Was “Horace and Pete” Even Television?
BY IAN CROUCH
The sorrowful bit of music that plays at the end of each “Horace and Pete” episode, written for the Web series by Paul Simon, begins with a little dark humor: “Hell no,” Simon sings, “I can’t complain about my problems.” The joke is that everyone who visits Horace and Pete’s, a dive bar in Brooklyn that has been run by members of the same family for a hundred years, has a pile of problems and a lot to say about them. The series—which was Swiss-Army-knifed by Louis C.K., who wrote, directed, and paid for it, and played the starring role—is one of the great talky television shows in recent memory. It is full of extended monologues, indignant soliloquies, meandering apologies, harrowing confessions, and lacerating put-downs. The bar, which is owned by the family’s latest iteration of Horace (C.K.) and Pete (Steve Buscemi), along with their sister, Sylvia (Edie Falco), is not a place of comfortable silence or witty “Cheers” banter. Instead, it’s a dimly lit stage for the airing of grievance, regret, and pain.
Yet, as the song rose at the end of the final episode of the series, which was released this past weekend, Simon’s lyrics took on a slightly different meaning. After witnessing the full arc of the fateful horror that befell several generations of Horaces and Petes, and the people to whom they laid waste, the line “I can’t complain about my problems” better applied to us, the viewers, who had seen enough inexorable family tragedy to be reminded that our own lives, and problems, probably weren’t so bad.
All this for thirty-one bucks! That’s the price that C.K. charged, on his Web site, for the total series run of ten episodes, priced at three dollars apiece for the final eight episodes (after toying with five dollars for the first episode, and two for the second). This talk of money (small change, really, when spread over the course of the show’s two-and-a-half-month run—a bunch of coffees, a few drinks) feels a little vulgar coming on the heels of what was a stunning finale. But, in this case, the mechanics of production and release are central to the series’ meaning and effect.
In February, C.K., who has said very little about the project, posted a statement in which he explained why he had made the series himself, outside of the television-studio system. “As a writer, there’s always a weird feeing that as you unfold the story and reveal the characters and the tone, you always know that the audience will never get the benefit of seeing it the way you wrote it because they always know so much before they watch it,” he explained. By arriving without notice, like a Beyoncé album dropped in the night, the first episode brought none of the baggage of promotion—of trailers, press tours, and heated expectation. It was something to be stumbled into and discovered. Was it a comedy? A drama? When had it been shot? There were mentions of immediate current events, so it must be happening in near real time. This disorientation made the first episode feel like a magic trick, and that feeling of wonder lasted throughout the series. And because it was free from the infrastructure of television, there was a feeling that just about anything could happen: an episode could run at any length and take on any form, a beloved character could die. There was no reason to worry about ratings or whether the show would get renewed for a second season: it couldn’t be cancelled, but it might end at any time.
Was “Horace and Pete” even television? The independence of the production, and the novelty of its mode of distribution, strains the category to its outer limits. Because C.K. announced it directly to his e-mail subscribers, the show felt like a personal gift—an invitation to a private performance. Lacking most of the usual external measurements of popularity or cultural impact, it was hard to say exactly who was watching the show. Recently, New York Mayor Bill de Blasio appeared as himself in a cameo, seeming to stoop a little beneath the bar’s low ceiling. The Mayor showing up on a major TV show might have made big news; in this case, it barely drew mention. “Horace and Pete” is perhaps the next step out from the model established by Netflix and Amazon for making original content, in which ambitious shows might be judged successful if they reach a targeted few—it’s truly bespoke television, something that you could press on your friends like you might a book or an old album. C.K. recently said that he would be submitting the show to the Emmys in the drama category, and would also be submitting the performances by many of its actors—including supporting roles by Alan Alda and Jessica Lange, and guest appearances by others. It is unclear, however, whether the results of an award show will clarify much. Would Emmy voters celebrate a show that was created with near complete independence from the industry, or would they shun it?
In another person’s hands, “Horace and Pete” might have rankled as a vanity project; the moment when a popular comedian started to believe the clippings that had anointed him as a pop philosopher or cultural ethicist, and strained to do something a bit beyond his charter. But C.K., at this point at least, seems mostly above reproach. In part, that’s because of the quality of his work, which, in the case of “Horace and Pete,” is particularly exemplary: there are striking moments in every aspect of the show—the writing, the acting, the staging—that rattled in my head each week, between episodes. But another aspect of C.K.’s continued resistance to whatever inevitable backlash lurks in the culture comes from the radical transparency with which he makes his work. By communicating directly to his most dedicated audience of fans, C.K. has managed to forge what feel like authentic bonds. He is earnest, sincere, often a little befuddled when he talks about his projects. Even “Horace and Pete,” which is his most daring creation yet, and certainly his most solemn—it’s even laden at times—arrives lightly, with the creator’s note that he is not taking even this too seriously. It presented itself as an experiment, an exercise in optimism even in its darkest notes—a genuine financial and artistic risk that C.K. was able, in his gentle, aw-shucks mode of self-deprecation, to share as a mere attempt to try his best at something big and see what happened.
This sense of open-heartedness from C.K. as a creator also extends to his performances as an actor. His range is clearly limited; C.K. has never been able to shed whatever imposter syndrome he suffers as a standup comedian without the mic. But that has only added to his appeal as an everyman giving it his best shot. On “Horace and Pete,” a show of great talkers, C.K. casts himself mostly as a listener. That’s on best display in the third episode, my favorite of the series, a forty-minute conversation that takes place between Horace and his ex-wife, played by Laurie Metcalf. The episode begins with a brilliant, twisty, emotionally edge-of-your-seat extended monologue from Metcalf, who is explaining to Horace how she came to begin an affair with her eighty-something father-in-law. It evokes, and is perhaps an homage to, Jack Lemmon’s stunning late-career performance as a father confessing a moment of adultery to his grown son in the Robert Altman movie “Short Cuts.” Metcalf is captivating—stuttering, holding her breath, her eyes darting all over the room as she spins out her story. By the end of it, I was watching with my face about six inches from my laptop screen—the intimacy of technology. Across the table, Horace sits stunned, but then, later, offers his former wife warm and empathetic advice. They part on a sweet moment, leaving Horace staring into his beer. And then, as C.K. often does, using the basic kindness that he exudes to lure us closer, like a boxer lying back on the ropes, he delivers a gut punch. “Horace and Pete” is full of them, and by the end, you feel lucky to have been battered.
source: The New Yorker
Yet, as the song rose at the end of the final episode of the series, which was released this past weekend, Simon’s lyrics took on a slightly different meaning. After witnessing the full arc of the fateful horror that befell several generations of Horaces and Petes, and the people to whom they laid waste, the line “I can’t complain about my problems” better applied to us, the viewers, who had seen enough inexorable family tragedy to be reminded that our own lives, and problems, probably weren’t so bad.
All this for thirty-one bucks! That’s the price that C.K. charged, on his Web site, for the total series run of ten episodes, priced at three dollars apiece for the final eight episodes (after toying with five dollars for the first episode, and two for the second). This talk of money (small change, really, when spread over the course of the show’s two-and-a-half-month run—a bunch of coffees, a few drinks) feels a little vulgar coming on the heels of what was a stunning finale. But, in this case, the mechanics of production and release are central to the series’ meaning and effect.
In February, C.K., who has said very little about the project, posted a statement in which he explained why he had made the series himself, outside of the television-studio system. “As a writer, there’s always a weird feeing that as you unfold the story and reveal the characters and the tone, you always know that the audience will never get the benefit of seeing it the way you wrote it because they always know so much before they watch it,” he explained. By arriving without notice, like a Beyoncé album dropped in the night, the first episode brought none of the baggage of promotion—of trailers, press tours, and heated expectation. It was something to be stumbled into and discovered. Was it a comedy? A drama? When had it been shot? There were mentions of immediate current events, so it must be happening in near real time. This disorientation made the first episode feel like a magic trick, and that feeling of wonder lasted throughout the series. And because it was free from the infrastructure of television, there was a feeling that just about anything could happen: an episode could run at any length and take on any form, a beloved character could die. There was no reason to worry about ratings or whether the show would get renewed for a second season: it couldn’t be cancelled, but it might end at any time.
Was “Horace and Pete” even television? The independence of the production, and the novelty of its mode of distribution, strains the category to its outer limits. Because C.K. announced it directly to his e-mail subscribers, the show felt like a personal gift—an invitation to a private performance. Lacking most of the usual external measurements of popularity or cultural impact, it was hard to say exactly who was watching the show. Recently, New York Mayor Bill de Blasio appeared as himself in a cameo, seeming to stoop a little beneath the bar’s low ceiling. The Mayor showing up on a major TV show might have made big news; in this case, it barely drew mention. “Horace and Pete” is perhaps the next step out from the model established by Netflix and Amazon for making original content, in which ambitious shows might be judged successful if they reach a targeted few—it’s truly bespoke television, something that you could press on your friends like you might a book or an old album. C.K. recently said that he would be submitting the show to the Emmys in the drama category, and would also be submitting the performances by many of its actors—including supporting roles by Alan Alda and Jessica Lange, and guest appearances by others. It is unclear, however, whether the results of an award show will clarify much. Would Emmy voters celebrate a show that was created with near complete independence from the industry, or would they shun it?
In another person’s hands, “Horace and Pete” might have rankled as a vanity project; the moment when a popular comedian started to believe the clippings that had anointed him as a pop philosopher or cultural ethicist, and strained to do something a bit beyond his charter. But C.K., at this point at least, seems mostly above reproach. In part, that’s because of the quality of his work, which, in the case of “Horace and Pete,” is particularly exemplary: there are striking moments in every aspect of the show—the writing, the acting, the staging—that rattled in my head each week, between episodes. But another aspect of C.K.’s continued resistance to whatever inevitable backlash lurks in the culture comes from the radical transparency with which he makes his work. By communicating directly to his most dedicated audience of fans, C.K. has managed to forge what feel like authentic bonds. He is earnest, sincere, often a little befuddled when he talks about his projects. Even “Horace and Pete,” which is his most daring creation yet, and certainly his most solemn—it’s even laden at times—arrives lightly, with the creator’s note that he is not taking even this too seriously. It presented itself as an experiment, an exercise in optimism even in its darkest notes—a genuine financial and artistic risk that C.K. was able, in his gentle, aw-shucks mode of self-deprecation, to share as a mere attempt to try his best at something big and see what happened.
This sense of open-heartedness from C.K. as a creator also extends to his performances as an actor. His range is clearly limited; C.K. has never been able to shed whatever imposter syndrome he suffers as a standup comedian without the mic. But that has only added to his appeal as an everyman giving it his best shot. On “Horace and Pete,” a show of great talkers, C.K. casts himself mostly as a listener. That’s on best display in the third episode, my favorite of the series, a forty-minute conversation that takes place between Horace and his ex-wife, played by Laurie Metcalf. The episode begins with a brilliant, twisty, emotionally edge-of-your-seat extended monologue from Metcalf, who is explaining to Horace how she came to begin an affair with her eighty-something father-in-law. It evokes, and is perhaps an homage to, Jack Lemmon’s stunning late-career performance as a father confessing a moment of adultery to his grown son in the Robert Altman movie “Short Cuts.” Metcalf is captivating—stuttering, holding her breath, her eyes darting all over the room as she spins out her story. By the end of it, I was watching with my face about six inches from my laptop screen—the intimacy of technology. Across the table, Horace sits stunned, but then, later, offers his former wife warm and empathetic advice. They part on a sweet moment, leaving Horace staring into his beer. And then, as C.K. often does, using the basic kindness that he exudes to lure us closer, like a boxer lying back on the ropes, he delivers a gut punch. “Horace and Pete” is full of them, and by the end, you feel lucky to have been battered.
source: The New Yorker
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