Last night, I sat down to watch the first two episodes of “American Horror Story.” Three minutes into the second episode, I said, “I don’t want to do this” and turned it off. To be fair, that’s as much a criticism of the show as a statement about who I am as a viewer: I’m not enamored with horror stories, and I’m not intrigued by “Lost”-style mysteries and unseen evils.
“American Horror Story” has a lot of good things going for it: some complex, interesting characters portrayed by strong actors; creepy, weird scenes filmed in an alluring visual style; and a house full of violent mysteries that play out in frightening ways. It has all the right pieces, but it doesn’t add up to a series that I want to watch.
The show, from “Glee” and “Nip/Tuck” creators Ryan Murphy and Brad Falchuk, stars Dylan McDermott and Connie Britton as Ben and Vivian Harmon, a married couple who move into a haunted house for a fresh start after a devastating miscarriage and Ben’s affair with a younger woman. Taissa Farmiga plays their annoying teenage daughter, and Jessica Lange is excellent as Constance, a forthright and quietly menacing neighbor. Frances Conroy (“Six Feet Under”) shows up as the housekeeper, except Ben sees her as a sexy young maid (Alexandra Breckenridge of “True Blood,” pictured at right) who keeps trying to seduce him.
Right off the bat, “AHS” lets you know that it’s gonna be creepy and weird. The pilot opens with a flashback to 1978, and the first 20 seconds include a wind chime made from the skeleton of a small mammal, a pair of annoying ginger twins with braces, and a girl with Down syndrome telling the twins they’re going to die. Bravo to Murphy and Falchuk, winners of the 2011 Creepy Triple Crown.
Over the next hour, the characters are introduced and we get to see Jessica Lange call her retarded daughter a “mongoloid,” Dylan McDermott’s bare ass, some mysterious evil in the basement, pyromaniacal sleepwalking, and Connie Britton enjoying freaky S&M rubber suit sex. All of those things are cool — even McDermott’s ass — but it feels more like a collection of jumbled “Look how crazy this is!” scenes and less like a cohesive story.
Nothing captures that sentiment better than the opening credits: the camera cuts quickly between old pictures catching flame, title cards with the show’s eye-catching font, and strange objects collected in jars while a discordant tune with heavy distortion sets a dark mood. Murphy has promised that the credits offer hints to the show’s mysteries, but instead of sparking my curiosity, it just makes me think, “Yup, that’s weird.” In essence, the credits are a microcosm of “American Horror Story”: visually striking, but lacking cohesion.
