Walrus Comix TV Review:
HBO's 'John From Cincinnati'

See God, David Milch…

David Milch’s mission is simple. He must erase the memory of Tony Soprano and his own Al Swearengen in the minds and hearts of HBO viewers. It’s perhaps no surprise then that Milch has turned to a higher authority in mapping out his next small screen cinematic endeavor. Having taken that bit about “mysterious ways” under earnest advisement, Milch has unleashed an intriguingly abstract study in the ways in which the divine, the sublime and the profane frequently intersect on this less than celestial plane.

The title character from Milch’s collaboration with surf noir novelist Kem Nunn,  John From Cincinnati, may in fact be the othersidely conduit that allows Milch to explore a new tapestry of characters and interwoven storylines, having previously mined ensemble psyches via his earlier work on the seminal series NYPD Blue and Deadwood. At worst, John, as played by Austin Nichols, is a supernatural savant, a simpleton capable of pocket alchemy and hallucinogenic transmogrification among other inexplicable old school New Testament works of wonder. Given his penchant for oblique intonements (“See God…”) and metaphysical slights of hand, John bears more than a passing resemblance to another prominent J.F.C. (blasphemy be damned, as anyone familiar with Milch’s dialogue can hazard a pretty good guess as to what role the “F” plays in the title anagram), though Milch is careful not to give too much away in the way of John’s missives or motives. Having made the trek ostensibly all the way from the Buckeye State, John arrives at Imperial Beach, California and immediately insinuates himself into the lives of the Yost clan.

The Yosts are a royal family of sorts in surfing lore, although this nuclear family comes equipped with more than enough fallout to span the three generations represented onscreen. At the head of the family resides Mitch Yost (Bruce Greenwood), a surfing legend whose career was cut short by a devastating knee injury. Mitch’s son, Butchie (Brian Van Holt), is a onetime surfing prodigy who fucked and doped his way into oblivion and irrelevance, while Butchie’s son rounds out the surfing bloodlines in the Yost clan. Shawn Yost, played by professional skateboarder Greyson Fletcher, represents a clean start of sorts for the entire Yost brood, as he has the talent of the elder Yosts with only a fraction of the cynicism and neuroses (though his interaction with the adults around him doesn’t exactly preclude the eventual development of such characteristics). Rebecca DeMornay sits in as Sissy, the matriarch of the family whose charge it is to navigate the testosterone-inflected DNA around her without the navelgazing luxuries that impending and rescinding stardom offer.

Greenwood does an excellent job of equipping his character with enough hubris and weathered tranquility in accurately depicting a lion in winter whose roar was never fully realized. While Mitch’s knee may not be what it once was, his ego is practically bionic. His interactions with his family demonstrate both a desire to protect them and a need to lord over them. Butchie, for his part, remains imminently likable even in ruin as he befriends John first in an effort to fleece him for dope money before revealing the strain of his botched potential and his fractured relationships with the surrounding branches of the Yost family tree. Van Holt imbues his character with a tattered charisma, as one can see how Butchie alternately captivated and exhausted the attention and empathy of those around him. DeMornay initially provides her character with enough steely resolve to hold her own among the Yost men before abruptly channeling the onscreen spirit of Courtney Love once she is beset by successive family crises. Once she begins to display the subtle nuances of your average premenstrual banshee, it’s easy to surmise why her husband spends so much time “meditating” in his makeshift temple in the backyard while her son rarely shows his face even during his infrequent moments of sobriety.

The Yosts have enough internal conflicts to occupy their collective angst, but with John’s appearance comes plenty of external stimuli to keep the dysfunctional juices flowing. Whether it’s Mitch’s intermittent bouts of levitation, the apparent deathbed recovery of another family member, or the reappearance of Shawn’s pornstar mom (yes….I said pornstar mom), it is clear that John’s arrival in Imperial Beach is not necessarily a harbinger of smoother sailing ahead. As with his other dramas, Milch has done a wonderful job of juxtaposing his characters and storylines in ways in which are not overly apparent upon first glance. He’s assembled a core group of players who could conceivably miss the harmonic convergence being dropped in their collective laps as a result of their own frustratingly existential myopia.  Deadwood devotees will be thrilled with the cavalcade of familiar faces from the Dakotas (in addition to the occasional Deadwoodian pentameter that emanates from them), while Ed O’Neill, Luke Perry, and Luis Guzman help round out a solid supporting cast that spans the Imperial Beach coast. O’Neill is particularly good as a retired cop and widower who remains devoted to the Yost clan and Shawn in particular. His wonderfully profane conversations with his pet birds are at once hilarious and poignant as he portrays a man bobbing along (and alone) through what should be primo sand and surf days. Perry (who apparently has access to anti-aging agents not yet made available to the general public) is the closest thing to a villain in his role as Linc Stark, a surfing promoter/agent who disastrously oversaw Butchie’s flameout and now has his sights set on Shawn. He’s more slithery than bombastic, as he displays an underhanded and easygoing charm that previous Milch villains have eschewed.

The final member of Milch’s cast is Liberty Beach itself. Just as the sepia tones of Deadwood and the urban sprawl (well, at least the external shots) of NYPD Blue informed his previous dramatic efforts, Milch has once again found inspiration in his surroundings. Though the sands may be whiter and the water much bluer than his earlier setpieces, Milch is careful to highlight the underbelly of the scene, with its syringe-riddled beaches and dilapidated motels taking centerstage as often as the UV rays and cresting Pacific waves. His Liberty Beach is a place pockmarked by wasted promise and a heyday that has come and gone, as what was once an innately individualistic scene has been usurped by mass marketing and crass commercialism. Whether or not that scene can be redeemed even with the help potentially of one of The Big Kahuna in the Sky’s personal emissaries remains to be seen. Milch has deviated from his previous enterprises by providing John From Cincinnati not with a backbone borne of the omnipresent threat of sex or violence but a meditation on that which can be inherently incomprehensible. Tony Soprano would have to do some serious California dreaming to imagine the kinds of things John can offer his erstwhile flock/crew. Milch is extending his viewers a similar offering, as John From Cincinnati allows for a fascinating glimpse into the lives of people whose interpersonal dynamics may ultimately prove immune to even divine intervention.

-Brant Miles