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David E. Kelley is often referred to as a "boy genius." This is odd since, at age forty-six, he's no longer a boy. And, one can argue, he's no longer a genius, either.
Don't get us wrong. He's obviously doing something right. You don't see us Fame-Auditing JAG producer Donald Bellisario, do you?
And in so far as "success" can be measured by hit TV series, critical acclaim, cultural impact, industry awards, money, and movie-star spouses, then, yes, David E. Kelley is a "success."
But in so far as success is measured by making things that actual people actually want to sit down and watch, and that will be remembered long after they're off the air as something more than gimmicky time-wasters...well, then, handing Kelley that designation is a little trickier.
It's easy, of course, to squat on his head right now and squeeze. His latest show, girls club, just flopped big-time. We're talking cancellation-after-two-episodes flop. We're talking finished-sixth-in-its-time-slot, even-behind-Girlfriends-on-UPN flop.
That, friends, is some high-grade flop. That's the pure flop, uncut.
But this is David E. Kelley, right? This is the human hit factory, right? This is the man who gets time-slot commitments from eager networks before his pilots are even shot. This is the man who, not that long ago, mounted the stage at the Emmys twice, his hair all artfully mussed up, after his unprecedented wins for both Best Drama (The Practice) and Best Comedy (Ally McBeal) in the same year.
So isn't Midas allowed to lay a log every now and again?
Well, sure. Yes. Okay. But let's examine the evidence. Kelley's reputation is built on his hit TV shows, and an impressive reputation it is. On the credit side of the ledger, we have Picket Fences, Chicago Hope, Ally McBeal, The Practice, and Boston Public. On the debit side, we have Snoops and, now, girls club. That's a pretty good track record. Except.
Picket Fences. Chicago Hope. Ally McBeal. The Practice. Boston Public. There's not really a Hill Street Blues in the lot of them, is there? Picket Fences was quirky fun on par with, let's say, Northern Exposure. Chicago Hope was always the squeaky little brother to ER. Boston Public is a perpetually retooled placeholder for Fox on Monday nights, that dubiously pairs overly earnest teachers with teenaged girls in their underwear.
Which brings us to those two Emmy winners. Yes, The Practice won a Best Dramatic Series Emmy. But that was in the days before The West Wing and The Sopranos wrapped their meaty mitts in a stranglehold around the statue, like two team captains gripping an upturned baseball bat to see who gets first at-bats. Does anyone seriously think The Practice will ever win that award again? The Practice? Or be remembered fondly even a season after its demise?
Then there's Ally McBeal. Oh, Ally McBeal. Yes, it made a real cultural impact. Calista Flockhart showed up on the cover of Time, for crying out loud. But ten minutes after that issue left the stands, was anyone still enjoying the show? And how did it win Best Comedy, anyway? Was that show even a comedy? Was it really supposed to make people laugh, with all its double-takes and giggly innuendoes and boing-boing sound effects? And would people have paid so much attention to the show for so long if its star wasn't so damned skinny?
More importantly, when the great TV roll is called up yonder, will any of these shows be remembered as classics?
Somehow, David E. Kelley has become a whole greater than the sum of his shows. His genius lies not in the quality if his products, but in the fact that he's cannily developed a brand. We now know what to expect from a "David E. Kelley" show. The pertinent question is: Do we still want to watch a David E. Kelley show?
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