Drama
Chicago Fire
Where’s the fire? In Chicago, it seems. But the flames outside Firehouse 51 are nothing compared to the heat generated inside.
It’s tough to find good help these days. Just ask Terry Seattle, homicide.
No, no. He isn’t a homicide. He’s, like, a homicide detective. For the city of … Murderville? Is that really the name of the town? Seems like a bad decision on the part of the founders, but whatever.
Anyway, as I was saying, it’s tough to find good help. As Terry Seattle, homicide detective, knows all too well. Every time he’s sent out to solve a murder in, um, Murderville, he brings along a new partner. And none of them have any idea of what they’re doing.
No, really. They have no idea.
Think of Murderville (the Netflix show, not the town) as a weird mashup of Criminal Minds and Who’s Line Is It Anyway? Terry Seattle (played by comic-of-all-trades Will Arnett) teams up with a new celebrity in each episode. But here’s the thing: The celebs (running the gamut from talk-show host Conan O’Brien to actress Sharon Stone to retired NFL running back Marshawn Lynch) aren’t given a script.
Seattle and a handful of other in-the-know players lead these stars through the crime—clue by clue, suspect by suspect, setup by outrageous setup. The celebs must study the crime scene, quiz the suspects and, by the end of the episode, decide who was responsible for the dead body. The culprit is then led to the clink, left to spend a television eternity mulling over his or her evil deeds.
“I only murdered her because I wanted her dead!” one foul felon fumes.
It’s all quite silly and, often a bit of fun.
Too bad about the language, though.
Because Murderville is essentially one broad ad-lib, and because none of the guests (or Arnett himself) are particularly good at curbing their tongues, you’ll liable to hear plenty of profanities proffered pending the perp’s prison sentence, including f- and s-words.
Seemingly more scripted elements of the show can stray into crass and discomforting territory, too. In the first episode, for instance, one suspect leads a band of “God-fearing women” who object to magic shows because, they believe, magic could spark interest in the occult. It’s treated as a joke here, but I know that some of our readers would not be laughing.
And then, of course, one must ponder the murder itself. While we might not see the corpse, we always get a glimpse at the evidence, which might include incriminating knives or bloody sheets. We’re told how the poor unfortunates died, too—often in comically grotesque ways. (At least one episode also depicts an operation scene where blood gushes rather freely.)
In the spirit of the show, let’s pretend I’m a content cop (which I guess I am) investigating Murderville itself (which, again, I guess I am). As I hauled the show into the interrogation room for questioning, I might smile at its antics and chuckle at its conceit. But in the end, I’d have to ring Murderville up on charges of felony foul language, with a misdemeanor in bad taste, too.
Book ’em, Spammo.
Terry Seattle is joined by new “detective in training” Conan O’Brien. The case: A magician’s assistant was actually sawed in half.
The magician is horrified, insisting that someone switched out his fake saw for a real one. When O’Brien asks if he ever thought about stopping the magic trick (when he started to see all the blood and stuff), the magician says the assistant never used the agreed-upon safe word (“stop”). “All I heard was, ‘Keith, you’re sawing me in half!’” the magician laments.
One of the suspects (Kathy) leads a group called Mothers Against Magic Association, or MAMA. We’re told that its members believe that magic is a gateway to the occult, devil worship, and ultimately S-E-X. (“Sex,” O’Brien clarifies.) In an attempt to infiltrate the association, O’Brien goes undercover and is forced to tell a story detailing why he believes that “magic is the devil’s tool.” He talks about how, as a boy, he tried to do a magic trick on the playground and was beaten for 40 minutes by bullies afterward. “They all became senators,” he adds. “Every one of them.”
O’Brien tells a number of lies during his stay with MAMA (a collection of self-admitted “God-fearing women”). We also see a magician perform a variety of magic tricks as he’s interrogated. When a child (who watched the death of the assistant) asks O’Brien when the magic trick will resume, O’Brien dives into a graphic description as to why it won’t. When the girl protests that it was magic, O’Brien says, “That’s what grownups call a lie.” And when the girl asks if the dead woman might go to heaven (and arrive there in two pieces), O’Brien is noncommittal.
We learn that Terry Seattle and his superior were married for 17 years (a relationship now apparently over), and that Terry owns at least a couple of Maxim magazines. The bones of a dead rabbit grace his office. Bloody sheets cover the apparent body of the unfortunate victim.
A magician attempts to tell anti-Semitic jokes (but never gets a chance to). We hear jokes regarding defecation, vomit, breast-augmentation surgery and overly spicy food. We hear characters say the s-word (three times), “a–,” “crap,” “h—” and “g-dd–n” (the latter twice). God’s name is misused three times elsewhere, and Jesus’ name is abused twice. We also hear the word tittynope, an actual, legitimate word that just sounds nasty.
Paul Asay has been part of the Plugged In staff since 2007, watching and reviewing roughly 15 quintillion movies and television shows. He’s written for a number of other publications, too, including Time, The Washington Post and Christianity Today. The author of several books, Paul loves to find spirituality in unexpected places, including popular entertainment, and he loves all things superhero. His vices include James Bond films, Mountain Dew and terrible B-grade movies. He’s married, has two children and a neurotic dog, runs marathons on occasion and hopes to someday own his own tuxedo. Feel free to follow him on Twitter @AsayPaul.
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