Slackin’ with the Sleuth: Reviewing Netflix’s “The Austere Academy”
Writing a season opener is an ungrateful task: once you have recapped the previous year of plot and set up the precious exposition, there is usually not much left to enjoy. That being said, this installment could very well be the weakest double-episode so far: it struggles to start the running B-plot of the season to the point that it forgets to be an adaptation of a particular book, or even a basic episode of a streaming television series. It is, quite frankly, a mess with some fantastical bits. But the sum feels less worthy than the amount of its parts.
At this point the Netflix series has fundamentally changed the basic narrative structure which befits the story. It is strange to remember that the books closely follow the point of view of the Baudelaire orphans and never leave their side. Of course, this story is told by a tangential narrator who frequently interrupts the tale of the children to make allusions to his own life… but “allusions” remain the key word there. Daniel Handler even had to release supplementary materials (“The un-Authorized Autobiography”, “The Beatrice Letters”, etc.) to clear up parts of the plot which couldn’t have been included in the main series itself, as it needed to focus on its protagonists. And that is precisely what the Netflix adaptation loses here: focus. We are dealing with an ensemble cast off to its own particular adventures, its own separate plotlines. The camera moves from one protagonist to the next like a player over chess pieces, leaving little time for the characters to breathe.
And it is unfortunately for that reason that Duncan and Isadora become even more forgettable than they are in the books. Several key dialogs from the books, intended to work up their charm, were omitted (the initial confusion of the Baudelaire orphans over the twin/triplet controversy, Duncan’s pyrophobia, the wild dreams of the printing house: etc. Most of the charm of “The Austere Academy”, as a book, is the opportunity for the Baudelaire orphans to relate to another set of people who have fallen in similar circumstances, to find some manner of community. Its adaptation has no time to explore that. Given the importance of the triplets in later episodes, it is honestly dumbfounding that the writers didn’t take more time to establish them as characters. Especially considering the great work they did to develop more secondary players like Georgina, Babs or Hal, not to mention non-entities such as Gustav. The next episodes cannot make up for this as Duncan and Isadora are limited to a much stricter screen-time, because of plot constraints.
It is natural that the writers would fall in love with characters/relationships they essentially created or introduced for the show… but a line must be drawn when it comes at the expanse of preexisting characters. What, indeed, did the actions of the V.F.D. supervisors amount to? There is not much point to Olivia Caliban’s character in this episode, and even then, little which could not have been accomplished just as well by the character of Jacquelyn Scieszka. Larry’s quest is ultimately pointless as the Baudelaire orphans never really get to browse the contents of the book he’s trying to deliver. Jacques Snicket’s earlier introduction is, however, a welcome and even necessary invention. His death in the books has shock value yet nothing else, as the reader knows nothing about him. The Netflix show instead sets him up as likeable support primed for heartbreak.
Lemony’s monologue in his brother’s car is admittedly the best scene in “The Austere Academy”. Patrick Warburton delivers the perfect emotional cues without breaking from his usual flair. His admission of how much he misses Jacques, who we can still hear whistling nonchalantly, goes down as one of the most emotional scene in the adaptation. A perfect testament to the narration of the books. The talent of the writing team never leaves the screen for a second, it’s just… misdirected.
Speaking of characters, it’s about time we address the real star of this episode… And as strange as it may seem, sometimes an actor can be too good. Kitana Turnbull is adorably obnoxious and obnoxiously adorable as the infamous Carmelita Spats, but at what cost? She acts Malina Weissman and Louis Hynes under the table. Baudelaires and Quagmires look stiff and awkward next to her. Even her singing sounds too harmonious. We should NOT be looking forward to the sound of Carmelita’s voice, she’s supposed to be annoying! The writers even felt obligated to have Violet begrudgingly admit her recitals are “improving”. That being said, two hours of “The Carmelita show (starring those cakesniffing orphans)” is far from an unpleasant experience. Although Carmelita only becomes Olaf’s sith-in-training much later in the series, introducing their dynamic right off the bat is a great idea. The show even suggests a possible etymology for the word “cakesniffer”, whose exact meaning remains a mystery in the books. The answer is both blunt and traumatizing.
We should also not forget Roger Bart’s performance as Vice Principal Nero, which deserves just as much praise. The secondary players of “A Series Of Unfortunate Events” are tricky parts, as they rely so much on caricature. Finding some warmth, some internal struggle to sell the character as more than a bland cardboard cut-out is no easy task, but Bart undoubtedly succeeds. It is only while watching the episode that I understood the point of Nero’s character in the books; he is very much Daniel Handler’s dark alter-ego, a somber reminder of the bitter maniac he could have become had he not succeeded as a writer. You have to give credits to the writing team for trying to expand on these characters while retaining as much of their original lines as possible.
As usual Neil Patrick Harris expanded Olaf’s disguise-of-the-week in interesting ways, and Coach Genghis could perhaps be the most ambitious yet. He retooled the character persona as a mix of Hitlerian youth leader and self-actualization guru, all in the name of “school spirit”. The end result is strikingly similar to several criticisms made on the education system in other books (“The Basic Eight”, “Why We Broke Up”, etc.). The social satire of the original series lost nothing of its bite. If anything, it’s coming back with a vengeance. Putting Genghis’ arrival at Prufrock as the mid-episode ending was definitely a mistake, however. Olaf has already come back to torment the Baudelaire orphans under three disguises at this point, therefore the revelation of a new one is not much to fuss about.
And if we have to really put our cards on the table, I suppose I should once again speak of the worst, most damageable aspect of the Netflix series: its music. No, scratch that; its sound design. The series is extremely fast-paced and dialogue-heavy. With Lemony’s narration already commenting on everything, putting so much music into every single scene is the worst possible choice the directors could have made. It drowns out the lines of dialog, which become difficult to follow, and every scene feels, looks and sounds the same: accordion and klezmer everywhere. There is, to put it simply, no pacing and no ambiance. It’s heartbreaking to see so much money wasted on expensive sets when you know it’s going to get ruined by the same cursed accordion notes.
On that regard, there were clearly some budget accommodations made on this episode. The director of “The Miserable Mill” simply made Prufrock Prep way too big: its exterior layout makes it look big enough to house a thousand students, but we only ever see a hundred of them at the pep rally… And the cafeteria can only seat two dozens.
More new musical themes could have helped. It’s really more of a general complaint, but it’s especially bad in “The Austere Academy”. Nero’s terrible recitals actually act as welcomed pauses in the pacing, since they require silence in the background. But the worst offender has to be that final scene before the midway point: as Genghis is about to introduce himself on stage, the Quagmires cry out to the Baudelaires, who can’t hear them because of how much noise the crowd is making. But we don’t even really hear the crowd making a ruckus: the accordion music is louder, it just sounds and feels exactly like every other scene, noisy environment or not. Therefore the viewer can’t really understand why the Baudelaires and Quagmires can’t communicate. It’s a painful and spectacular failure of sound mixing.
The entire ordeal is a cacophonic catastrophic in that it robs several key scenes of their intended emotional resonance. The Quagmire’s final capture is but one many dark and dramatic moments in the plot on which the Netflix adaptation fails to capitalize. It’s nowhere near as bad as the humorous trombone played over Josephine Anwhistle’s death scene, but it’s getting close. So far “The Austere Academy” retains too much of the original books’ contents, and understands them too well, to deliver anything but great television… but it succeeds in the details rather than the big picture. If only it could be the other way around!
