Le le le le sigh. I really wanted to like this show, because when OG Dallas was in it’s heyday, I’d be plastered next to the television patiently awaiting what outrage J.R. Ewing would wrought, and oo-ing and ah-ing over Pam, but not Sue Ellen, because she was a drunk, bitter biotch. Bobby was hot and a good guy. Never mind that if placed 150 years in the past, the Ewings might have owned my people–I liked it anyway. It just took a bit more suspension of reality when you’re a slave descendant who traces their roots to–you guessed it–Dallas, or at least within a 20-mile vicinity.
Anyone else fight the urge to gallop like a pony when they hear the opening credits? Anyone? Is it just me?
But…seeing shrunken little Larry Hagman still playing the villain just isn’t convincing to me anymore. Aren’t old people supposed like little puppies and kittens? Somehow, with one boot in the grave, I just can’t wrap my head around JR still jockeying for his birthright at South Fork when he should be more worried about his death benefits. The skin one Sue Ellen’s neck seems to be stretched so tight it makes me wince. Yes there’s some young eye candy and the story lines have the appropriate levels of soap-opera cheesiness that we all expect, it’s just…remembering what the old goats looked and acted like back in the 1970’s and 1980’s makes me a little sad. Everyone seems so frail, except for Patrick Duffy, whose character has stomach cancer (ironic, because he looks the healthiest out of the bunch). Oh, and how could I forget about Cliff Barnes, who now looks like he might want to look into auditioning for Rumpelstiltskin.
Bottom line, watching washed up stars is more of a cautionary tail about wearing hats and sunscreen than anything else.