But Duncan and Logan don’t drive sports cars. Duncan isn’t into any sort of unnecessary display; he likes his privacy, and doesn’t want to show off. The quiet gray SUV suits him. But he still wants quality, and isn’t trying to hide his money any more than he wants to flaunt it, so his SUV is a Mercedes.
It might be theorized, actually, that Duncan didn’t pick the car out himself, that his parents bought it for him; apparently he shared it with Lilly, which would seem unlikely if he’d bought it on his own. (It’s a safe bet Lilly didn’t buy it—there’s no way she’d have chosen something so tame.) Probably Jake and Celeste Kane chose a “safe” car for the son they were determined to protect. Still, whoever chose it, it fits Duncan’s personality.
Logan, meanwhile, is determined not to be like his father—or anyone else, for that matter. That yellow Xterra stands out anywhere, and proclaims Logan’s refusal to conform to anyone’s expectations.
Another point about an SUV—there’s plenty of room to get cozy with a girlfriend without bumping heads or worrying about impaling yourself on the gearshift, which is not generally the case with a sports car. Aaron Echolls, of course, doesn’t worry about such details, since he’s got his mansion where he can take his girlfriends—including a pool house wired for video…
Moving on to the parents of other Neptune High students, Keith Mars drives a drab Ford sedan—but then, as a private eye, he needs something unobtrusive. I’ve never managed to make out just what sort of Ford it is, only that it’s dark and nondescript.
In the pilot, though, while claiming that he used to be cool, he says that in 1977 he drove a Pontiac Trans Am. That was a pretty cool car in its day, even though he then admits he was never really cool.
Lianne Mars drives a beat-up 1971 Plymouth Satellite Sebring because she’s been beaten down by life—it’s a cheap old car, and indicates that she doesn’t much care about anything anymore.
Jake Kane drives a spiffy new Land Rover—expensive, tough, slightly exotic, but not showy or frivolous.
Celeste Kane’s car is actually the first parent’s car we see—a red Jaguar. She does fit the red sports car stereotype, showy and expensive, complete with a vanity plate reading KANE2 that lets Veronica identify it immediately and beyond question when she sees it parked outside the Mars Investigations office. This car may be why Aaron Echolls’ car isn’t red—they wouldn’t want to confuse anyone. Though anyone who can’t tell a Jaguar from an Aston-Martin…
But then, Lynn Echolls drives a red sports car, too—a red Dodge Viper, license ECHOLLS2. Nowhere near as nice a car as Celeste’s Jag, though; it’s sort of a cheap imitation, right down to the license plate. It’s nowhere near as nice a car as Aaron’s Aston-Martin, either; Aaron clearly keeps the best for himself, and Lynn has to make do with what he allows her. That reflects their entire relationship.
Then there’s Eli “Weevil” Navarro, the outsider, the troublemaker, who doesn’t have a car at all for most of the first two seasons; instead he rides a motorcycle.
Someone obviously worked these vehicular choices out carefully, and didn’t just grab whatever was on the studio lot, but even so, there’s no deliberate emphasis on the choices. No one ever says, “Nice car!” or the like; cars are recognized, certainly, but no one makes a point of commenting on them. It’s just taken for granted that people drive the appropriate cars.
Furthermore, throughout the series cars act as their owners’ stand-ins, as well as reflecting their personalities. In the pilot, when Veronica plants a bong in Logan’s locker, Logan’s father punishes him by taking away the Xterra (though apparently only briefly, as it’s back by the next episode). We find out later in the series that Aaron is perfectly capable of taking a belt to his son, and probably of far worse, but in this case he chooses a less direct punishment, but it’s one that seems to get to Logan just as effectively as a beating.
When Logan wants to retaliate against Veronica for that stunt, he doesn’t touch her, but he smashes out the headlights of her LeBaron with a tire iron. Then when Weevil comes to her defense in turn, he does hit Logan, but he also takes that tire iron to the hood of the Chevy SUV Logan and his friends came in, even though he’s told it’s not Logan’s. He seems to feel that if someone hit Veronica’s car, then a car must be hit in retaliation, even if it’s not the car he’d have preferred.
A few episodes later, in “The Girl Next Door,” when Logan and Weevil, now temporarily allied, want to retaliate against Mr. Daniels, the teacher who’s been giving them a hard time, they do so by impaling his car on the school’s flagpole—and the phallic symbolism, the obvious implied “fuck you,” is hard to miss.
Incidentally, the car in question is an ugly little blue econobox, probably a Geo Metro, which nicely suits Daniels’ rather self-righteous and fun-squelching attitude.
This car-as-proxy business lets the show’s creators depict violence without showing blood, or without getting into the typical Hollywood fantasy of two guys trading punches and then walking away unhurt—whacking someone’s car shows the capability for serious violence without making one character an irredeemable bastard and without putting anyone in the hospital. That’s a useful tool for the writers!
It’s hardly the only use they have for cars. Cars are all over the series. They reflect their owners, stand in for their owners—and they represent wealth and freedom, as well.
In “You Think You Know Somebody,” Troy fakes the theft of his father’s BMW 740i in order to steal (a) the car, and (b) $8,000 worth of illegal steroids his friend Luke stashed in it, in a scheme to get away from parents he sees as stifling him.
Mac’s motive for sending out the purity test in “Like A Virgin” is to raise money to buy herself a new car—which she does, replacing her ancient and barely functional 1963 Ford Ranchero, which doesn’t suit her at all, with a spiffy new VW Beetle that nicely reflects who she is.
Later on in the series, in the second season’s “Versatile Toppings,” another student reports his car stolen and sells it in order to raise $5,000 for blackmail payments.
Terrence Cook collects fancy cars, reflecting his wealth and success more than his own identity—but then, he identifies himself pretty strongly as wealthy and successful. He rents a hangar to store them, which is where incriminating evidence is planted—his display of wealth has made him a target. The evidence is shown to have been planted, though, when the man who tends to the vehicles testifies that it wasn’t there all along; the fact that Cook takes care of his cars, that they aren’t purely window dressing, has saved him.
There’s another thing that cars do—they identify people literally, as well as symbolically. Right at the start of the pilot Veronica knows Celeste Kane is in the Mars Investigation offices because the red Jaguar is at the curb.
And of course, the first evidence that Lynn Echolls has killed herself at the end of “Clash of the Tritons” is when her red Dodge is found abandoned on the Coronado Bridge, the door standing open. Her body is never found, but the car is there.
Although Lynn is gone without a trace, in the course of the series any number of people are located by tracking down their cars—Veronica finds Lianne Mars in Arizona by running her plates, Liam Fitzpatrick is linked to his crimes through his grandmother’s green Barracuda, and so on.
People are identified with their cars. In “Kanes and Abel’s,” when Sabrina Fuller asks Veronica whether she knows Caz Truman, Veronica responds, “Basketball player? Drives a Yukon?”
Tracking devices regularly get attached to cars, so regularly that people actually sometimes think about foiling them.
In “You Think You Know Somebody,” Troy carefully removes the anti-theft tracker from the BMW and puts it on a dog’s collar.
In “Kanes and Abel’s,” when Sabrina hires Veronica to stop Caz from harassing her, Veronica attaches a tracker to Caz’s GMC Yukon, which Caz defeats (not even knowing that it’s there) by borrowing his family gardener’s truck so that if he’s spotted, his vehicle
won’t be recognized.
And cars are potent symbols throughout of other things, as well as their owners. I’ve already mentioned the symbolism of impaling Mr. Daniels’ car on a flagpole, but that’s just the start.
When Weevil leaves the PCH Bike gang behind, he buys himself a car—he’s trying to fit into normal society, no longer the angry outsider. He’s out to leave all that outcast stuff behind; he wants to walk across the stage at graduation and get his diploma.
It doesn’t work, of course, but still, the car is a symbol of the desire to fit in.
In “A Trip to the Dentist,” Duncan’s reaction to seeing Veronica and Logan together, and being told that anyone who has a problem with them being a couple should leave, is to go back out to his Mercedes—and when he finds he’s locked himself out he smashes his car’s windows in a berserk fury, a symbolic act of self-destruction.
At the end of “Like A Virgin,” when Meg is thanking Veronica, she says she expected a white horse, but Veronica points out that she’s got a LeBaron instead—and one gets the impression she’d rather have the LeBaron any day. She’d much rather be herself than a knight in shining armor.
Cars as extensions of self, cars as symbols of power, freedom, and wealth—it’s all amazingly well thought out and consistent. In fact, the cars are treated far more realistically and consistently than other elements, such as the Mars dog, Backup. Backup only appears when his presence is necessary to the plot—when Veronica needs a way to defend herself she takes Backup with her, when she needs a reason to leave the house she walks the dog, and so on, but we never see him climb on her lap when she’s sitting at home, he never greets her at the door when she comes in, he never barks when someone comes to the apartment door, there’s never a scene of Veronica or Keith feeding the dog while they talk. The LeBaron gets more screen time and better treatment than the dog—and is more consistent; two different dogs played the role of Backup, while the LeBaron has never changed. (I realize this was mostly due to Hollywood’s rules on the treatment of animals, which are far stricter than the rules on the treatment of cars.)
In a way, this emphasis is no surprise. Southern California is famous for its love of cars, and “Veronica Mars” is very, very Californian. Many TV series seem a little vague about where they’re set, but “Veronica Mars” never is—the beaches, the outdoor school cafeteria, the movie stars, the Hispanic housekeepers, all of it is redolent of southern California. Getting every detail of the cars right is a part of that, and someone did a first-rate job of it. It’s impressive, and a general sign of the care and thoughtfulness that went into making the series. Everything fits together into a coherent whole.
That’s part of what makes “Veronica Mars” so special as a series—everything fits together. Characters glimpsed in one scene may turn out to be important several episodes later; throwaway jokes turn out to be vital clues—anything may have an unexpected significance.
On other shows, cars serve a few basic functions—as settings for private conversations, as plot devices (like the General Lee), as bits of characterization (like Alison Dubois’ Volvo wagon), as cheap gags (like Giles’ Citroën). On “Veronica Mars” they do all these things, constantly, and others besides. No other TV show has ever come close to making such extensive use of vehicles as a way to communicate important information to the audience. Where most shows treat cars as props, in some ways “Veronica Mars” treats them more like costumes.
It’s one of the things that makes the show such a rich and involving experience. When someone has taken the time and effort to make sure even something as commonplace as the cars the minor characters drive is absolutely right, it adds a depth and realism most shows never approach. That level of detail, that complexity, is what makes “Veronica Mars” so fascinating. It’s so satisfying to see every car be just what it should be.
The only thing I could never quite figure out is why Dick Casablancas drives an Audi.
Note: Scott Fisher provided invaluable aid in precisely identifying some of the cars.
Melinda Gordon, Meet Alison Dubois
Revised; original version published on the Smart Pop website.
Consider: A woman inherited psychic abilities from her mother, including the ability to speak to the dead, and after initially looking on this as a curse, she’s come to accept it as a gift that gives her life purpose. She’s happily married to a man who didn’t know about her abilities when they met, but who has grudgingly come to accept them as real, despite his own rationalist views. She uses her psychic powers to solve mysteries, trying to put things right for the spirits she communicates with. What TV show does this describe?
There are, of course, two correct answers: Medium and Ghost Whisperer.
Originally Medium was on NBC on Mondays, and Ghost Whisperer was on CBS on Fridays, and it looked like another example of two networks both trying to cash in on a good idea. Later, though, they were both on CBS on Friday, which leads to the question: Why did CBS want both? Why grab Medium away from NBC, instead of spinning a new series off from Ghost Whisperer? I mean, they even had the obvious spin-off character ready to go, their “ghost listener” Eli. Why add Medium instead? What did it have that a spin-off wouldn’t?
Well, a built-in audience, for one, though I’d guess not everyone followed the move from NBC—I missed the season premiere myself because I’d forgotten about the change. Is that it?
Naah. The shows were different. Very different. Because where Ghost Whisperer was sentimental, Medium was dark; where Ghost Whisperer was silly, Medium was creepy. They took the same premise, but The Ghost Whisperer cleaned it up, and Medium kept it real.
On Ghost Whisperer, when Melinda first discovered she could talk to the dead, the ghost of her grandmother explained what was happening, and that made it okay.
On Medium, no one explained anything to Alison; her mother told her to shut up, and Alison wound up drinking heavily for years to shut out the voices and visions.
On Ghost Whisperer, after some initial doubts pretty much everyone comes to accept Melinda’s gifts, and to believe what the ghosts say.
On Medium, plenty of people never do believe in Alison’s abilities, and even Alison doesn’t always believe what she sees in her dreams. Even people like her husband, Detective Scanlan, and District Attorney Devalos, who know her abilities are real, are likely to respond to her more bizarre visions with doubts and reservations—and in fact, some of her psychic experiences have been misleading or downright wrong.
On Ghost Whisperer, there’s never been any real tension between Melinda and Jim, not even when Jim died and was reincarnated without remembering who he was. Nothing really stresses their marriage.
On Medium, Joe loves Alison, but he worries about his job, their finances, and their reputation, and he’s yelled at Alison plenty of times.
Melinda Gordon runs the cleanest antique shop I’ve ever seen in my life and drives a nice new SUV despite apparently never having any customers who aren’t haunted local residents.
Alison Dubois works for the D.A. and drives a battered old station wagon.
Melinda Gordon lives in the mythical Grandview, New York, which has a town center redolent of Norman Rockwell and Walt Disney, while Alison Dubois lives in Phoenix, Arizona, a vast expanse of urban sprawl where illegal immigrants and the Mexican drug trade are an ongoing concern.
Melinda’s son doesn’t seem to have any concerns except drawing pictures, playing with toys, and having psychic dreams that never really upset him. Finding childcare while Melinda and Jim run around dealing with ghosts never seems to be a problem.
Alison Dubois’ three daughters worry about school and homework and friends and boys, and there’s serious sibling rivalry. Their occasional displays of psychic abilities can be extremely troubling, as when Ariel relived a rape in her dreams. Making sure someone’s there to get them to school in the morning, and to make their supper every evening, is an ongoing issue.
Melinda Gordon patches up family s
quabbles. Alison Dubois tracks down serial killers.
In short, Ghost Whisperer is pure fantasy—Grandview isn’t any more real than the Shire—and Medium is about as realistic as a show about a psychic can be. Medium is what Ghost Whisperer would be if it grew up.
Which made me wonder whether CBS might be making a big mistake putting them back-to-back on Friday nights—would they really appeal to the same audience?
But then, I watched both of them.
They’re both gone now—but I have a couple of seasons of Medium on DVD, and none of Ghost Whisperer. I guess I like my nonsense with a gloss of gritty realism.
Grey’s Anatomy: Finding the Hero
Originally published in Grey’s Anatomy 101
Note: The show was only up to its third season when this was written.
There’s a habit most people in our society have of referring to the central character in a story as the hero—it’s a shorter, handier word than “protagonist,” and after all, usually the protagonist is the hero of the story. Buffy Summers is certainly the hero of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Veronica Mars is the hero of Veronica Mars, Jack Bauer is the hero of 24, Captain Kirk is the hero of the original Star Trek, and so on.
But “hero” doesn’t just mean “protagonist.” It doesn’t mean “lead character.” It doesn’t mean “star.”
A hero is someone who is better than most of us.
The form that takes can be almost anything. Traditionally, a hero is righteous, brave, and persistent—he has the desire to do the right thing, he has the courage to try to do it, and he has the fortitude to press on against adversity. To me, that’s what makes someone a hero. Strength, cunning, and a dozen other traits are useful in a hero, but they aren’t what makes him a hero; to be heroic, you do what’s right even when you don’t want to, even when you’re afraid, and you keep on doing it, without thought of reward.
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