I’ve been catching up on Heroes (the link is to the first episode on NBC’s website). Episode 18 “Parasite” has an establishing shot of Las Vegas, an aerial view in daylight, which I did not recognize because establishing shots of Las Vegas are traditionally street-level and nocturnal, emphasizing the blinkenlights. (Though if the shot were longer I might guess it from the eccentric architecture and the distant mountains.) I knew it was Vegas because Hiro, last seen there, was in the next shot. I wonder what fraction of the viewers were as clueless as I was.

I’m surprised to see it acknowledged in two teevee shows that heroin is useful as a painkiller. (Charlie Stross, a former pharmacist, mentioned that “diamorphine (aka Heroin™) is carried routinely in ambulances in the UK.”)

In the first series of 24, Jackie’s arm is broken and her kidnappers inject her to keep her quiet. Kim, her fellow kidnappee, starts to protest but appears to accept that it’s the least bad thing to do at the moment. (I don’t think the drug is named, but the paraphernalia are those of heroin.)

Late in the second season of Lost, (spoiler) lies dying of (spoiler) wounds and Jack, MD, gives heroin — very explicitly this time.

Both shows were broadcast, not in the Freer Speech Zone of premium cable. So where’s the uproar from drug-warriors that they contradicted Official Truth?

I’ve seen it a hundred times: the TV detective says “I think we’d better continue this conversation at the police station,” and the interrogee meekly gets into the car. Just once (and I thought I’d already said this) I’d like to hear the suspect say “No thanks, I’m comfortable here,” or “Suit yourself; do you have my phone number?”

I’m currently absorbed in Veronica Mars, which early in the second season came close to fulfilling my dream:

DEPUTY SACHS: The sheriff would like to have a word with you.

LOGAN ECHOLLS: And I’d like to be the cream filling of an Olsen Twins sandwich, but — [shrugs]

DEPUTY: Will you come with me please?

LOGAN: If I’m under arrest, then do me the courtesy of making it all official-like.

In Cold Blood (dir. Richard Brooks, 1967). Didn’t grab me; perhaps another time.

Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner (dir. Stanley Kramer). In 1967 I suppose the subject matter was enough to carry it, but now the script is rather thin.

Quatermass and the Pit (dir. Roy Ward Baker, 1967). Fluff.

Cool Hand Luke (dir. Stuart Rosenberg, 1967). Worth seeing. The famous tagline, when it came, seemed a bit out of place; the warden says it in the next breath after ordering Luke to cease attempting to communicate.

Wait Until Dark (dir. Terence Young, 1967). Highly recommended.

Batman serial (1943). Interesting as an example of the trash they could get away with back then.

Le Samouraï (The Godson) (dir. Jean-Pierre Melville, 1967). Essentially a character portrait, but the character is a black box.

Safety Last (1923) and other short films with Harold Lloyd. Good fun.

scene cut from Who Framed Roger Rabbit

Today I watched Inside Man, my first Spike Lee joint since She’s Gotta Have It (1986) and, even more surprisingly, my first Denzel Washington ever. It’s swell. My housemate said after the opening shot, “Clive Owen is so great I’ll even watch him doing an American accent.”

I also watched an hour of Vermilion Pleasure Night, a Japanese cult tv show. Um. Imagine the most annoying of SNL’s recurring bits all strung together . . . .

Woo hoo, the first season of The Wild Wild West is out on disc.

To the question “Who is your favorite James Bond?”, I always say Robert Conrad.