IT'S THE PROCESS THAT'S CUNTY

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I've shared my disdain for television bloggers in the past, but I thought I'd take a moment to explain in more detail the reason for my frustration.  
     To come clean, I didn't read any episodic reviews all season.  Then FX sent me a few links about episode 410.  I read them.  I got seduced by the praise and began reading more.  My personality is not inclined toward moderation, so I fucking binged.  Soon I was overwhelmed and reminded of why I stopped reading them in first place.  Hence, this blog post is more to remind me of why I need to detach.
As we know, most TV reviewers get paid or are sustained by the number of hits their site receives.  It's all about numbers.  Quantity, not quality.  So they review hundreds of episodes of television a week.  Literally.  They are forced to power through these hours and give quick, reactive reviews that vary from godlike praise to utter disdain.  Most are uneven, unthoughtful and completely miss the point.  Even smart people like Mo Ryan are cranking out quick, mediocre reviews that are way beneath what she is capable of as a journalist.  That's why I read Poniewozik and Goodman.  If they don't have time for a thoughtful review, they pass.  Now I realize the conditions of their jobs give them that luxury, but I guess that's my point.  The conditions are cunty. 
But the fault isn't with the reviewer, it's with the process. More, more, more, faster, faster, faster. Online journalism demands instant, catchy coverage. There is no time for in-depth, thought-provoking process. It's all flash, snark and a catchy headline. Alan Sepinwall and his uber-hokey, "A review of tonight's episode coming up as soon as I (insert contrived episodic joke at the expense of someone's performance)..." is testament to the fact that it's no longer about the art of critique, it's about being clever and memorable.  It's incredibly frustrating for the artists who do put the thought, time and care into their work to be judged by such an inept process.  
And I use this opportunity, when a majority of SOA reviews are good, to make the point -- so I don't look like a douchebag writer scorned.  It's a fucked up process.  The relationship between artist and critic is ancient.  They need each other.  But it only works if both parties are committed to the integrity of their jobs.  If not, it's just a bullshit cuntfest.

GQ BLOG: Kurt Sutter's Anarchy Diaries: 501 - The Beginning of a New Season

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BECAUSE I'M TOO FUCKING LAZY TO DO AN ADDITIONAL BLOG, I'LL POST MY GQ ENTRIES HERE.

I always experience this odd disconnect when I come back to the show. It's an out of body experience—where it all feels familiar, yet it all feels very far away. I think the rhythm of my job gets moving so quickly and so intensely that when I slow down and unplug anything other than a chaotic pace feels off. So to "ease back into it" just feels fucking weird.

A little insight into me.
You may have already picked up on this already, but I'm a guy who has problems with moderation. All or nothing. Binge and purge. Kill or be killed. Gray is not a color I wear well. I should be dead. I know that. I should not be successful. I know that too. My daily existence is a toss of the coin—one side, fear, the other side, gratitude. I flip that coin all fucking daylong. As a result, I navigate through the world with the excitement and determination of a child. That's why I'm an artist. I'd die without an outlet for expression. Unfortunately, more often than not, that childlike energy is the maturity level I bring to many circumstances. More on this as we get to know each other better. This is Gentlemen's Quarterly, so I'm not gonna let you fuck me on the first date.

 
Now, back to the show.
So I just turned in the first draft of the season five premiere of Sons of Anarchy, entitled, Sovereign. The studio and network cancelled the notes call because they had none. That's a message that's music to a showrunner's ears. No notes, is good notes. I will say that both Fox 21 and FX are very respectful of my process and have placed a lot of trust in my ability to deliver this show. Most of my notes are really questions. Not so much, "Don't do that!" but "Why are you doing that?" It's about making sure we're all on the same page. I've said this before, but it's true, I value their input. John Landgraf, the president of FX, is a very story-savvy dude. His notes are usually well thought out and more often than not, help the episode. Sometimes my sense of the violent and the absurd will cross the line. I tell the story of a feature script of mine, Delivering Gen, to illustrate this point. In that script a baby's life is in mortal jeopardy like twenty fucking times. Literally, I almost kill an infant every other page. When we went wide with the script, there were several Parental Advocacy Groups who took exception and pointed that out. I was clueless. Not just to the level of near infanticide, but to the fact that was even a bad thing. Being a father has changed that perspective. Clearly, I'm a guy who needs someone with a better grip of reality looking over his shoulder. My writers and the network provide that service. Considering the level of violence in my show, you can only imagine the shit we didn't do.

So now I'm about six weeks into the season and I'm finally finding the groove. We've broken the first four episodes. Drafts of 503 and 504 are being written and I begin my draft of 502 today. It's like the workload almost has to reach a certain pace for me to recognize my position. 

I'm just a Thurber character.
Although it always feels different every season, my wife informs me that I experience the same thing every year. I'm lost and then suddenly when I'm overburdened, I'm found. I have to believe her. Katey knows me better than I know myself. She refers to me as her "Twisted Walter Mitty." I'm often a million miles away, lost in a daydream, where terrible things are happening to innocent people. 

One time, during a car ride where I was supposed to be paying attention to something important Katey was telling me, she realized I had "gone away." She asked me where I was and what I was thinking about. I deflected and feigned interest in whatever the fuck she was talking about. She called bullshit and after some prodding I told her where my mind had taken me:
I was in the basement of an old house in Jersey, where an obese, mentally challenged teen was vaginally raping the corpse of his dead mother with a forearm he just chewed off his nearly-dead, thin older brother. It wasn't the story as much as my emotional connection to the characters that unnerved her. Katey no longer asks me where I am. She just says, "Let me know when you're back." 

I'm back.
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GQ BLOG: Kurt Sutter's Anarchy Diaries: 502 - Please Don't Say That...

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So as I was working on my draft of episode 502, I flew out to NYC for the network "upfronts." These are traditionally a big dog and pony show where a network parades the talent in front of advertisers and affiliates. FX does a much hipper, scaled-down version at a bowling alley. As much as I struggle with crowds, it's always a fun night. I've been in this family for over ten years now and it's really cool watching the network grow and flourish. I'm really happy for Landgraf and his team. And that's not just me sucking up to my boss. I actually mean this. Hey, I don't like many people wearing suits, so let me enjoy this one.

It's also at this event where I begin the process of talking to TV reporters about the upcoming season. I have such a love-hate relationship with the TV media. I'm the dick who desperately wants to be noticed and interviewed while at the same time bemoaning the inconvenience and intrusiveness. (The only thing worse than false humility is false humanity.) I'm very aware of the value of the media and how they help keep the show alive, but I also hate the invasiveness of spoilers and the gossip component. The season doesn't premier for another six months and already I'm answering questions about how Season 5 will end. It always turns me around a bit.

It's in this process that I'm also reminded of my responsibility as the voice of the show. Meaning, that the things I say and do, because of my "created by" association with Sons, directly impact the show. I can no longer just "vent" with impunity.

Twitter is one thing. If some cunt wants to spin a story on a single, absurd 140 character tweet, that's their desperate prerogative.

But the blog, where I'm able to formulate ideas and present an argument—I now need to think twice before I vomit my bombastic subjectivism in this forum. As a result, I continue to struggle with topics and ideas for this blog and my own personal blog. That problem in itself suggests who I am as a person—clearly, I feel most alive and creatively stimulated when I'm in the state of self-righteous agitation.

I constantly self-edit these days. Just this week alone I kyboshed three ideas for this post. I started writing about my disdain of episodic reviews by cunt bloggers, but killed it because I realized it would look like sour grapes and ultimately create reviewer vengeance that could hurt the show. I started one about Charlie Collier's fluffy THR interview, but killed that because it made me look like an envious bitch (which is probably true). I started one about the flawed broadcast network development process, but killed that one because the truth is—I've never developed a show on a broadcast network, so it was all second-hand fact and bitter speculation.

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, things I say about TV these days carries weight. Me qualifying with, "This is just my opinion," doesn't allow me the freedom from scrutinized feedback. People don't give a shit if it's just opinion, they'll spit it back at me and the rest of the entertainment community, as ungrateful fact. So for self-preservation, self-editing has become necessary. In the big picture, I'm not whining about any of this. I'm a guy in need of a little self-editing and clearly I still say and do shit that gets me in trouble. So, I'm not complaining about the scrutiny, I guess I'm just adjusting out loud.

I had a funny conversation with Glenn Howerton of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia at the upfronts. We were bemoaning the lack of the balls in our business. And he was complimenting me on my ability to generally not give a fuck about whom I piss off. He said he expects all my blogs and tweets to be signed off with, "Goodbye, Hollywood..."

Anyway. 502. I finished it. I get notes today. I don't think it sucks. But I guess I'll have to wait until September for the thickly-bullshit-detrimental-invasive-episodic-cunt-bloggers to tell me if it's any good.
Goodbye Hollywood...

BIO:
 
Kurt barely graduated high school, had the lowest SAT's in his class and went to the only state college that would take him. A fucked-up home, childhood obesity, food/drug addiction, and relentless television watching all contributed to his absurd, insular world of violent fantasies and sexual dreams. He hardly reads books, he plays a fuckload of games, and his only marketable skill is his imagination. If he respects you, he'd gladly take a bullet for you. If he doesn't, he may very well be holding the gun.

Professionally, this shit is happening: He signed a three-year deal with FX and 20th Century to continue running Sons of Anarchy and develop new projects. He ventures into reality programming this year with a new documentary series set up at the Discovery Channel, called Kurt Sutter's Outlaw Empires. Along with his TV work, he has feature projects in development at MGM, Sony, and Warner Bros. His script, Southpaw, written as a starring vehicle for Eminem, has Antoine Fuqua attached to direct and will probably never get made.

The thing that makes Sutter remotely human and considerably happy is his family—his wife, Katey and their three kids, Sarah, Jackson and Esme'.

Kurt's latest passion is birds. No one has the courage to ask why.
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GQ BLOG: Kurt Sutter's Anarchy Diaries: 503 - The Emmys. Don't Ask. Don't Tell.

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I love my job. Truly, I do. I know how lucky I am. I think it was Warren Beatty who said (and I'm badly paraphrasing), "Success is having a job that pays you a lot of money, that you would gladly do for free." I feel that way.
Most days. 
This is my favorite time of the season. My hours are split between the writers' room, gearing up production, and writing. I'm a writer who loves to write. I know that sounds obvious but you'd be surprised how many writers actually hate writing. Not me. Being alone with a white board, a computer and the voices in my head is fucking nirvana. And not the part where he puts the shotgun in his mouth. That comes later. Right now, I'm happy, relaxed, invigorated and grateful.
Then it happens. The shotgun in my mouth. Emmy Award season. For people like Terence Winter, Matt Weiner, Vince Gilligan, gearing up for the Emmys must be a very satisfying time of year. Recognition of your peers for all the hard work. The process leading up to the awards is time-consuming and tedious, but at least these guys know, at the end of the day, it'll all be worth it. History has played that out. 
For me, award season continuously just feels like an angry kick in the scrotum. 
I know I shouldn't give a shit. It ain't about the prize; it's about the work. The fans are the ones who determine our success. Logically, I know all of that. I enter the award season detached and philosophical, but after a few months of engaging in the build up, that distance gets washed away and I'm neck-deep in expectation and self-righteousness. I always end up broken and bloody the morning the nominations are read. 

From season two of The Shield to season five of SOA, that expectation and disappointment has rubbed me raw. Say what you want about Sons not being Emmy worthy. You're probably right. But there is no way you can say the last two seasons of The Shield were not as good or better than any drama on television. 

So why no Emmy love? 

Simple. People didn't vote for us. 

Why? 

The supporters (fans, network, my wife) give me a laundry list of reasons. All logical and ego-soothing.

The haters (cunt bloggers) say it's because the show sucks.
My guess is both camps harbor some truth.

What do I say?

Really. Haven't I said enough? 

Yes. I have.

I'm exhausted by my own obsession for recognition. It goes deeper than just pride and ego. I'm sure it's some kind of daddy-thing I haven't had the courage to dig into. Who knows? But it's just scabbed me over. I can't do the dance anymore -- the submissions, interviews, panels, photo-shoots, predictions, polls, post-mortem snubs -- Fuck me, I'm done. 

This season and hopefully for the rest of the run of Sons of Anarchy, I say nothing about any award. Other than, "thank you," "good luck," and "congratulations". 

And to clean it all up before I put it away:

I apologize to academy members (of every age) for the bombastic comments I've made in the past. I apologize to my cast, crew, studio and network if my arrogant reaction to snubs has embarrassed them or impeded their chances for recognition.

This blog will be my last comment on the Emmys. And yes, I can hear the snarky comments echoing through cyberspace as I type that statement. And they'd be correct to assume that me keeping quiet is a great idea in theory, but difficult to implement. So time (and all the cunt bloggers) will be the judge. 

You can say many bad things about me and they'd all be true -- I'm arrogant, abrasive, narcissistic, juvenile, over-sensitive. But I'm also a man who lives in a perpetual state of change. I have no choice. There is no stasis. If I'm not moving forward, I'm sliding back. And behind me there is only wreckage and remorse. 

In front of me there is only opportunity.

I may be a dick, but I'm a dick in progress. 


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