What a delight! What I mainly wanted to know was, would that same “**** you, I’m Amy Sherman-Palladino and I’m calling my show Bunheads” attitude carry through the show itself, and the answer is yes. Yes, it is defiantly itself, and yes, it is fantastical in a lot of ways. Yes, the people are small-town crazy and everybody eats carbs and nobody gets fat. I will try to limit references to Gilmore Girls to a minimum, moving forward, because how many times can you make that joke, but for the purposes of this one recaplet I will say:
The things you loved (and some things you probably didn’t remember you loved) are very much present. The strummy la-las are in effect, as is the nonstop torrent of words pouring out of everybody all the time: That stylized, literate ASP palaver that’s like watching a grad student on Ritalin drink an entire punchbowl. Brassy ladies and lovably cartoonish neurotics cover every surface. Kelly Bishop is unnerving and delightful and intense, and this Sutton Foster is this incredibly versatile actor that is amazing to watch. It scoots right up to a PG-13 kind of vulgarity, but then stays idling at just-inappropriate and cheeky, every time. And, much like with GG, just when you think it’s going to get weird or yucky, everything goes sideways and you feel safe again.
Like okay, Michelle is this hilarious, awkward Vegas showgirl who trained as a ballerina but took a wrong turn somewhere and has become fully sick of her life. So she’s got this stalker, Alan Ruck, who is always coming into town and bringing her presents and telling her how awesome she is and filling her house up with sunflowers and other semi-awful Nice Guy Stalker things like that. And on the very worst day of her life, he manages to get her drunk enough for a Vegas wedding, and she wakes up about a block from their new house with only the clothes on her back. Sounds like a nightmare scenario, right? Like something Lars von Trier would write. But wait.