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8/27/2005
Paperina Ventura e Gastone Bonolis
di Massimo Gramellini
La Stampa - 26 Agosto 2005
Non si agiteranno in contemporanea. Come sempre, la simpaticamente sguaiata Ventura spalancherà le sue braccia nel celebre gesto da vigilessa a partire dal primo pomeriggio su Raidue. Mentre «Sbrodolo» Bonolis irromperà su Canale 5 all'ora della merenda e dei filmati di calcio, che lui avrà e lei no: lei non avrà nulla, nemmeno la voce di un gol rubata a una radiolina.
Non si tratta soltanto di una sfida a distanza, dunque, ma di un duello squilibrato, in cui come spesso capita toccherà alla donna partire da posizioni di svantaggio. Uno scenario gravido d' indignazione da cui Bonolis saprebbe trarre spunto per un monologo moralista di almeno sedici minuti, prima di costringere la concorrente ad abbracciare un pitone sudato per la gioia del pubblico di sadici guardoni, naturalmente dopo la pubblicità, «qualora lo vogliate».
Non esistono tratti in comune fra i due tipi di italiano in lizza, se si esclude un riuscito impasto di intelligenza, furbizia ed esasperazione ossessiva, che lei esalta nei vestiti da giovinastra e lui in un linguaggio forbito che nobilita qualsiasi volgarità. Bonolis ha imparato il mestiere parlando ai bambini, Ventura ai maschi appena un po' cresciuti che tirano tardi la notte con le domeniche sportive. E adesso lui va a finire dove lei aveva cominciato: nel pallone. Anche se con mezzi e prospettive ben diverse.
Di lei, lui dice come da formulario: «E' una grande professionista», ma certo non ci perde il sonno. Invece lei, di lui: «Bonolis è Gastone, io Paperino». In effetti Gastone è sempre al posto giusto nel momento giusto: da Piersilvio Mediaset quando là valorizzano gli show, in Silvio Rai mentre ci sono da lanciare pacchi e intervistare serial killer, di nuovo da PierMediaset per sbranare il pallone nel banchetto televisivo più ricco della storia.
Paperino, invece. A Ventura toccano sempre i casi disperati. Il gioco delle tre scimmiette per cui era negata, ma che non avrebbe funzionato nemmeno se a condurlo avessero chiamato Bush, Blair e Berlusconi. Il varietà di calcio ereditato da Fabio Fazio quando già dimagrivano i diritti Rai sulle partite, che anno per anno si sono assottigliati ulteriormente, fino al nulla cosmico attuale. E poi, e soprattutto, il festival di Sanremo: a lui i ponti d'oro, a lei Tony Renis, che al massimo ne avrà avuto uno in bocca.
Gastone e Paperino. Giusto metterli a confronto, ma non in concorrenza. Raccontano Italie diverse. Quella di Bonolis è media nei gusti e adulta, quasi anziana, d'età. Il Mike Bongiorno dell'età aurea ti faceva sentire più intelligente del presentatore, ma mai dei concorrenti: un particolare, questo, che serviva a rammentarti la tua ignoranza e a volte poteva persino indurti a chiedere aiuto a un libro. Bonolis invece ti fa sentire con lui (anche se non proprio come lui), comunque molto più astuto di quei poveracci che vengono sommersi di paroloni davanti ai pacchi o balbettano risposte assurde a domande poste in tono insolente. «Come si chiamava il terzo imperatore di Roma? Cali...» «Calindri?» «Ma che dice, sciagurato!» E davanti alla tele tu ridi, illudendoti di essere un drago in storia antica.
Bonolis imita i modi di Sordi e la voce di Totò: di quei due titani ha l'approccio sadico alla risata, scaturita dal gesto gratuito di crudeltà che il protagonista compie ai danni di uno più disgraziato di lui. Ma quando da Bonolis gratti via Totò e Sordi, rimane Renato Zero a colloquio coi sorcini. E' il momento in cui smette di far ridere e diventa fantaretorico, ricorrendo ad articolate prolusioni per esprimere un concetto che persino una lingua verbosa come l'italiano riesce talvolta a racchiudere in una sola parola.
Simona Ventura di modelli non ne ha. Neppure la Carrà, che la sopravanza in tutti i «fondamentali»: ballo, canto, recitazione e portamento. Ventura rappresenta l'evoluzione estrema e mai più raggiunta della valletta che grazie a doti naturali come la spigliatezza e altre acquisite come l'autoironia (che frequenta assai più di Bonolis) riesce a sfondare la crapula del telespettatore medio. Si è fatta da sè, senza registi e autori pigmalioni, al massimo un produttore più amico di altri e un procuratore, Lele Mora, che la tratta come Bobo Vieri. Simona non incarna la single sfigata, ma quella in carriera. Non Bridget Jones, ma una delle sue amiche. E' l'idolo degli stilisti, che le infliggono completini da discotecara rimorchiona perchè immaginano le loro clienti uguali a lei: autonome, intraprendenti e attratte dai lustrini-lustroni di Briatore.
Se Bonolis resta l'italiano medio che mangia davanti alla tv, ma solo quando c'è la partita, e ha sposato una moglie finto-sottomessa e in realtà dominante, Ventura rappresenta quella che si è fatta da sola e da sola si è scelta un marito più giovane e bello con cui riprodursi. Poco rassicurante per le masse, ma la sua trasgressione non consiste nel sedurre i mariti altrui, quanto nel proporsi con l'autorevolezza di un vero capofamiglia.
Il suo limite: non dà mai l'impressione di rivolgersi al pubblico, ma sempre ai compagnucci del«quartierino»: Briatore, Dolce & Gabbana, i milanesi-bene che frequentano il suo ristorante. Lei di continuo li rassicura con il tipico intercalare "quello che piace a noi", che provoca un senso di esclusione in tutti gli altri. La gente comune la interessa così poco che non ne prende neppure in giro i difetti. Preferisce sfottere una modella che una commessa. Perciò funziona nei programmi grondanti di vip, più o meno in disarmo. Gli sconosciuti li lascia volentieri a Bonolis e alla De Filippi.
Insomma: Ventura sta in tv come se fosse in barca, Bonolis come se fosse al mercato. Due Italie che si sfiorano di rado, ma in fondo si riconoscono. Fra l'una e l'altra non è il linguaggio che cambia, al limite la compagnia.
di Massimo Gramellini
La Stampa - 26 Agosto 2005
Non si agiteranno in contemporanea. Come sempre, la simpaticamente sguaiata Ventura spalancherà le sue braccia nel celebre gesto da vigilessa a partire dal primo pomeriggio su Raidue. Mentre «Sbrodolo» Bonolis irromperà su Canale 5 all'ora della merenda e dei filmati di calcio, che lui avrà e lei no: lei non avrà nulla, nemmeno la voce di un gol rubata a una radiolina.
Non si tratta soltanto di una sfida a distanza, dunque, ma di un duello squilibrato, in cui come spesso capita toccherà alla donna partire da posizioni di svantaggio. Uno scenario gravido d' indignazione da cui Bonolis saprebbe trarre spunto per un monologo moralista di almeno sedici minuti, prima di costringere la concorrente ad abbracciare un pitone sudato per la gioia del pubblico di sadici guardoni, naturalmente dopo la pubblicità, «qualora lo vogliate».
Non esistono tratti in comune fra i due tipi di italiano in lizza, se si esclude un riuscito impasto di intelligenza, furbizia ed esasperazione ossessiva, che lei esalta nei vestiti da giovinastra e lui in un linguaggio forbito che nobilita qualsiasi volgarità. Bonolis ha imparato il mestiere parlando ai bambini, Ventura ai maschi appena un po' cresciuti che tirano tardi la notte con le domeniche sportive. E adesso lui va a finire dove lei aveva cominciato: nel pallone. Anche se con mezzi e prospettive ben diverse.
Di lei, lui dice come da formulario: «E' una grande professionista», ma certo non ci perde il sonno. Invece lei, di lui: «Bonolis è Gastone, io Paperino». In effetti Gastone è sempre al posto giusto nel momento giusto: da Piersilvio Mediaset quando là valorizzano gli show, in Silvio Rai mentre ci sono da lanciare pacchi e intervistare serial killer, di nuovo da PierMediaset per sbranare il pallone nel banchetto televisivo più ricco della storia.
Paperino, invece. A Ventura toccano sempre i casi disperati. Il gioco delle tre scimmiette per cui era negata, ma che non avrebbe funzionato nemmeno se a condurlo avessero chiamato Bush, Blair e Berlusconi. Il varietà di calcio ereditato da Fabio Fazio quando già dimagrivano i diritti Rai sulle partite, che anno per anno si sono assottigliati ulteriormente, fino al nulla cosmico attuale. E poi, e soprattutto, il festival di Sanremo: a lui i ponti d'oro, a lei Tony Renis, che al massimo ne avrà avuto uno in bocca.
Gastone e Paperino. Giusto metterli a confronto, ma non in concorrenza. Raccontano Italie diverse. Quella di Bonolis è media nei gusti e adulta, quasi anziana, d'età. Il Mike Bongiorno dell'età aurea ti faceva sentire più intelligente del presentatore, ma mai dei concorrenti: un particolare, questo, che serviva a rammentarti la tua ignoranza e a volte poteva persino indurti a chiedere aiuto a un libro. Bonolis invece ti fa sentire con lui (anche se non proprio come lui), comunque molto più astuto di quei poveracci che vengono sommersi di paroloni davanti ai pacchi o balbettano risposte assurde a domande poste in tono insolente. «Come si chiamava il terzo imperatore di Roma? Cali...» «Calindri?» «Ma che dice, sciagurato!» E davanti alla tele tu ridi, illudendoti di essere un drago in storia antica.
Bonolis imita i modi di Sordi e la voce di Totò: di quei due titani ha l'approccio sadico alla risata, scaturita dal gesto gratuito di crudeltà che il protagonista compie ai danni di uno più disgraziato di lui. Ma quando da Bonolis gratti via Totò e Sordi, rimane Renato Zero a colloquio coi sorcini. E' il momento in cui smette di far ridere e diventa fantaretorico, ricorrendo ad articolate prolusioni per esprimere un concetto che persino una lingua verbosa come l'italiano riesce talvolta a racchiudere in una sola parola.
Simona Ventura di modelli non ne ha. Neppure la Carrà, che la sopravanza in tutti i «fondamentali»: ballo, canto, recitazione e portamento. Ventura rappresenta l'evoluzione estrema e mai più raggiunta della valletta che grazie a doti naturali come la spigliatezza e altre acquisite come l'autoironia (che frequenta assai più di Bonolis) riesce a sfondare la crapula del telespettatore medio. Si è fatta da sè, senza registi e autori pigmalioni, al massimo un produttore più amico di altri e un procuratore, Lele Mora, che la tratta come Bobo Vieri. Simona non incarna la single sfigata, ma quella in carriera. Non Bridget Jones, ma una delle sue amiche. E' l'idolo degli stilisti, che le infliggono completini da discotecara rimorchiona perchè immaginano le loro clienti uguali a lei: autonome, intraprendenti e attratte dai lustrini-lustroni di Briatore.
Se Bonolis resta l'italiano medio che mangia davanti alla tv, ma solo quando c'è la partita, e ha sposato una moglie finto-sottomessa e in realtà dominante, Ventura rappresenta quella che si è fatta da sola e da sola si è scelta un marito più giovane e bello con cui riprodursi. Poco rassicurante per le masse, ma la sua trasgressione non consiste nel sedurre i mariti altrui, quanto nel proporsi con l'autorevolezza di un vero capofamiglia.
Il suo limite: non dà mai l'impressione di rivolgersi al pubblico, ma sempre ai compagnucci del«quartierino»: Briatore, Dolce & Gabbana, i milanesi-bene che frequentano il suo ristorante. Lei di continuo li rassicura con il tipico intercalare "quello che piace a noi", che provoca un senso di esclusione in tutti gli altri. La gente comune la interessa così poco che non ne prende neppure in giro i difetti. Preferisce sfottere una modella che una commessa. Perciò funziona nei programmi grondanti di vip, più o meno in disarmo. Gli sconosciuti li lascia volentieri a Bonolis e alla De Filippi.
Insomma: Ventura sta in tv come se fosse in barca, Bonolis come se fosse al mercato. Due Italie che si sfiorano di rado, ma in fondo si riconoscono. Fra l'una e l'altra non è il linguaggio che cambia, al limite la compagnia.
5/24/2005
Italian Challenge:Water Everywhere,But Not on the Go To Sell Portable Potables,
Nestlé Tries to Overcome Deep-Rooted Habits
By DEBORAH BALL
Staff Reporter of THE WALL STREET JOURNAL
May 23, 2005
MILAN -- Italians drink more bottled water than anyone else in the world does -- but they don't drink it on the go. Italian mothers tell their children that it's bad manners to eat or drink anywhere but at the table. Strict licensing laws make it nearly impossible to sell food or drinks at places like newsstands.
Now Nestlé SA, a giant in the bottled-water business, is trying to build a new market here by changing deep-seated Italian habits.
"If you ask me whether I can envision Italians walking around with a cup of coffee in their hand, I don't think so. But if it's water, I think that's possible," says Fabio degli Espositi, head of distribution for Nestlé Waters.
So Nestlé has designed a new bottle top with a membrane to prevent leaking into leather handbags. To create excuses for Italians to drink water outside, Nestlé managers are organizing pickup soccer games and aerobic sessions on Italian beaches -- and making sure to pass out Nestlé water.
Eating and drinking on the street violate two cardinal rules in Italy -- looking good and eating well. "It gives me goose bumps to even think of it," says Nicoletta Schlechter, a 47-year-old Milan lawyer.
Italians drink an average of 189 liters of bottled water a year, the highest consumption in the world. By contrast, Americans drink only 69 liters, according to Canadean, a U.K. market-research group.
Though tap water in Italy is perfectly fine to drink, about 265 different water brands are sold in the country. Since Roman times, Italians have believed in the curative properties of mineral waters. And some small towns pipe spring water into public fountains.
But Italians drink just 12 liters a year on the move, half what Americans do, according to Canadean. Nestlé consumer researchers found that just 9% of Italians drink water in the car, for instance.
Italians can buy water in a liquor bar, or at a kiosk near a tourist attraction like the Colosseum in Rome, but it isn't easy to find on the street. After aggressively pushing individual bottles of soda for three years, Coca-Cola Co. says on-the-go sales represent just 5% of its Italian sales, compared with about 50% globally.
A gelato or a slice of focaccia is basically the only food Italians enjoy on the street. Italians are often taught that eating or drinking while walking causes indigestion. And many shops and other businesses still close for two hours between 12:30 and 2:30 in the afternoon so people can enjoy a leisurely meal.
Nestlé, a Swiss company and the world's largest food maker, started its push among Italians on the go with Acqua Panna, a brand aimed at young women. TV ads for the squeezable hourglass-shaped 75 cl (25.4 oz.) bottle, known as Panna 75, last year featured a fashionable cartoon character named Lulu who carries a purse containing Acqua Panna, tipped over to show that it doesn't leak. Nestlé hired designer Roberto Cavalli to create a limited-edition label for the water and a small plastic purse to hold Panna 75 that was given out at his recent fashion shows here in Milan.
Edmunda Insam, owner of a café in central Milan, says she drinks at least a liter of water a day for its health benefits but won't drink while walking and is nervous about stashing a bottle in her purse. "If I'm really thirsty, I might buy a small bottle, but I look for a place where I can stop and drink it, like in a park," she says.
Nestlé researchers found that Italian mothers believe that fizzy drinks and ice aren't good for kids. So, to target children, Nestlé came up with a brand of still water called Issima -- an Italian suffix used in superlatives -- that it sells in 11.2 oz. bottles. Nestlé marketers handed out free samples to mothers in supermarkets and explained that the squeezable bottle fits neatly in lunchboxes, and is neither fizzy, nor cold, nor a soda.
Nestlé held contests for kids on its Issima Web site with prizes such as radios and flashlights. The site lets kids play a game following the adventures of Issimo, a skateboarding cartoon character who is also featured in TV ads. Nestlé signed a deal with Autogrill, Italy's largest roadside restaurant chain, to include Issima in its kids' meals.
For kids, "we wanted to come up with something that didn't make them feel like babies in front of their friends," says Federico Galimberti, head of consumer research for Nestlé Waters.
As a publicity stunt, in recent months during ski season, Nestlé set up plexiglass and aluminum igloos on the mountaintops of popular ski resorts with lounge chairs nearby, and flags marking the areas as "Silence Zones." Inside the igloos were books on mountaineering, along with herbal teas and chocolate. Nestlé hired young women, dressed in matching white ski outfits, to pass out more than 2,000 water bottles each weekend.
One weekend in late March in the Alpine resort of Courmayeur, the Nestlé women cajoled skiers to stop and try the new waters and fill out postcards with their reflections on the mountains. Several men scribbled their phone numbers for the women.
As her two children, Sofia, age 4, and Giorgio, 10, lounged by the igloo and played with Issima bottles, Barbara Gatti, who is from Pavia, outside Milan, said she didn't plan to change her water-buying habits. She buys big bottles of water for her family, and she isn't brand-loyal.
As Sofia pestered her to open the Issima bottle, Ms. Gatti said, "The kids like them, but I buy what's cheapest at the supermarket."
With all these efforts, Nestlé has inched up its share of the $3 billion Italian water market to 29% last year from 25.8% in 2003, almost all of the increase attributable to smaller bottles.
To intensify its efforts, Nestlé recently brought over Pietro Marta to run its sales team. His 20 years of food experience includes four years selling Nestlé ice cream and candy in vending machines. Mr. Marta's job is to place 7,500 Nestlé branded coolers filled with its new waters in bars before summer. Because newsstands can't sell drinks, Nestlé figures people will buy water-to-go from bars. Since March, Mr. Marta and his team of 200 salespeople have placed 1,000 coolers.
Nestlé Tries to Overcome Deep-Rooted Habits
By DEBORAH BALL
Staff Reporter of THE WALL STREET JOURNAL
May 23, 2005
MILAN -- Italians drink more bottled water than anyone else in the world does -- but they don't drink it on the go. Italian mothers tell their children that it's bad manners to eat or drink anywhere but at the table. Strict licensing laws make it nearly impossible to sell food or drinks at places like newsstands.
Now Nestlé SA, a giant in the bottled-water business, is trying to build a new market here by changing deep-seated Italian habits.
"If you ask me whether I can envision Italians walking around with a cup of coffee in their hand, I don't think so. But if it's water, I think that's possible," says Fabio degli Espositi, head of distribution for Nestlé Waters.
So Nestlé has designed a new bottle top with a membrane to prevent leaking into leather handbags. To create excuses for Italians to drink water outside, Nestlé managers are organizing pickup soccer games and aerobic sessions on Italian beaches -- and making sure to pass out Nestlé water.
Eating and drinking on the street violate two cardinal rules in Italy -- looking good and eating well. "It gives me goose bumps to even think of it," says Nicoletta Schlechter, a 47-year-old Milan lawyer.
Italians drink an average of 189 liters of bottled water a year, the highest consumption in the world. By contrast, Americans drink only 69 liters, according to Canadean, a U.K. market-research group.
Though tap water in Italy is perfectly fine to drink, about 265 different water brands are sold in the country. Since Roman times, Italians have believed in the curative properties of mineral waters. And some small towns pipe spring water into public fountains.
But Italians drink just 12 liters a year on the move, half what Americans do, according to Canadean. Nestlé consumer researchers found that just 9% of Italians drink water in the car, for instance.
Italians can buy water in a liquor bar, or at a kiosk near a tourist attraction like the Colosseum in Rome, but it isn't easy to find on the street. After aggressively pushing individual bottles of soda for three years, Coca-Cola Co. says on-the-go sales represent just 5% of its Italian sales, compared with about 50% globally.
A gelato or a slice of focaccia is basically the only food Italians enjoy on the street. Italians are often taught that eating or drinking while walking causes indigestion. And many shops and other businesses still close for two hours between 12:30 and 2:30 in the afternoon so people can enjoy a leisurely meal.
Nestlé, a Swiss company and the world's largest food maker, started its push among Italians on the go with Acqua Panna, a brand aimed at young women. TV ads for the squeezable hourglass-shaped 75 cl (25.4 oz.) bottle, known as Panna 75, last year featured a fashionable cartoon character named Lulu who carries a purse containing Acqua Panna, tipped over to show that it doesn't leak. Nestlé hired designer Roberto Cavalli to create a limited-edition label for the water and a small plastic purse to hold Panna 75 that was given out at his recent fashion shows here in Milan.
Edmunda Insam, owner of a café in central Milan, says she drinks at least a liter of water a day for its health benefits but won't drink while walking and is nervous about stashing a bottle in her purse. "If I'm really thirsty, I might buy a small bottle, but I look for a place where I can stop and drink it, like in a park," she says.
Nestlé researchers found that Italian mothers believe that fizzy drinks and ice aren't good for kids. So, to target children, Nestlé came up with a brand of still water called Issima -- an Italian suffix used in superlatives -- that it sells in 11.2 oz. bottles. Nestlé marketers handed out free samples to mothers in supermarkets and explained that the squeezable bottle fits neatly in lunchboxes, and is neither fizzy, nor cold, nor a soda.
Nestlé held contests for kids on its Issima Web site with prizes such as radios and flashlights. The site lets kids play a game following the adventures of Issimo, a skateboarding cartoon character who is also featured in TV ads. Nestlé signed a deal with Autogrill, Italy's largest roadside restaurant chain, to include Issima in its kids' meals.
For kids, "we wanted to come up with something that didn't make them feel like babies in front of their friends," says Federico Galimberti, head of consumer research for Nestlé Waters.
As a publicity stunt, in recent months during ski season, Nestlé set up plexiglass and aluminum igloos on the mountaintops of popular ski resorts with lounge chairs nearby, and flags marking the areas as "Silence Zones." Inside the igloos were books on mountaineering, along with herbal teas and chocolate. Nestlé hired young women, dressed in matching white ski outfits, to pass out more than 2,000 water bottles each weekend.
One weekend in late March in the Alpine resort of Courmayeur, the Nestlé women cajoled skiers to stop and try the new waters and fill out postcards with their reflections on the mountains. Several men scribbled their phone numbers for the women.
As her two children, Sofia, age 4, and Giorgio, 10, lounged by the igloo and played with Issima bottles, Barbara Gatti, who is from Pavia, outside Milan, said she didn't plan to change her water-buying habits. She buys big bottles of water for her family, and she isn't brand-loyal.
As Sofia pestered her to open the Issima bottle, Ms. Gatti said, "The kids like them, but I buy what's cheapest at the supermarket."
With all these efforts, Nestlé has inched up its share of the $3 billion Italian water market to 29% last year from 25.8% in 2003, almost all of the increase attributable to smaller bottles.
To intensify its efforts, Nestlé recently brought over Pietro Marta to run its sales team. His 20 years of food experience includes four years selling Nestlé ice cream and candy in vending machines. Mr. Marta's job is to place 7,500 Nestlé branded coolers filled with its new waters in bars before summer. Because newsstands can't sell drinks, Nestlé figures people will buy water-to-go from bars. Since March, Mr. Marta and his team of 200 salespeople have placed 1,000 coolers.
2/20/2005
The 14 Lessons of ''24''
Stephen King on ''24'' -- The Pop of King discusses the hit Fox show by
Stephen King
It's always annoying to be bumped by the front-of-the-book boys and girls
(this column was slated to go last week, but then News & Notes ran ''Has 24
Gone Too Far?''), but the additional time has given me a chance to refine
these 14 Lessons. Hell, even back-of-the-book guys understand that when it
comes to current events, the clock is always...but that's Lesson 1.
1. The Clock Is Always Ticking This builds suspense and rushes us past any
inconsistencies, as in season 3, where the subways, streets, and schools are
filled long after President Palmer has told everyone in L.A. to stay home.
2. There Are Enemies Everywhere They have homemade nukes, vials stuffed with
lethal viruses, and Nuclear Power Plant Meltdown Devices (NPPMDs). Many of
the enemies have prayer rugs rolled up in their closets and names like
Behrooz.
3. We Fight Back With American Technology The center of this fight is the
Counter Terrorist Unit (CTU), filled with computers and run by a boss who
never stops saying stuff like ''Switch the A-4 booger-sucker node to kernel
7 now!'' and ''Nobody goes home until we get these guys!''
4. The Technology Always Screws Up Those tracking satellites are especially
pesky, but the darn computers aren't much better; they always seem to be
full of worms and viruses. I often wish that stoner guy would stroll in and
say, ''Hey, CTU dudes, don't worry! You're all gettin' Dells!''
5. The Management Ain't That Great Either Last year's boss (Tony Almeida)
went in the crapper for putting his wife's safety above the welfare of the
country. This year's boss (Erin Driscoll) has a schizo daughter with a
morbid fixation on the 7-year-old next door. Erin also loathes Jack Bauer
and dumped Chloe O'Brien, who seems to be the only tech (other than Edgar)
capable of using CTU's off-brand computers and no-name software.
6. The More Chloe Pouts, the Better I can't wait for Chloe (underplayed with
deadly, delightful precision by Mary Lynn Rajskub) to return from exile. Why
is that?
7. Never Trust the President's Wife If you watched the first three seasons
and met Sherry Palmer, a smiling ogre who makes Erin Driscoll seem a
schoolyard brat, no further explanation is needed.
8. Never Trust Smart African-American Women in General As last week's EW
story points out, they all seem to be high-riding you-know-what cutters.
Sherry Palmer, seasons 1-3; Julia Milliken, last season; the current
Marianne Taylor; case closed.
9. The President's Advisers Are Monsters of Expediency Sherry Palmer is
always the best example of this lesson, but recently the man closest to the
current president advised that it would be better to scrag the hostage
secretary of defense (and his daughter) in a purposely botched raid rather
than allow terrorists to put him on trial. Harsh! Last year, President
Palmer's brother wanted to snag Senator Keeler's debate playbook and later
took part in an abortive black-bag job that led to a murder-suicide. And,
speaking of suicide:
10. On 24, Suicide Is Always an Option Mysterious and vaguely Middle Eastern
music preceding the act is optional (as just before Kalil Hasan offed
himself by running into a truck), but the act itself is always on the table.
It's true that Ryan Chappelle couldn't quite bring himself to ventilate the
old brain bucket (Jack Bauer considerately finished him off), and Secretary
of Defense Heller and his daughter Audrey were saved before they could
finish sniffing the gas, but Julia Milliken turned the trick last
season...and then there were all those hotel virus victims, lining up for
so-long capsules. I kept wondering if they were swallowing them with
Kool-Aid while the Reverend Jim Jones told stories about his dear old
mother.
11. For 24 Hours, the Rule of Law Is Suspended There's no worrying about
search warrants, Miranda warnings, any of that nonsense. Things are too
dire. Everything is black-and-white; the good guys are all good and the bad
guys are superbad (Nina Myers, for instance, may be the greatest TV villain
ever). Certainly no one worries about a little torture with the fate of the
country hanging by a thread. Jack Bauer never works over the wrong person,
anyway. Although wouldn't it be great if, after shooting a guy in the leg
and then asking him who he works for, the guy screamed: ''I work for Dell,
dude! I came to fix the crappy computers in this place! Please don't shoot
me in the other leg!''
12. In the Course of the Season, One Good Guy Will Get Killed Or ? as in the
case of Chase Edmunds ? will only get his hand chopped off.
13. In the Course of the Season, One Good Guy Will Turn Out to Be a Bad Guy
This is the Nina Myers Rule, and to 24 fans, it really needs no further
explanation. You can't call it the Tony Almeida Rule, because I had a
feeling Tony would be back even before he turned up to save Jack and
Audrey's bacon.
And finally...of course...
14. For One Day a Year, Jack Bauer Will Not Need to Go to the Bathroom for
24 Hours But once those 24 hours are up, I bet he's in there for a long
Thanks to Guia
time.
Stephen King on ''24'' -- The Pop of King discusses the hit Fox show by
Stephen King
It's always annoying to be bumped by the front-of-the-book boys and girls
(this column was slated to go last week, but then News & Notes ran ''Has 24
Gone Too Far?''), but the additional time has given me a chance to refine
these 14 Lessons. Hell, even back-of-the-book guys understand that when it
comes to current events, the clock is always...but that's Lesson 1.
1. The Clock Is Always Ticking This builds suspense and rushes us past any
inconsistencies, as in season 3, where the subways, streets, and schools are
filled long after President Palmer has told everyone in L.A. to stay home.
2. There Are Enemies Everywhere They have homemade nukes, vials stuffed with
lethal viruses, and Nuclear Power Plant Meltdown Devices (NPPMDs). Many of
the enemies have prayer rugs rolled up in their closets and names like
Behrooz.
3. We Fight Back With American Technology The center of this fight is the
Counter Terrorist Unit (CTU), filled with computers and run by a boss who
never stops saying stuff like ''Switch the A-4 booger-sucker node to kernel
7 now!'' and ''Nobody goes home until we get these guys!''
4. The Technology Always Screws Up Those tracking satellites are especially
pesky, but the darn computers aren't much better; they always seem to be
full of worms and viruses. I often wish that stoner guy would stroll in and
say, ''Hey, CTU dudes, don't worry! You're all gettin' Dells!''
5. The Management Ain't That Great Either Last year's boss (Tony Almeida)
went in the crapper for putting his wife's safety above the welfare of the
country. This year's boss (Erin Driscoll) has a schizo daughter with a
morbid fixation on the 7-year-old next door. Erin also loathes Jack Bauer
and dumped Chloe O'Brien, who seems to be the only tech (other than Edgar)
capable of using CTU's off-brand computers and no-name software.
6. The More Chloe Pouts, the Better I can't wait for Chloe (underplayed with
deadly, delightful precision by Mary Lynn Rajskub) to return from exile. Why
is that?
7. Never Trust the President's Wife If you watched the first three seasons
and met Sherry Palmer, a smiling ogre who makes Erin Driscoll seem a
schoolyard brat, no further explanation is needed.
8. Never Trust Smart African-American Women in General As last week's EW
story points out, they all seem to be high-riding you-know-what cutters.
Sherry Palmer, seasons 1-3; Julia Milliken, last season; the current
Marianne Taylor; case closed.
9. The President's Advisers Are Monsters of Expediency Sherry Palmer is
always the best example of this lesson, but recently the man closest to the
current president advised that it would be better to scrag the hostage
secretary of defense (and his daughter) in a purposely botched raid rather
than allow terrorists to put him on trial. Harsh! Last year, President
Palmer's brother wanted to snag Senator Keeler's debate playbook and later
took part in an abortive black-bag job that led to a murder-suicide. And,
speaking of suicide:
10. On 24, Suicide Is Always an Option Mysterious and vaguely Middle Eastern
music preceding the act is optional (as just before Kalil Hasan offed
himself by running into a truck), but the act itself is always on the table.
It's true that Ryan Chappelle couldn't quite bring himself to ventilate the
old brain bucket (Jack Bauer considerately finished him off), and Secretary
of Defense Heller and his daughter Audrey were saved before they could
finish sniffing the gas, but Julia Milliken turned the trick last
season...and then there were all those hotel virus victims, lining up for
so-long capsules. I kept wondering if they were swallowing them with
Kool-Aid while the Reverend Jim Jones told stories about his dear old
mother.
11. For 24 Hours, the Rule of Law Is Suspended There's no worrying about
search warrants, Miranda warnings, any of that nonsense. Things are too
dire. Everything is black-and-white; the good guys are all good and the bad
guys are superbad (Nina Myers, for instance, may be the greatest TV villain
ever). Certainly no one worries about a little torture with the fate of the
country hanging by a thread. Jack Bauer never works over the wrong person,
anyway. Although wouldn't it be great if, after shooting a guy in the leg
and then asking him who he works for, the guy screamed: ''I work for Dell,
dude! I came to fix the crappy computers in this place! Please don't shoot
me in the other leg!''
12. In the Course of the Season, One Good Guy Will Get Killed Or ? as in the
case of Chase Edmunds ? will only get his hand chopped off.
13. In the Course of the Season, One Good Guy Will Turn Out to Be a Bad Guy
This is the Nina Myers Rule, and to 24 fans, it really needs no further
explanation. You can't call it the Tony Almeida Rule, because I had a
feeling Tony would be back even before he turned up to save Jack and
Audrey's bacon.
And finally...of course...
14. For One Day a Year, Jack Bauer Will Not Need to Go to the Bathroom for
24 Hours But once those 24 hours are up, I bet he's in there for a long
Thanks to Guia
time.