Written by Mike Hale Kenan Thompson, in his opening remarks at the 74th Primetime Emmy Awards, joked about people making television so that all of us could “watch at home on television.” But were we? I was watching on Peacock instead of NBC. I imagine it was a pretty similar experience, except that instead of ignoring commercials, I was ignoring floating circular graphics set to elevator music. The Emmys got back on a big stage in a big room, the Microsoft Theater in Los Angeles, but they did a better job of getting past COVID-19 than they did of losing the big streaming-video chip on their shoulder. For one more year, we got the weird spectacle of broadcast TV nervously proclaiming its relevance as if it wouldn’t have the chance to do so much longer. After Oprah Winfrey celebrated TV as “the most successful broadcast medium” in the world (kind of the modern definition of faint praise) and Thompson, the host, declared himself “so grateful to be welcomed into your living rooms for the past 30 years” — and after a couple of very unsubtle jabs at Netflix’s recent business setbacks — the show settled into an amiable and inoffensive, formless and graceless groove. Not much to get excited about; not much to get upset about. Another one in the books. There were things to puzzle over, like the hospital-show montage tacked onto the beginning of an unrelated award presentation as a way of noting the toll of the pandemic, or the closed captions carrying extra thank-yous that some award winners had apparently supplied in advance. (You had to wonder what Julia Garner’s husband thought of being in the caption instead of her acceptance speech.) There seemed to be a consensus, organized or not, to keep it light — to stay away from the troubles and divisions that are defining the world for many people at the moment. A brief nod to COVID-19, a couple of mild jabs at Donald Trump, no mention (that I heard) of abortion or the invasion of Ukraine or, until the very last moments of the show, the death of Queen Elizabeth II. It might have been just as well, because one of the most noticeable aspects of the show was the weakness of the scripted portions. One stab at a topical joke: introducing Christopher Meloni and Mariska Hargitay of the “Law & Order” franchise as “two cops nobody wants defunded.” Lizzo, onstage as a presenter, was quick to point out that her line, “And the Emmy, who in her own way is a really big girl,” had been written by someone else. The speeches given to introducers and presenters were simultaneously banal and disjointed, seemingly half written; surely Steve Martin, Martin Short and Selena Gomez wrote their own lines, a glorious, extended cascade of insults. The sketches, popping up awkwardly after commercial breaks — Kumail Nanjiani as the night’s incompetent bartender; a “Simpsons” segment with the fresh idea of mocking the Hollywood crowd for its reliance on plastic surgery — ran on until their time was up, without any shape or many laughs. (And you would think one of the producers might have noticed that introducing a montage of comedy series by saying that nobody dies in them isn’t going to work when one of the first clips is from “Only Murders in the Building.”) In any case, it’s been the trend in awards shows, even before the pandemic, that the productions have subsided into a forgettable, bland, indifferently produced middle ground, and the memorable moments come almost entirely from the acceptances. Monday’s show had those, beginning with Sheryl Lee Ralph, who belted out a half-sung, half-spoken acceptance of her acting award for “Abbott Elementary,” a powerful moment that jolted the theater to life for a moment and made Lizzo, who had to follow her onstage, look uncharacteristically unsure of herself. Lizzo recovered nicely in her own joyous acceptance of the reality competition award for “Lizzo’s Watch Out for the Big Grrrls.” Jennifer Coolidge was endearing, starting to dance when she was played off after her award for “The White Lotus,” and Michael Keaton and Matthew Macfadyen were moving and eloquent in accepting their acting awards for “Dopesick” and “Succession.” Jerrod Carmichael, a winner for writing his comedy special “Rothaniel,” gave a slow, halting series of thanks that was oddly compelling — you kept waiting for a “but.” And then there was the night’s most entertaining diversion: trying to read the expressions on the faces of the American nominees every time “Squid Game” won an award. Shows like the Emmys and the Oscars used to aspire to elegance, a quality that isn’t so valued now, for reasons both good and bad. Rather than a soiree, the goal is something between a big corporate holiday bash and a frat party, with studied “authenticity” and competitive profanity. There was probably no better example than Quinta Brunson having to deliver her polished and very adult speech while standing over Jimmy Kimmel, who was lying on the stage as part of a dumb bit and wouldn’t get up. Apparently self-indulgence needs representation, too.
