I have, on occasion, talked a little smack about Steve Martin, suggesting that El Stevo, on occasion, has expressed a little frustration about having to be, you know, funny in order to maintain the level of public attention and recognition to which he feels himself entitled. But now I have to take a good chunk of that back, because Steve must be given credit for Only Murders in the Building, a twee, but funny, take on Murder Manhattan style, co-starring his now perennial sidekick, and fellow Manhattan fixture, Martin Short, as two fading show biz folk holed up in the “Arconia”, a grand, old money, upper west side dowager of a coop, who are into, well, themselves, with little more to fill their now-empty lives but memories of their glorious, never had a day job show biz past, their only contact with “reality” these days achieved via those hip new “murder” podcasts that are all the rage among the smartphone set. Then, when an actual murder occurs within the Arconia itself, well, are these two old pros going to let an opportunity like this one elude their grasp? Or are they going to, you know, seize the day! Hey, did Dorothy Parker lunch at the Algonquin?
Well, even if you like Steve and Marty as much as I do, watching Murders would still be a bit of a chore if it wasn’t for the presence of less than half their age Selena Gomez, who very sportingly lends her considerable charm and intelligence to the show, even though Steve, as both “first” executive producer and co-creator (with John Hoffman) has a tendency to give himself most of the best lines—as well as being the only lead with an active sex life (which does almost get him killed).
Like most “cosies”, Murders lives or dies by its banter and byplay, and this is easily the trio’s long suit, both Steve and Marty dispensing attitude with both an altitude and intensity far beyond their current status, the disparity enhanced by the fact that they never were that big, leaving Selena with the job of bringing them abruptly back to earth without too much bruising of their ever-sensitive yet indestructible egos.
Naturally, there’s some slippage: yes, Steve is a pissy, petty, self-involved narcissist, but he’s a pissy, petty, self-involved narcissist WITH A HEART OF GOLD! And Marty is a tediously overripe self-proclaimed Broadway “legend”, but he’s a tediously overripe self-proclaimed Broadway “legend” WHO CAN MAKE YOUR DREAMS COME TRUE!
What’s “funny”—as in “not funny”—about the backstories for both men is how unimaginative they are. Steve used to be the star of a tough cop show, “Brassos”, whose catch phrase was “This takes the case in a whole new direction”. Really? Is that all you got? It’s well known that show folk feel that “K” names really land, like “Kojak” and “Kolchak”, so how about “Krannick”? And how about having the big guy growl “Welcome to my Noo Yawk, baby!” when he blows the perp away?
Marty, on the other hand, was once the hottest director on Broadway—so Marty will tell you—but the plethora of jokes about his eventual downfall—of hits passed up and flops undertaken—sound like they were dreamed up five minutes ahead of show time, by someone who’d never been to Broadway, which is certainly not true of Marty. Go figure!
Murders, now in its second season and second murder, has definitely taken a turn for the worse by trotting out one of my least favorite tropes, the elegant mass murderer—more or less invented, of course, by the Hannibal Lector series—although in this case the elegant mass murderer—most fortunately not a cannibal—is a woman, Amy Ryan as “Jan”, a bassoonist/psycho killer who was, inevitably (I guess), also Steve’s lover, and almost killer, in Season 1. She’s been revived in Season 2, in prison but still wickedly tempting and taunting Steve with her cunning suggestions as to the possible identity of her successor in blood. I’m hoping that we won’t be seeing too much more of Jan, but I strongly suspect that I’m wrong. Well, when she isn’t on screen, we’re still having fun.
Afterwords
It is, I think, a tribute to the utterly bourgeois nature of my soul that I find little more tedious than the fascination so many “creative” folk have with criminals and crime. I recall reading somewhere in Stendhal of his long search through Italian criminal records for something “artistic” and finding nothing but sordid brutality. Because that’s all there is Marie-Henri! There isn’t any more!
