My Diminishing Faith in Smallville

After what feels like several thousand episodes and countless seasons, I'm finally getting tired of Smallville. I'm a very loyal type when it comes to my television programmes; some might say almost obsessively compulsively loyal.

After all, I was there at the bitter end of Quantum Leap, despite almost everyone having realised that Sam was destined to bounce about through time fixing past ills for ever. Taken to its logical conclusion that eventually all severe past ills would be righted, this probably would have entailed future series seeing Sam fixing ills such as a leaky pipe, a grazed knee or spelling mistakes, with Al informing him that 'Ziggy thinks there's a 78% chance that you're here to make sure Mrs Belvedere doesn't get that atrocious hairdo.'

Regardless, even I can belatedly tell when the reward for watching a programme is negligible, non-existent or prolonged pain.

I remember the first series of Smallville fairly vividly. To use an oft-stolen and ball-achingly dull witticism, Superman 90210 was my initial impression. It was fairly engaging though, and despite the standard filler episodes, it was enjoyable enough.

The unrequited love triangles, or rhombuses, or actually, pentagons come to think of it, carried tangible chemistry between the leads. I even forgave the cloying sweetness of Clark's apple-pie family upbringing, as it was counterbalanced fairly well by the disfunctioning enmity of the Luthor clan.

I came close to putting Smallville in a lead-lined box after the diabolically poor season four not only suspended disbelief, but broke its nose and kicked it repeatedly in the testes, before dousing it in petrol and setting fire to it.

Yes, I know, suspension of disbelief in a programme about an alien who can fly, fire heat from his eyeballs, run faster than the speed of sound and assemble an IKEA wardrobe in less than three hours is a dubious thing, but if you'd seen any of the shit-smeared episodes I'm referring to, you'd feel the same way.

Anyway, the worse part of falling out of semi-love with a favourite TV programme is the moment where you finally open your eyes to seeing its myriad flaws as a non-fan would perceive them.

The fact that in almost every single episode, Tom Welling as Clark Kent was asked to react to Kryptonite morphed from being a minor irritant to a full blown crime against humanity. I felt sympathy for the actor, who has probably been directed hundreds of times to show his 'Kryptonite reaction', falling to the floor like a sack of shit in the presence of a substance which is seemingly more common than hydrogen in the Smallville universe.

At least he can take his acting prowess into future roles that require him to fall to the ground like a sack of shit. Perhaps a film about a narcoleptic rentboy, unless it's already been done (it has).

His portrayal of continually refusing to share his secret with his nearest and dearest comes across more as a slight apprehension of being rumbled for eating the last two slices of bread in the house, rather than the crippling existential angst of having to live with a lifetime's secret that would change his existence forever should he choose to reveal it.

Fuck off Lana.

That's probably not a complete paragraph, but the trouble with Lana Lang is that the writers haven't known what to do with her since the end of the first series. After realising that the childhood sweethearts angle was getting a mite tired, they tried to turn her into a witch in one of the most abysmal story arcs ever committed to screen. They tried to turn her into a superpowered spy who feels no pain. They made her kidnap and torture Lionel Luthor. They gave her a phantom pregnancy. They finally wrote her out of the series by permanently suffusing her with enough kryptonite to shrink Clark's gonads for good. Good riddance. Twatbasket*.

After losing the best actors in the series and being left with the inoffensive plank that is Clark surrounded by what feel like cheap imitations of Lex and Co, the series is limping over the line while being harried by feral dogs and homeless people swinging sticks. And I don't think I've got any remaining patience to be there to see it.

As the ultimate rejection, I'm going to watch E4 up to the point that Smallville starts and then swiftly turn over, and then an hour later, watch E4+1 up to the point that Smallville starts and shun it for a second time. As gestures go, it's fairly futile, especially in the days when you can pause live television and shun programmes to your heart's content, but it's time to finally take a stand.

That no-one will notice. Or see. Or care about.

Ahh, fuck it, I'll probably end up watching it.


*an insult shamelessly stolen from the ever-excellent http://ifyoulikeitsomuchwhydontyougolivethere.com