Posted at 2:30 PM Oct 30, 2008
By Andy Beckerman
Ode on a Fecean Loeb
Oh woe is Loeb!
A man whose hands are ham and heavy
A meal for the fat of mind
Subtleties escape thee
But then are caught and slaughtered
Buried in a mass grave
The less said about his comic career the better, but just to touch: Reputation has a slow decay rate. Let that be the lesson. Write a few things of worth and coast forever on the slipstream of goodwill and mis-remembrances past. His latest atrocities upon the comic-buying public are so Ultimately unspeakable as to be tantamount to grammatological genocide. We await the ICC's indictment.
To mention his comic writing serves a point: In the world of TV and films, it's difficult to discern who fucked the bug and later gave everyone West Nile during the gangbang. So many cooks, most of them with barely an understanding of how to butter bread, stick their sickly fingers in the mix that it's a surprise anything at all of interest ever makes it out of Hollywood.
Thus, to blame him for the terrible aspects of Smallville and Lost, both of which he wrote and produced episodes of, or Heroes, of which he is a co-executive producer, would seem specious... if there was not a more undiluted example of his doggerel. And that would be his comics, which are produced less by committee than the television his awkwardly paws in the backseat of his parents' car until he accidentally ejaculates while trying to remove his belt.
The problem, above all, and as is evinced most preeminently by Smallville, is that plot comes first, characters last, after craft services. And not even plot first, but rather moving the pieces around the board first and filling in the blanks with plot second. Writing to the props and scenery one has, then figuring out the plot, then getting a snack, then screaming at a PA for not getting the Double-Stuff Oreos you like, then figuring out the characters. Like a chess game played by Bobo and L'il Debbull from Nothing But Trouble, pieces are randomly strewn about the board and shoved in different directions for no apparent reason while actors chockablock with exposition dribble bits out as the ignominious script dictates.
These are The Marks Of Loeb, the loathsome results of word murder.