Sometimes Graphic, Not Entirely Novel
You’d be forgiven for thinking that American Gods is adapted from a comic book. The cinematography has a matte sheen to it, like a pair of expensive jeans from 2006…or an oil slick. The direction and script have an aching to be cool that comes dangerously close to the trite insouciance of Deadpool or The Watchmen. The musical selection ranges from the obvious (“A Hard Rain Gonna Fall” plays during a storm) to the eye-rollingly bland (Creedence Clearwater Revival).
Also, the main character is named Shadow Moon.
In fact, American Gods, the new show on Starz (yes, Starz), is adapted from a book. It just happens to be a book written by Neil Gaiman, whose earlier works include the graphic novel series Sandman, as well as the excellent animated horror fairy tale Coraline. The show does not quite measure up to his reputation, nor his previous forays into moving image. That said, we won’t be so dishonest as to claim we aren’t looking forward to the next episode.
We first meet Shadow Moon as he is granted an early release from prison to attend his wife’s funeral. You might presume that a name and back story like that would make you an interesting person. Not so, tells us American Gods. Our hero might as well be called John Doe. Or Mr. Angry Muscles. Or Man With Dark Past In a World He No Longer Understands #1.
Still, had he much of a character, the plot would become a mighty bulky machine to lift off the ground. Character is served up in heavy, heaping doses during these one hour-long episodes. Gods cannot be boring.
They can, however, be cliché.
We meet our first god (played by the ever-watchable Ian McShane) at an airport where Mr. Moon observes him conning his way into first class by pretending to be mentally handicapped. Just who this dark conman is remains a mystery at first, but the clues are sometimes painfully obvious – he likes pale skin and blue eyes, lightning storms seem to follow him around. Once on the plane, he offers Mr. Moon employment as his bodyguard. And so the adventure begins, and thereon out deities never miss an opportunity to pop up - djins of Arabia, leprechauns of Ireland, and gobs of others, old and new (Jillian Anderson turns up as Lucille Ball, the goddess of media with a name eerily similar to Ba’al, the demon from ancient Jewish traditions).
The gist is that in the creation of America’s melting pot, immigrants brought not only their religions, but their very gods. It’s all very inclusive – sort of. Any statement on race/immigration/culture is belied by the casting – many of the actors tasked with portraying these quaintly “ethnic” deities can’t seem muster their respective accents, adding inflections and twangs where they don’t belong, and dropping back into American drawl when shouting or other strong emotions are required. When in doubt, they turn to shock rather than authenticity (cue two Arab men having sex), but the effect is lazy rather than deep. At its worst, American Gods sometimes reminds us of American Horror Story – shock value without much beneath it.
But then, a show doesn’t have to be meaningful to be fun. And we don’t necessarily tune into Starz looking for depth. For the adventure that it is on the surface, American Gods is entirely enjoyable.