/or philanthropic or another bear has been filmed on someone’s backyard trampoline.

 

Over the past two weeks, I’ve had to watch a couple of episodes of “The Andy Warhol Diaries,” a Netflix docuseries for which Ryan Murphy has an executive producer credit. Okay, I wasn’t tied to a chair and force-fed bowls of Campbell’s tomato soup while the show streamed, but my new boyfriend was much enamored with the first few episodes and so I politely said, “Sure” when he suggested we watch an episode together. We are still working through all the firsts that occur in a budding relationship and this was our time watching TV together. I fell asleep.

 

It wasn’t entirely the show’s fault. My TV is in the bedroom since I refuse to have one as a centerpiece in the living room of my tiny home. I’ve had too many experiences visiting friends’ apartments and having the television automatically come on, becoming the fodder and filter for all conversation. I often get sleepy watching TV while propped up in bed. Usually, I turn it off after twenty minutes—which is probably my average Netflix viewing time—and decide to finish (or not finish) watching at some point over the next few months. I don’t binge and I have no urge to see something just because it’s trending.

 

With Evan by my side though as a fully engrossed viewer, the episode played on. I went through that eyes-open, eyes-closed battle, the closed position clearly having the edge. It’s possible I at least heard most of the episode, but I wouldn’t bet I could pass a pop quiz on what it was about.

 

To be clear, I love Pop Art. I have seen plenty of Warhol-specific and broader Pop Art exhibits at MOCA in Los Angeles, at the Vancouver Art Gallery, at The Walker in Minneapolis and elsewhere. When I taught seventh grade, I created a Pop Art unit that focused on Warhol and Roy Lichtenstein. My students loved it. I have Warhol books and I will always pause longer when I come across a Warhol work that’s part of a museum’s permanent collection. Sometimes I shrug but more often I walk away with a smile on my face. 

 

While I enjoy Warhol’s art, his life has always felt too manufactured, too shallow. It may mirror his work, but I prefer people to be more evolved than paintings. The hype for the docuseries suggested a fuller picture of the man. From the two episodes I watched—the second without even a moment of power napping—I was underwhelmed. Everything was remarkably flat, partly by intention. The AI-generated voice of Warhol sounded as interesting as when I used to call the library to get an auto-generated recording of when my books were due. A couple of reviews I read posited that Andy would have loved the voice since he was fascinated with machines and reproductions. Possibly. Still, not entertaining. It didn’t help that the episodes ran long.

 

What frustrated me most was that there wasn’t a clear thread to storylines that writer/director Andrew Rossi chose to highlight. There would be mention of Andy’s relationship with Jon Gould and then that would give way to a few minutes about Andy promoting a computer brand or attending a party, then drift to a longer linger on his relationship with Jean-Michel Basquiat. Much later—oh, yeah—there would be another mention of Gould. This may be accurate in terms of chronology, but it dilutes the focus on the connections with key people, the very storylines that are supposed to make Warhol more compelling as an actual person and not just a calculated icon. I felt zero emotional impact when the series finally discussed Gould’s death. That seemed like an almost impossible feat, given that Gould died at thirty-three in the earlier years of the AIDS crisis. I’m someone who religiously reads tributes every day on Instagram about people who’ve died of AIDS. Even some of those one-paragraph posts from, say, a coworker who didn’t really know the guy who worked in the neighboring cubicle have more emotional depth.

 

Ryan Murphy is one of the executive producers attached to “The Andy Warhol Diaries” and I have no doubt that his name helped get the series broadcast and further helped generate buzz and viewership. Indeed, Evan, who happens to love Ryan Murphy projects, seemed to think the docuseries was entirely his creation. Murphy was likely involved in meetings and in viewing some of the footage, offering input about tweaks, but this is primarily the work of Andrew Rossi who wrote and directed all of it. Maybe Rossi and Murphy connected because of the subject matter. Maybe it was because they have a similar view of visual media in terms of aesthetics and storytelling. Maybe it’s both.

 

I wonder if Murphy’s name on the project made me more prone to be critical. What I do know is the series feels like a missed opportunity to tell a compelling, human story about Warhol and the people in his social circle. I’ve already read and seen shallower portrayals. I’d hoped to learn more about the person instead of the character that was Andy Warhol. I didn’t get that. In fact, I’m less interested. I’m left thinking there really wasn’t any substance behind Warhol. Maybe that’s why Murphy aligned so well with the series as another glitzy, superficial and, ultimately, bland project. 

 

Watching a couple of episodes with Evan posed risks. He was clearly fascinated, enjoying cultural flashbacks to the ’80s and frequently exclaiming, “I never knew that!” After the second episode, I expressed at length my frustration with the documentary and my complete lack of emotional connection. As the first thing we’ve watched together, it might have been one of those shaky moments in the early going of a relationship. 

 

Good god, maybe we don’t have enough in common! How can he not LOVE this?   

 

Thankfully, that didn’t prove to be the case. Evan listened. He didn’t disagree. He didn’t sigh or question my taste or lack thereof. I could dislike the series and he could like it. Navigating a new relationship in our fifties is so much more enlightened than the early stages of twenty-something romances. We’re two fully evolved individuals. We can have distinct differences. They aren't a test to what we’ve got. That’s the one exciting thing I’ll take away from watching “The Andy Warhol Diaries.” Thanks, Ryan.

 

Evan will be watching the rest of the series on his own. I have some reading to do. Our relationship looks to endure longer than a docuseries’ fifteen minutes of fame.