This video was shot in downtown Los Angeles, near Pershing Square and its popularity on MTV helped to push the song to the top of the US charts. The song was inspired by Waite’s feelings while he was working and away from his wife. Myself, I’ll always think about it as being the song playing on the radio while I was driving a white Cadillac across the beach in Vice City. Unfortunately, I got so into the song that I drove the car straight into the ocean. That was when I discovered that Tommy Vercetti couldn’t swim.
Welcome to Late Night Retro Television Reviews, a feature where we review some of our favorite and least favorite shows of the past! On Wednesdays, I will be reviewing 1st and Ten, which aired in syndication from 1984 to 1991. The entire series is streaming on Tubi.
This week, the Bulls get a new quarterback.
Episode 5.2 “The Con”
(Dir by Stan Lathan, originally aired on October 18th, 1989)
Following the murder of Doug Clayton (who, if I remember correctly, was still alive in last season’s flash-forward), the Bulls need a new quarterback. T.D. Parker (O.J. Simpson) is contacted by a former player who now works as a prison guard. Vito Del Greco (Chris Meloni) is the prison’s best quarterback. He’s been serving time on a manslaughter charge, but he’s set to be released. T.D. watches Vito throw the ball once and signs him.
Coach Denardo isn’t happy. “I’m not a parole officer!” Kristy Fulbright and Michael Westwood aren’t happy either. They want a big name at quarterback. T.D. believes in Vito but still agrees to put him on the inactive list. A previously unseen and unmentioned player named Lenny Santino is hired as the new quarterback.
Vito struggles to fit in with the other Bulls and to adjust to being a free man. Billy Cooper makes the mistake of singing “Jailhouse Rock” off-key and gets punched out. “Nobody makes fun of Elvis!” That night at a bar, Vito is nearly goaded into another fight. (His manslaughter conviction came from a bar fight.) He announces, “Del Greco is dead,” and leaves.
That weekend the Bulls play their first game of the season. Under Santino’s uncertain leadership they lose 41–7. In the owner’s box, Kristy wonders what happens when the Bulls lose. T.D. tells her that when you lose, the fans chop off your head. Well, T.D. would know something about that.
In the locker room, Vito approaches T.D. and says Del Greco is dead. His name is now Johnny Gunn, and he is going to be the new quarterback of the California Bulls. T.D. gives him a shot because “Johnny Gunn… that sounds like a quarterback to me!”
Meanwhile, Bubba is stunned to learn his wife is cheating on him. Zagreb is tricked into a phony stock scheme. It turns out Billy and Dr. Death set him up as revenge for Zagreb’s tell-all memoir.
After the Bulls went undefeated last season, it was kind of nice to see them lose this week. It’s always more fun to root for the underdogs. As you probably already guessed, the most interesting thing about this episode is the introduction of a young, intense, rather skinny Chris Meloni as Vito Del Greco, a.k.a. Johnny Gunn. Meloni even had hair. That’s how old this episode is.
Will Johnny lead the Bulls back to the championship game? We’ll see.
Welcome to Retro Television Reviews, a feature where we review some of our favorite and least favorite shows of the past! On Wednesdays, I will be reviewing the original Love Boat, which aired on ABC from 1977 to 1986! The series can be streamed on Paramount Plus!
Love, life’s sweetest reward….
Episode 8.10 “By Hook or by Crook/Revenge with the Proper Stranger/Don’t Get Mad, Get Even”
(Dir by Richard Kinon, originally aired on November 17th, 1984)
Missy (Heidi Bohay) boards the boat with her husband, Jack (William R. Moses). Missy is upset that Jack had an affair so she decides to even score by having one of her own. She also decides that it should be with the biggest loser on the ship, the better to make Jack feel bad. She selects Lester (Ken Kercheval), who is loud and obnoxious and wears an old timey nightshirt to bed. Lester is convinced that he’s a legendary lover. However, he never gets a chance to prove it to Missy because Missy ultimately decides to forgive her husband. That’s probably for the best.
Consumer advocate Marvin Cooperman (Ray Buketencia) is upset when his wife, Carol (Jan Smithers), take an advertising job with the owner of Ms. Brown’s Brownies, Ellen Brown (Devon Erickson). Eventually, Marvin realizes that he needs to stop devoting all of his time to work and that Carol has every right to pursue a career of her own. Marvin takes over the Acapulco Lounge to let all the passengers on the ship know that he loves his wife and that Ms. Brown’s Brownies are the best. I guess Marvin was meant to be a less evil version of Ralph Nader.
Finally, Judy is feeling depressed about her divorce. When she falls for a handsome, bearded passenger named Mike (Patrick Wayne), it looks like she’s finally got something to be happy about. However, Gopher worries that there’s something strange about Mike. What is Mike trying to hide? In fact, why is Mike using the name Mike when his actual name is Sam? Could Mike be a criminal!? No, actually, Mike is an FBI agent and he’s using a fake name so he can safely go on vacation without the cartels trying to assassinate him. Gopher feels dumb. Judy’s in love. But seriously …. this guy has got a contract out on his life. Don’t get too attached, Judy! This story would have been great if Lauren Tewes was still on the show. Pat Klous is fine as Judy but the character just doesn’t have the same sibling chemistry with Gopher and Isaac that Julie did.
This cruise goes in the pleasant but forgettable file. There was nothing particularly bad about it but there wasn’t really anything great about it either. It was The Love Boat on autopilot and the ocean was lovely.
“Good. Bad. I’m the guy with the gun.” — Ash Williams
Ash Williams endures because he is not a conventional chosen-one hero. Across the Evil Dead franchise, he begins as an ordinary young man on a disastrous cabin getaway—vain, impatient, frightened, and spectacularly unprepared for supernatural horror. Yet the series turns those limitations into its central appeal. Ash is never compelling because he is innately noble or especially capable; he is compelling because demonic catastrophe repeatedly forces him to become capable. Every victory feels improvised, painful, and slightly ridiculous, earned through panic, rage, bad luck, and a stubborn refusal to die.
In The Evil Dead, Ash is primarily a survivor, defined by shock and escalating isolation as the people around him are possessed or killed. Bruce Campbell’s performance gives the character a physical vulnerability that later entries deliberately reshape: this Ash screams, hesitates, grieves, and looks genuinely overwhelmed by what he is witnessing. The cruel ingenuity of the Deadites makes survival an ordeal rather than a triumph. By the end, Ash has not cleanly conquered evil so much as endured an experience that has stripped away his normal life. That origin matters because the swagger of the later character retains a trace of trauma underneath it.
Evil Dead II transforms that shaken survivor into the archetypal Ash: a battered, increasingly unhinged fighter whose body becomes the franchise’s most elastic special effect and comic battlefield. His severed hand attacking him, the chainsaw prosthetic, and his mounting psychological collapse turn horror into a kind of brutal slapstick. But the comedy does not make the danger meaningless. Instead, it reveals Ash’s defining heroic quality: adaptability. Faced with a nightmare that cannot be reasoned with, he finds increasingly absurd practical solutions. He can be cowardly, selfish, and short-tempered, but when the moment demands it, he picks up the chainsaw and does what no one else can.
By Army of Darkness, Ash has become a deliberate parody of the macho action hero: a loud, arrogant time-displaced retail employee who talks like a conquering legend before fully earning the title. Lines such as “Groovy” and “This is my boomstick” work because Campbell delivers them with absolute, unearned confidence. Ash’s bravado is funny precisely because it is often defensive; he projects invincibility while repeatedly bungling spells, alienating allies, and creating new disasters. Even so, his eventual willingness to fight for people in a world that is not his own gives the character emotional weight. He may complain the entire time, but he does not ultimately abandon the fight.
That balance remains the foundation of Ash vs Evil Dead, which reunites the character with the consequences of his past rather than pretending he ever truly escaped them. Older Ash is still crude, impulsive, and prone to making catastrophically bad choices, but the series allows him to become a mentor and a protector without sanding down his worst qualities. The broader franchise, including comic-book continuations such as Army of Darkness and crossover material like Freddy vs. Jason vs. Ash, keeps returning to the same essential comic-book principle: Ash is an underqualified man facing impossibly large evil with whatever weapon is within reach. He is compelling because he never becomes a polished hero. He remains a damaged, vulgar, frightened human being who keeps stepping forward anyway—and in a horror universe built to reduce people to victims, that messy persistence is genuinely heroic.
“I’m looking for the coming thing.” — Brisco County, Jr.
Few television series embrace their own oddness as joyfully as The Adventures of Brisco County, Jr.. Blending frontier shootouts, pulp-serial adventure, broad comedy, sci-fi weirdness, and old-fashioned heroics into one deliberately unruly package, the short-lived Bruce Campbell vehicle has only grown more distinctive with time. It ran for a single season between 1993 and 1994, produced 27 episodes, and then vanished from network television before it had the chance to fully grow into the strange, funny, action-packed cult institution it deserved to be. That short life is part of its legend now. The show remains a wonderfully odd hybrid: a Western, an adventure serial, a sci-fi mystery, a screwball comedy, a buddy show, and a loving parody of old-fashioned television heroics. It was never content to simply be one thing, and that creative restlessness is exactly why it was so distinctive.
Bruce Campbell stars as Brisco County, Jr., a Harvard-educated lawyer who becomes a bounty hunter after the murder of his father, legendary lawman Brisco County, Sr. At first glance, that setup sounds like the foundation for a hard-edged revenge Western. Brisco is hired by a group of wealthy robber barons to track down John Bly, a charismatic outlaw who escaped after killing Brisco’s father. The show does not ignore that emotional hook, either. Campbell gives Brisco just enough sincerity that the character’s grief and desire to live up to his father’s reputation land when they need to. But the series almost immediately makes clear that it has no interest in being grim prestige television before prestige television was even a common phrase. Brisco may be motivated by vengeance, but he is also a cheerful idiot at times, an inventor’s dream customer, a romantic disaster, and a man genuinely enthusiastic about the future.
That optimism is one of the show’s most charming qualities. Brisco lives in 1893, but he is obsessed with modernity: bicycles, early automobiles, telephones, scientific gadgets, anything that might make the Old West feel less old. He repeatedly calls these new inventions “the coming thing,” often with the confidence of someone who knows history is on his side even when the technology in front of him is barely functional. It is a funny recurring bit, but it also gives the series an unusual personality. Brisco is not a traditional Western hero longing for a disappearing frontier. He is a cowboy-lawyer-adventurer who wants to survive the frontier and help drag it toward the twentieth century.
Campbell is the ideal actor for that balancing act. He had already built a devoted following through the Evil Dead films, where he proved he could sell broad physical comedy, cartoonish bravado, and genuine intensity all at once. The Adventures of Brisco County, Jr. puts those qualities to excellent use. Campbell looks like the square-jawed hero of a classic matinee serial, but he plays Brisco with a sly awareness of how ridiculous the genre can be. He can throw a punch, ride a horse, fire a gun, and deliver a tough-guy line, then immediately get tangled in a rope, outsmarted by a con artist, or humiliated by one of his own overconfident schemes. The show never treats him as incompetent exactly; Brisco is clever, brave, and unusually resourceful. But it understands that a hero is more entertaining when the universe keeps refusing to cooperate.
The early arc involving John Bly gives the show a memorable villain and a sense of forward momentum. Billy Drago, a genre veteran with one of the most instantly sinister faces and voices in film and television, plays Bly as a quietly unnerving outlaw rather than a loud, swaggering gunslinger. Drago had already become familiar to audiences through roles in crime thrillers, Westerns, horror, and action stories, and his presence adds serious genre street credibility to the series. He is particularly good at making Bly feel unpredictable. The character is intelligent, dangerous, and often strangely philosophical, with Drago giving even a casual line enough menace to make it sound like a threat. His addition helps sell the idea that, beneath the jokes and gadget-driven chaos, Brisco really is moving through a world populated by lethal people.
The show’s supporting cast is equally important to its success. Julius Carry’s Lord Bowler is the real secret weapon. Initially a rival bounty hunter with a powerful need to claim rewards before Brisco does, Bowler evolves into Brisco’s closest partner and one of the series’ most dependable sources of cool. Carry plays him with perfect deadpan timing, making Bowler’s irritation at Brisco’s eccentricities endlessly funny. Their chemistry is the foundation of the series. Brisco talks too much, overthinks everything, and barrels into trouble; Bowler observes, grumbles, and then saves the day when necessary. Their partnership has the rhythm of a classic buddy-action pairing, except it exists in a world where a frontier saloon might contain a mad inventor, an escaped criminal mastermind, and a mysterious glowing orb all in the same episode.
That orb is one of the show’s boldest ideas. Known as the Orb, it becomes the central sci-fi element in a series already packed with anachronistic comedy and pulp adventure. It possesses strange powers, influences human behavior, and hints at a much bigger mythology than the show ever had time to fully explain. The Orb plotline is not always the cleanest element of the series, but it matters because it shows how willing the creators were to push beyond ordinary Western storytelling. One week, Brisco might be hunting a gang of outlaws; the next, he might be dealing with supernatural powers, secret conspiracies, bizarre inventions, or stories that feel pulled from a 1930s adventure comic. The result is a show that can feel like The Wild Wild West, Indiana Jones, and a Saturday-morning serial filtered through a 1990s sitcom sensibility.
In that sense, The Adventures of Brisco County, Jr. was ahead of its time in the way it fused different genres into one coherent theme and narrative. The series never treated its Western setting, science-fiction mythology, slapstick humor, action serial influences, and detective-story plotting as separate gimmicks awkwardly stapled together. All of those elements were filtered through Brisco himself: a hero caught between an old frontier world and the uncertain promise of the future. His fascination with progress, invention, and “the coming thing” gave the show a thematic center strong enough to make even its strangest detours feel like part of the same larger adventure. What might have looked like a mess on paper usually plays as a deliberate expression of the show’s central idea: the Old West was changing, and Brisco was exactly the kind of eccentric hero built to stumble, joke, and fight his way into that change.
That same genre blending, however, likely confused audiences when the series first aired. In 1993, viewers and network marketers generally had a much easier time selling a show that could be described in one clean sentence. A Western was a Western. A sitcom was a sitcom. A science-fiction series was a science-fiction series. Brisco was all of those things at once, sometimes within the same episode. Its tonal shifts were part of the fun for viewers who connected with it, but they may have made it difficult for casual audiences to know what kind of show they were committing to every week. It was too playful and surreal for people expecting a straight Western, but its period setting could also make it seem less accessible to viewers looking for a more conventional action-comedy or sci-fi series.
Critics largely recognized how clever this mixture was. The show earned praise for its humor, its self-aware but affectionate approach to genre material, its charismatic cast, and its willingness to combine Western action with science fiction and absurdist comedy. Yet those very strengths also help explain why it was so short-lived. The Adventures of Brisco County, Jr. was difficult to market in the conventional network-TV landscape. Its placement did not help, either. The show aired on Fox during a period when the network was still building an identity and competing for viewers against much more established broadcasters. It arrived alongside other ambitious but unconventional Fox programming, including The X-Files, but Brisco did not become the breakout hit that its better-known network sibling did.
There is a strong argument that the series would have found a much bigger audience at the turn of the century, or even later. By the late 1990s and early 2000s, audiences had become increasingly comfortable with shows that mixed tones, genres, mythology, comedy, and serialized storytelling. Viewers were more willing to follow eccentric high-concept series whose worlds did not fit neatly into one category, especially as cable television, DVD collections, online fandom, and eventually streaming made it easier to discover a show outside its original broadcast slot. Brisco could have benefited enormously from that environment. Its episodic adventures would have made it easy to casually enjoy, while the larger mysteries around John Bly and the Orb would have rewarded devoted viewers. It is easy to imagine the show building a far larger fanbase through word of mouth, repeat viewing, and a culture more eager to embrace unapologetically nerdy genre experimentation.
That mismatch between quality and ratings is why the show became such a cult fan favorite. Fans who found it did not merely enjoy it; they tended to become attached to its specific flavor. The series offers a version of television adventure that feels generous rather than cynical. It wants to entertain first. Its jokes are broad but rarely mean-spirited, its action is energetic without becoming joyless, and its heroes are allowed to be capable, kind, foolish, and enthusiastic at the same time. Campbell’s performance became central to his larger cult-TV identity, while Carry’s Bowler remains one of the great underrated sidekicks in genre television. Even the show’s oddities—the Orb, the outlandish gadgets, the deliberately pulpy villains, the historical inaccuracies played for laughs—are not flaws to fans. They are the reason the series has lasted in memory.
Ultimately, The Adventures of Brisco County, Jr. is a lovable one-season wonder because it refuses to fit neatly into a box. It is a Western that looks toward the future, an action series that enjoys making its hero the punchline, and a sci-fi adventure that never loses sight of the human fun of two bounty hunters bickering their way across the frontier. Its cancellation remains disappointing because there was clearly more territory to explore, especially with Brisco, Bowler, Bly, and the Orb mythology. But the short run also preserves the show’s charm. It never had time to become routine. It remains a fast, funny, deeply peculiar burst of television imagination—and a reminder that sometimes the most enduring cult shows are the ones too weird, too ambitious, and too specific to become ordinary hits.
4 Shots From 4 Films is just what it says it is, 4 shots from 4 of our favorite films. As opposed to the reviews and recaps that we usually post, 4 Shots From 4 Films lets the visuals do the talking.
On September 30th, it will have been 71 years since James Dean was killed in a tragic car accident. At the time of his death, he had already filmed East of Eden, Rebel Without A Cause, and Giant. East of Eden would be the only one of his starring roles that Dean would live to see. Dean went on to be nominated for two posthumous academy awards and, in death, he became an icon that will live forever.
In honor of James Dean’s career and his legacy, here are….
“I think I finally figured out my new song, ‘Los Angeles’, this morning. They got one in South Patagonia, they got another Los Angeles in Mexico, they got so many Los Angeleses. Bangkok has a Los Angeles, I read recently. I imagine there’s a lot of places in the world named City Of Angels. I wrote about a futuristic one too: ‘They got one in 2525, where it’s just like a beehive.’ I mean that kind of Los Angeles you might see in a film like Blade Runner.”
— Frank Black in VOX, Issue 30, March 1993
In 1993, after the Pixies broke up for the first time, lead singer Black Francis renamed himself Frank Black and embarked on a solo career. Los Angeles was the first single to be released off of Black’s first solo album, Frank Black. According to Black, the song was meant to take place in a futuristic version of Los Angeles, much like the one seen in Blade Runner. The first time I ever heard the song, I misheard nearly every lyric and I thought it was about a man who Black met, a good man who worked as an insurance agent. (For some reason, my mind always heard “sailing and shoring” as “selling insurance.”)
The video makes it clear that Los Angeles is meant to take place in some sort of future, with Black riding a hovercraft through the desert and looking like an extra from a Mad Max movie. I’m not sure who directed this video. Some sources hint that the video was directed by Black himself but I haven’t been able to find any definite confirmation.
After releasing two solo albums, Black went on to front Frank Black and The Catholics before reuniting with the Pixies and eventually changing his name back to Black Francis.
Welcome to Late Night Retro Television Reviews, a feature where we review some of our favorite and least favorite shows of the past! On Tuesdays, I will be reviewing Pacific Blue, a cop show that aired from 1996 to 2000 on the USA Network! It’s currently streaming everywhere, though I’m watching it on Tubi.
This week, the Pumpkin Man strikes! It’s even dumber than it sounds.
Episode 4.18 “Thicker Than Water”
(Dir by Scott Lautanen, originally aired on March 21st, 1999)
A mob lawyer and his wife have been murdered, and for some reason the bicycle patrol is investigating the case instead of Homicide. When it becomes apparent that the lawyer’s son, Andy Jr. (Scotty Cox), has disappeared, Cory makes it her mission to track him down. This is yet another episode where Cory is willing to do whatever it takes to solve the case. Of course, in Cory’s case, that usually means walking around and glaring at people.
Cory discovers that Andy Jr. is with his real mother, a stripper named Angela (Angela Marsden). Angela was the dead lawyer’s mistress. When Cory tracks down Angela, she learns that Andy doesn’t know his father is dead, but he does know that “the Pumpkin Man” came to the house. Meanwhile, the FBI sends over an agent who is big and bald… JUST LIKE THE LEAD SINGER OF SMASHING PUMPKINS!
You may think that I’m making this up, but no, it’s very, very true. Andy calls the killer the Pumpkin Man because he thinks the killer looks like Billy Corgan. When he sees the FBI agent, Andy shouts, “The Pumpkin Man! SMASHING PUMPKINS!”
Because Cory is currently in hiding with Angela, the bicycle patrol decides to go undercover. Monica gets a job dancing at the strip club. Well, of course she does. Whenever T.C. says that someone is going undercover, that means Monica is going to be looking for clues while undressed. One of the more annoying things about this season is that Monica always does a good job while she’s undercover, but no one ever gives her any credit for it. Instead, the other members of the bike patrol just roll their eyes and give an exasperated sigh whenever Monica says something. If they have a problem with Monica constantly flirting with all of the bad guys, they might want to talk to T.C., since he’s the one who keeps assigning her to do it.
This episode was dumb even by Pacific Blue standards. I already mentioned that it makes no sense for a bunch of uniformed bicycle cops to be investigating a high-profile murder. It also doesn’t really make any sense for a bike cop to go undercover at a strip club. I mean, isn’t that what Vice is for? There’s also a moment where T.C. tells off the FBI for trying to interfere with the investigation. I think the FBI ranks higher than the bike patrol. Finally, the kid playing young Andy was an absolutely lousy actor, and that crooked FBI agent may have been bald, but he still didn’t look that much like Billy Corgan.
Someday I’m going to run out of Pacific Blue episodes to review. It can’t come soon enough.
Through the Shattered Lens 