TV adaptations of movies are often spotty because the films people want to adapt tend to be so good that it’s hard for the shows to live up to their reputations. For every Friday Night Lights or M*A*S*H or Buffy that actually managed to outdo its inspiration, the TV graveyard is littered with dozens upon dozens of failures that, if they’re remembered at all, it’s only so we can again ask, “Who thought this was a good idea?”
FX’s Fargo seemed to point a new way forward, by adapting the spirit of the beloved film, along with some broad details (pregnant Minnesota cop, resentful local salesman), but not worrying about doing a straightforward translation. Given both the strength and specificity of the source material, it was a show that had no business working, only it did (for two wonderful seasons, at least, followed by a more uneven third).
Epix’s Get Shorty is adapting a slightly less acclaimed, but still beloved, mid-’90s film, and also taking the Fargo “inspired by” approach. In taking on both the Elmore Leonard novel and the 1995 film starring John Travolta, Dennis Farina, and Danny DeVito, the new version keeps the core concept of “mob enforcer decides to be a movie producer,” but changes everything else.
And, in the process, it shows that copying the Fargo model of not copying the film is harder than it looks.
Our wiseguy for the series (it debuts Sunday night at 10; I’ve seen five episodes) is Miles Daly (Chris O’Dowd), an Irishman somehow working as an enforcer for Pahrump, Nevada crime boss Amara (Lidia Porto). During a stop in LA to collect a debt, he falls into possession of an unsold screenplay that he sees as a way to both reconcile with his ex-wife and daughter, and help Amara find a new way to launder her money(*). Through a mixture of charm, threats, and sheer brute force, Miles and his reluctant partner Louis (Sean Bridgers) rope in basement-dwelling movie producer Rick (Ray Romano), high-strung studio exec April (Megan Stevenson), and an eccentric director (Peter Stormare, who first broke through in America in… Fargo).
(*) Between this and Netflix’s Ozark, it’s a big summer for shows about guys who come up with outlandish schemes to launder drug money.
“Everybody in show business has a different story about how they broke in,” Miles insists to Louis. “Maybe this is our way!”
Creator Davey Holmes (Shameless, In Treatment) was wise to not aim directly at the movie, but his replacement ideas are a mixed bag. The film works in large part because Travolta, writer Scott Frank, and director Barry Sonnenfeld make you believe that Chili Palmer is both a charismatic guy who wants to make a movie, but also a stone killer who can almost casually destroy anyone who stands in his way. Miles is positioned as a family man looking for a way out of his chosen profession, which softens the role enough to perhaps better fit both O’Dowd and the series’ format — though “Make him more sympathetic by giving him a wife and kid” seems like the kind of network note someone would have given in the days of the movie, not after its co-star James Gandolfini moved to TV for The Sopranos — but knocks the tone of the series off-kilter. One minute, Miles’ desire to reunite with his family, or Louis’ growing interest in showbiz, or Rick’s desire to prove he can do more than make straight-to-video exploitation schlock, will be taken absolutely seriously, and the next, someone will get shot in the head as the punchline to a scene. It doesn’t quite work as either black comedy or something more sincere.
Another part of turning a slim story into fodder for a series involves expanding the amount of time we spend back in Pahrump, where Amara is going to war with a rival gang while her hotheaded nephew Yago (Goya Robles) plots behind her back. Amara, who has a dark past and is far more dangerous than the sweet lady she appears to be — even if her original impulse to support Miles’ money-laundering plan comes from a desire to meet John Stamos — is the show’s best and most novel character, but nearly every scene in Nevada plays like filler designed to get us through ten episodes.
Romano has done remarkable dramatic work in recent years on both TV (Men of a Certain Age, Parenthood, Vinyl) and in movies (The Big Sick). Here, though, he’s mainly used for comedy, even if there are hints of Rick seeing Miles’ crazy scheme as a chance to go legit in his own way. It’s a good showcase for Stevenson, best known (to TV critics and the people who follow them obsessively) as chipper AJ Gibbs on Review, here a woman aware of just how tenuous her position in Hollywood is, and how easily a man like Miles can endanger her career as well as her life.
There are fun moments here and there, particular as Louis — whose name Miles impulsively gives as the author of their stolen script — tries to learn what a screenwriter actually does, but Get Shorty on the whole feels like it’s trying too hard to balance the darkness and whimsy of the story, and to extend it across a whole season.
“I know it’s genre,” one of Rick’s actors argues, “but you’ve gotta give the audience something to believe in.”
Get Shorty the movie (and book before it) managed to convince the audience that Chili Palmer could waltz into Hollywood and take over the joint. Get Shorty the show doesn’t offer as much to believe in when it comes to Chili’s TV cousin.
Alan Sepinwall may be reached at sepinwall@uproxx.com. He discusses television weekly on the TV Avalanche podcast.