The Mad Poller What Polls at Midnight (maeincarnate) wrote,
The Mad Poller What Polls at Midnight
maeincarnate

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Moonlight: the Vampire Private Dick

Intrigued by observacious's post a few months ago, I decided to get me a season pass for Moonlight, the new show on CBS about a reluctant vampire private investigator unliving and working in Los Angeles. We've watched both episodes now, and I'm coming to the sad conclusion that the good parts do not even begin to outweigh the bad, bordering on offensive parts.

The cool things they have done with the show are all in the throwaway lines. It's revealed that the vampires of this reality do not immediately combust in sunlight, but that it effects them more like motion sickness: bothersome and possibly crippling after long periods of time, but tolerable in short bursts. Or in the second episode, he says the last time he was photographed was in 1950, when he was a young enough vampire to still be captured on film, but that digital has allowed him to be filmed again, thanks to the elimination of silver emulsion and actual film.

With awesome little details like that, you'd think there was someone with some vested interest in vampire lore on the writing staff. The enormous, glaring flaws with the premise leads me to believe that was a fluke, or that the one writer with vampire knowledge must be the intern.

Mick St. John, our vampire private investigator hero, has lived in Los Angeles as a private investigator named Mick St. John for at least 50 years. Apparently, people in L.A. are so self-obsessed they haven't noticed the private investigator with the memorable name has been in practice for so long. Or that he still doesn't look a day over 35. His buddy, the older, wiser, more paranoid vampire who is all concerned about keeping the secret and making sure they fly under the radar, is a big time investment guy whose baby face makes him look like he's about 17. He throws these awesome parties where girls in their early 20's serve as walking buffets for him and the other vampires. He has the most trustworthy security staff in the world, who not only keep the secret, but must dispose of the girls' bodies after every soirée because really, who keeps a secret better than a 22-year-old L.A. partygirl. At least it's feasible that there would be an endless supply of them.

In this latest episode, we meet a cop buddy of his that he's been keeping in touch with since some investigation in 1983. Mick goes to the guy's house, and talks about how the perpetrator of said crime is getting out of jail and so forth. How come this cop hasn't caught on? He's blind. And he keeps making jokes about how they're collecting Social Security or how Mick shouldn't be out on cases anymore because he'll break a hip. Har har har. How kneeslappingly lazy. You may find it hard to believe, but the internet reporter Love Interest Girl shows up at Blind Old Cop's apartment asking questions about the same case and tells her he's been friends with Mick for 35 years, and squashes the line she had bought that the P.I. investigating the case in 1983 was Mick's father.

Barring any obvious and catty observations about the actress playing Love Interest Girl, the love story here is pretty darn creepy. Back in the early 80's, Mick St. John was investigating the kidnapping of a young girl. Turns out the girl was Love Interest Girl, and the kidnapper was Mick St. John's ex-wife (the one who turned him vampire) presumably to make a pretty blonde keg out of her. Mick swoops in and rescues the prepubescent LIG and sets his undead unwife on fire. It was not entirely clear in the first episode whether or not the girl was his daughter, muddled further by the involvement of his ex-wife, and Mick St. John's decision to stick around Los Angeles from then on keeping an eye on LIG from a safe distance. Fortunately, the girl wasn't his daughter, but that doesn't entirely erase the weirdness of him wanting to bone the chick he swore such a paternal protection vow over now that she's of breeding age.

And, I know all you people who love The Shield will hate me for it, but I can't look at Mick St. John without thinking about how much he looks like Monk's "There's No Crying In Baseball" ex-sidekick, Sharona:

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