The Office’s series finale airs tomorrow night, and while it has certainly had its highs and its lows, it cannot be denied that it left behind an unforgettable legacy of cubicle parkour, Jell-Oed corporate property, and yes, true love. Here are some of the Grantland staff's favorite highlights from its nine-season run.
With The Office winding down toward that great big nothing in the beyond, Rainn Wilson is letting nostalgia get the best of him. Today on Facebook, he gave us this informative update: "This is the original sign-in sheet for the first day of casting for The Office given to me by Allison Jones, our incredible casting agent. I was the very first person to audition for the series, 11/06/03. Notice all the amazing talent on the sheet, including the amazing #13! This is perhaps the greatest Office keepsake I have. So grateful for the best job I will ever have." But never mind Rainn Wilson's sweet sentiments! Look at all these quasi-well-known actors who auditioned for The Office!
Nostalgia, like the human neck, is one of humanity's greatest weaknesses. Thus spake Dwight K. Schrute, assistant to the regional manager of a paper company lo these many years, and doomed to remain one for untold more. Thankfully, despite NBC's bullheaded dependence on humanity's other great weakness — an inability to let go — those years will be mercifully untelevised. Last night's episode of The Office was a glimpse into what could have been and now will never be: a proposed spin-off called The Farm, in which Dwight and his heretofore unseen siblings till some inherited soil. Instead, the entire idea was buried; the people we met last night will never be seen again. It shouldn't really be a surprise. As any actual farmer could've told network president Bob Greenblatt, you can't expect to reap fresh rewards from such relentlessly overworked land.
I don't mean to be one of those guys who's too precious about pop-culture creators mucking about with their creations — those entities belong to their life-givers, and if those life-givers wanna get back in their worlds and run around naked, they should be allowed to do so without a bunch of obsessives screaming bloody murder about oh no but what about my fond memories. That said: Ricky Gervais is bringing back David Brent, and I think it's a terrible idea.
In 1996, The Simpsons was heading into its eighth season. The "Eat My Shorts" T-shirts and novelty albums were a thing of the past, and ratings appeared to have plateaued. Though it seems laughable 16 years later with the show still on the air and Hank Azaria vacationing on the private island he crafted out of leftover residual checks, there was, at the time, real concern about the continuing creative viability of the show. And so the Fox network, never known as a shrinking violet when it came to meddling, politely suggested that the executive producers might consider adding a new cast member to Springfield's favorite family, one who could live with the Simpsons permanently and add spark to what appeared to them to be a dying tire fire.
The day after the Super Bowl is usually reserved for hangovers, trips to Disney World, or, if you're one of the other members of Destiny's Child, picking up a few extra shifts at Gimbels. (I kid! Luv u, Kelly!) But a case of the Mondays isn't enough to stop Chris Ryan and me from podcasting. Especially when there's so much to talk about!
Inevitably, we started by discussing the Beyoncé concert that broke out in the middle of a football game. Was this one of the best halftime shows ever? Or did it lack a purple-obsessed sex elf masturbating with an electric guitar? (I mean, it definitely did lack the sex elf. That's not up for debate.) Perhaps inspired by the impressive Mrs. Carter, we then went deeper into music, talking about the surprise new My Bloody Valentine album and the surprise-ier reunion of Fall Out Boy (something predicted by the Hollywood Prospectus show back in December!). What do these developments have to do with drinking lite beers with members of the Ruff Ryders in midtown Manhattan? And what, exactly, does Nas have to do with Chris's love life? You'll have to listen to learn more.
Here is a crowd-sourced Dunder Mifflin ad that will air during the Super Bowl in Scranton, and only in Scranton.
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Sometimes Chris Ryan and I talk about TV on the ol' Hollywood Prospectus podcast. Other times we talk about movies. But this time we decided to talk about both — at once. Inspired by a fun question in last week's mailbag, Chris and I discussed the long-standing tradition of adapting films from the big screen to the small (2:07). We also took some time to pitch each other on our own ideas, ranging from Chris Messina driving an ambulance to Kevin Kline cooking in San Francisco, but not speaking Chinese. Sorry, Charlie Schlatter — we'll find something for you next time out.
30 Rock and The Office are both ending this season, the former in just six days, the latter in four months. As a result, NBC's once-proud Thursday-night comedy lineup has shifted from triage to hospice care. A sense of finality looms large over all four of the current shows. My sense is that Parks and Recreation is still likely to get a final half-season or so to wrap things up — it's owned by NBC/Universal and an extra 13 or so would goose the total closer to a syndication-friendly 100 — but it feels like showrunner Mike Schur isn't taking any chances. Last week's bachelor party episode crammed in cameos from two Indianapolis Colts, the team owner, and a former Speaker of the House, all while planning for the biggest wedding Pawnee's seen since the first Malwae married the widow Tweep. It may not be the end, but, like Ron Swanson at a pricey steakhouse, Parks isn't leaving anything on the table. As for the wretched 1600 Penn? Well, everything about that overbaked butterball feels downright apocalyptic to me.
GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS! This Girl confirms that Girls has been renewed for a third season. One Girl imagines her father newscasting her tragic hypothetical death. Another girl looks like Justin Timberlake. And these sobby voice mails were not left by a girl, but you could have fooled me. The scary thing about girls is that they grow up to be roaring, terrifying women who make angry faces and eat your face when they have their periods (that’s the implication here, right?). “No Wonder Bill’s Afraid!” Bill loves women, New York Post. You know this.
Ah, the Television Critics Association's winter previews — that special, special time of year when broadcast networks get together and promise us that, at some vague point in the near future, the shows that they show will be somewhat less terrible. First up: NBC, which rode the stalwart back of Sunday Night Football and the resplendent deltoids of Adam Levine out of fourth and last place all the way into … second. Considering the fact that The Unmistakable Stench of Failure had come to occupy a seemingly permanent home at Peacock HQ, that's no trifling matter. So can head honcho Robert Greenblatt keep the good times rolling? To the TCA highlights!
Every week in this space, Grantland’s Andy Greenwald will run down the happenings and mishappenings in NBC’s Thursday comedy night done mostly right. (Note: The order reflects newsworthiness, not quality. Although occasionally the two just might overlap.)
The normal metric for holiday behavior is, as Jim Halpert correctly argued last night, naughty or nice. But in terms of sitcoms, Dwight's Teutonic table might work even better: Do we prefer our comedies to be impish or admirable? Particularly at this time of year, when the tendency to sweeten the eggnog — or at least avoid the fat-free kind — can be overwhelming. For Parks and Rec, this balance isn't limited to December: The only time this most likable of shows stumbles is when its characters end up liking each other so much it muffles the conflict in a miasma of nondenominational good cheer. So it was particularly rewarding to discover that the excellent "Ron and Diane," as written by Aisha Muharrar and Megan Amram, celebrated Krampus far more than jolly old St. Nick.
Every week in this space, Grantland’s Andy Greenwald will run down the happenings and mishappenings in NBC’s Thursday comedy night done mostly right. (Note: The order reflects newsworthiness, not quality. Although occasionally the two just might overlap.)
In the end, it seems, Liz Lemon really could have it all. The respectful relationship, the professional success, the wind-battered face of a New England cod fisherman. Proving herself, society, and Anne-Marie Slaughter wrong, last night Liz married Criss Chros, her marzipan candy man. The ceremony, held at midday in City Hall, was a typically Liz affair: Dennis Duffy brown-bagging (and black-sonning) it in the corner, a tuxedoed Jack Donaghy reading Ayn Rand, Tony Bennett. It was the lovely capper to a remarkably warm and generous episode of 30 Rock, a sitcom that usually follows its cartoony muse down some prickly rabbit holes, but last night showed real heart. (The only echo of that Seinfeldian fealty to the joke above all else was with poor Shanice: Not only would Criss not sit on her hand, she'll spend the rest of her life unmarried, working in the chapel.) "Mazel Tov, Dummies," written by Tracey Wigfield, but with Tina Fey's Pringles-stained fingerprints all over it, was a celebration of idiosyncrasy all around. From Tracy's embrace of recklessness to Jack and Jenna's grappling with their true value, the episode suggested that happiness is always possible. It just depends on whose rules you're playing by.
Every week in this space, Grantland’s Andy Greenwald will run down the happenings and mishappenings in NBC’s Thursday comedy night done mostly right. (Note: The order reflects newsworthiness, not quality. Although occasionally the two just might overlap.)
Every week in this space, Grantland’s Andy Greenwald will run down the happenings and mishappenings in NBC’s Thursday comedy night done mostly right. (Note: The order reflects newsworthiness, not quality. Although occasionally the two just might overlap.)
Watching NBC on Thursday nights in the fall of 2012 can be a dispiriting, depressing experience. The lights are flickering and there’s a chill in the air. From week to week, you never know who’s going to show up, old friends or those annoying neighbors from down the block. Once the crown jewel of a proud network, Thursdays have fallen into deep disrepair. Worse than disrepair, actually: disregard. If it were physically and morally possible to broadcast nothing but the The Voice five nights a week, interspersed only with union-mandated feeding breaks for the talent (Christina Aguilera prefers the mango-flavored peacock gruel) and action shots of Matthew Perry firing crossbows with the cast of Revolution, network president Bob Greenblatt would do it in a heartbeat. Faster, actually. Those heartwarming Whitney promos aren’t going to produce themselves.
