Slackin’ with the Sleuth: reviewing Netflix’s “The Ersatz Elevator”
At this point in my review of Netflix's adaptation, I feel like I should clarify something: in spite of everything, I love the show so far. As negative as my observations can be, they also reflect how tricky the original work was to adapt. Some polarizing choices were made, but we have yet to see or watch anything that would make us doubt the dedication and talent of its production team. The writing team has obviously spent sleepless nights trying to understand the point of the books, and the reason for their success.
Most Hollywood adaptations consist in superficial copy-pasting of "memorable" plot points, conglomeration of cliff notes devoid of any themes or commentary, stripped of all depth and substance. Mercifully this was not a case for "A Series of Unfortunate Events". In fact, the directors have repeatedly agreed to transgress unwritten rules of television writing and to push the boundaries of their format in order to deliver a satisfying adaptation. Fans whine, and they snicker, but that's their social function. Criticism hurts the most when it comes from people who know you the best and are actively trying to like you.
"The Austere Academy" was somewhat of a dud, so let's try to begin our analysis with something more positive. I have two questions: what is this second season's greatest accomplishment and why is it Esme Gigi Geniveve Squalor?
The answer, in both cases, actually owes to the books themselves. Watching the final result, it becomes obvious that Esme was actually easier to adapt on screen than Olaf, for one reason and one reason only: Count Olaf is not funny. Yes, you heard me, and it bears repeating: Count Olaf is not "funny". That's a revisionist narrative (to which Daniel Handler sometimes adheres himself). Olaf makes jokes, jokes are made about him, and he has ridiculous moments, but that's true of ANY character in "A Series of Unfortunate Events". He's no more farcical than, say, Justice Strauss or Violet Baudelaire. We'll get back to that in my review of "The Hostile Hospital". Olaf as portrayed by Jim Carrey and Neil Patrick Harris is a perfectly fine character, who works within his setting, but it's essentially a new antagonist. Esme, however? Now that's a laugh riot. Whenever she's not being terrifying, she's being ridiculous and delivers some real gems in terms of ridiculousness. All in all, Esme, throughout the books, was already delivering what the Netflix writers needed and wanted. No adaptation necessary.
That's why Lucy Punch does justice to her book counterpart in a way Neil Patrick Harris and Jim Carrey never could. The fandom's reaction to her casting was, to put it fairly, lukewarm: there had indeed been a strong demand for a big-name actress to play the part. But as much as I dreamed of Lady Gaga embracing the role she was born for (if "American Horror Story: Hotel" is any indication), there is no room for improvement in Lucy Punch's performance. Actually, the casting of a too-well-known actress could have been a distraction: as hard as Neil Patrick Harris works to give Olaf his own personality, it's sometimes difficult not to see Barney Stinson or Doctor Horrible through his facial expressions. He does share an excellent chemistry with Punch, however, and her comical timing is golden. But most impressive, I think, is her ability to give that awful woman some manner of warmth and congeniality in her most despicable lines. Her upper-class flair and superficial, glossy smiles fully sell the viewer on the character. You can fully believe that Esme would thrive and gain popularity in the right circles, and heap praise for being an awful person.
Punch's successes almost outshine the presence of Jerome, which may be the entire point. Tony Hale is genius casting, but thankfully he seems to have toned down his usual persona, focusing more on Jerome's genuine kindness and crippling self-deprecation rather than his gullibility and cowardice. Painting Gunther as a parody of Karl Lagerfeld is also pretty on-the-nose, but it makes for hilarious scenes. One does wonder why Olaf doesn't just spend his entire life as Gunther, though. He seems to be everything Olaf aspires to be. With Esmé to support his career, why not just become a handsome foreigner? It's also noteworthy that the young actors' casting does improve in this episode, particularly in the elevator shaft. Klaus' girlish screaming and Violet's mixture of exasperation and panic as she lands into the net are especially memorable. The Baudelaire orphans are not written as typical teenagers: it's understandable that their stiff, overly intellectual lines are usually delivered in a likewise manner. And therefore, it's in the more comedic moments that Louis Hynes and Malina Weissman feel allowed to come out of their shell.
But enough with the niceties: alas, the subplot regarding the V.F.D. investigators once again rears its ugly head... with terrible pacing. To its credit, this episode attempts to tie in the conspiracy to events directly related to "The Ersatz Elevator" itself, rather than the disposable seasonal arc regarding Olivia. But this is somehow undermined by the outright futility of these distractions: Larry and Jacquelyn force us through an interminable lunch scene, which showcases Neil Patrick Harris' most gratuitous and unnecessary musical number to date. The entire scene is a shameless repetition of the Anxious Clown diversion in "The Wide Window". These long scenes of witty banter, where characters sit at a table and do nothing, are bizarrely reminiscent of Quentin Tarentino's worst indulgences. As pleasant as "Keep chasing your schemes" sounds, it's barely diegetic and mostly serves as a vanity project. It takes the viewers out of the entire experience. We do not see Olaf, but rather Neil being showcased as a singing prop. There is such a thing as Emmy-baiting, after all.
To add insult to injury, the ordeal only exists to justify a "rescue attempt" of the Quagmires by Jacques and Olivia... which is bound to fail as the Baudelaire orphans investigate the scene at the exact same time and find them on their own anyway. What are we supposed to think of this? That Jacques and Olivia peeked into the penthouse, never saw the Baudelaire orphans hard at work, went through a few rooms and climbed down the 667's facade to have a milkshake? I would call them incompetent volunteers, but Jacquelyn and Larry seem to have already taken that crown. I had not anticipated to address my annoyance at this show-only addition so soon, but the fact is that this experiment in narration really struggles to prove its relevance. I had thoroughly enjoyed Jacquelyn's adventures in Season 1, as they streamlined the handling of the Baudelaire will in a more satisfying manner. Here, however, her presence seems to add more plot-holes than it solves.
Baffling choices in direction also continue to elude me: "Dark Avenue" has been renamed "Dim Avenue". Apparently, all it takes to evoke darkness is to dip the pellicle into a sepia filter. An especially egregious example comes to mind as light becomes "in" and the curtains of the penthouse open up, revealing sunlight... except the lighting of the scene doesn't change in the slightest, it was already bright as day! The sets are gorgeous as always, however. The director has successfully conveyed the pomposity and immensity of Jerome's apartment, which suggests a lack of supervision on the director's part: it seems that the directors keep latching onto one aspect of set design they like and tend to forget about the rest. Take the Quagmires, who look positively chipper and clean for people who have supposedly spent days locked into a dusty cage with the same raggedy uniform. I would argue that Duncan and Isadora are so far the worst adapted characters. They're admittedly pretty bland in the books, but the Netflix team has somehow managed to give them even LESS material. The depiction of the trauma they suffered down in the elevator shaft is one of the series' most horrific moments, and another emotional scene from which we were robbed.
The Netflix series also seems to drop the ball on the tantalizing return to the Baudelaire mansion. It's a shocker in the books, but here it's almost an afterthought. Instead of seeing the scene through the Baudelaire orphans, we're first introduced to... Jacques and Olivia flirting. Not nearly as heartbreaking, isn't it? It's about as off-key and off-tone as the episode's music.
And yet it's all fine. And why? Because Daniel Handler wrote this double episode, which proves I'm wrong about all of this. Or maybe he is, who knows? Sometimes a book is so great it escapes his own author. There is not one definitive version of "A Series of Unfortunate Events", but several, each revealing a different facet of an untouchable and intangible diamond. The Netflix version is simply the only one which happens to have been filmed in its entirety.
