There’s a scene in the third episode of “” in which ’s character, Sidney “S.J.” Mussinger, sits down to pitch a TV series to a couple of network executives. Mussinger is a published novelist in good standing, if not high demand, who’s been convinced to try his hand at television because of its lucrative financial rewards. So in he goes, wide-eyed and eager, with nothing but thinly sketched out characters open to a “myriad” of possibilities. The pitch is…interesting, though it’s hard to fault the executives for checking their watches and staring skeptically at Mussinger, unclear as to why he’d think this series about a family of cavemen would be fit for modern audiences. Perhaps these are the executives who should’ve heard the pitch for “Crisis in Six Scenes.” To say “Crisis in Six Scenes” is a disaster would be an overstatement. It holds together well enough as a simple story about an aging couple who take in a wanted Vietnam protester who changes their point of view on politics.
But for the TV executives hearing Mussinger’s pitch, “modern audiences” means people of the late 1960s, and that’s where this period piece belongs. There’s simply little new or striking in the six half-hour episodes, much of which constitute Allen recycling old caricatures spouting the same philosophies and debates we’ve heard from him over the last six decades. Meet Sidney Mussinger, a writer, husband, father, and grandfather who’s more than happy to spend all his time at home, watching baseball and writing stories. His wife, Kay (the great Elaine May), is similarly content as a marriage counselor, handling a small number of patients at her own home and hosting book club meetings in her spare time. The couple is also hosting the son of a family friend in their guest bedroom: Alan (John Magaro) comes from a well-off family and is set up to be well-off himself, working within the banking industry. He’s also found a fiancee during his stay, Ellie (Rachel Brosnahan), and appears to be well on the way to traditional capitalist success.
And then Lenny shows up. Played by Miley Cyrus with stilted line readings (unless she’s insulting someone), Lenny is an activist on the run who tracks down her mother’s old friend Kay in the hopes of temporary sanctuary. Her extremist worldviews quickly infect the home’s occupants, making Alan eager to act out against the Vietnam War, Kay eager to help her close friend’s daughter, and Sidney eager to get the little zealot out of his house. If Allen is to be praised for anything in “Crisis in Six Scenes,” it should be his self-sacrificing role. Allen’s older fanbase will likely see a lot of themselves in the character, but Allen is quick to cast Sidney in the wrong. His opinion and character are often the butt of the joke, feeding the winning lines to the young activist so Lenny can be seen in the right. There could be an argument for Allen making pointed commentary on the cyclical nature of our world’s crises. The Vietnam War may not be a perfect parallel (or even a logical one) to our current national issues, but his larger point is how we’re doing even less to solve our collective woes now than we were then.
However, that would give full credit to half-baked themes in a series clearly made for the money thrown at its creator. “Crisis in Six Scenes” plays like an exasperated filmmaker recycling long-familiar ideas. The best aspect of “Crisis in Six Scenes” is also its most infuriating. There’s a meta narrative that surrounds it, which is only valuable for the honesty in admitting failure. Allen’s character, Mussinger, opens the show sitting in a barber chair, listening to a severe critique of his work before mentioning he’s about to pitch a TV show, which offers good money but the new medium doesn’t seem to excite him. Combine this with the scene at the series’ midpoint in which he actually pitches the show, and a conversation at series’ end about his reaction to the process, and boom: You’ve got yourself a neat and tidy explanation for how Allen made something so unnecessary, if not why he chose this particular story. There are at least two good ideas tucked away to the corners of this series, which more closely resembles a bloated, broken-up film.
(The series clocks in around 142 minutes, maybe 136 without extraneous credits, which would make it the longest movie Allen has ever made.) First, we have Sidney and Kay’s relationship. Free from the anxious skepticism dominating many of Allen’s onscreen couples, these two seem to understand each other in a deep, unflinching manner. Even when he complains too much, Kay handles him with grace and understanding. Later, we see narrative possibility in a romantic comedy of two aging extremists working to bring down the government. Perhaps less opportunistic but more immediately fleshed out is Kay’s book group. Allen has always excelled with large groups, crafting dialogue that allows for ping-pong exchanges. Watching the club progress from bored, batty debates to enlivened, intelligent engagement is sublime; their scenes stand out among the claptrap. Allen has always written well for women, as proven by the 13 Oscar nominations (and four wins) for his female actors.
I wouldn’t be opposed to hearing Elaine May’s name called on Emmys’ morning next year, but she’ll have to overcome an aggressively mediocre series to do it. “Crisis in Six Scenes” wouldn’t have worked in any era — not when we treated TV as the goofy kid brother to film, and especially not now when TV is challenging cinema on every level. We needed the best of Woody Allen; instead, we got an artistic crisis. Stay on top of the latest TV news! Sign up for our TV email newsletter here.I have a complicated relationship with electric trimmers. I typically use the devices to tidy up the edges of my hair line, including my beard and mustache. (The little that I can get to grow, that is.) But here’s the thing: I’ve purchased the same pair of trimmers—the T-Outliner by Andis—at least three times over the past eight years or so. But even though the T-Outliner overheats (not fun on the skin), requires a screwdriver to adjust or change the blade, and has no cordless option, it is powerful and delivers a precise cut.
When I’ve tried alternatives at comparable price points ($50-$60), none have even come close. Ever since Tristan Walker, founder and CEO of the health and beauty startup Walker & Company Brands (which aims to solve problems in the space for underserved customer demographics), revealed to me in his much-discussed Fast Company feature story two years ago that he was developing an electric trimmer, I’ve been giddily (and probably annoyingly) peppering him with questions about the product’s release. Walker: "We’re launching our products in Target!"When’s the trimmer shipping?" Walker: "J.J., Nas just mentioned us in his new single!"Where the trimmers at, tho?" The company finally started shipping the pre-ordered Bevel Trimmer in July—barely past the company’s cushiony "Spring 2016" promise to customers—and since I’ve been in the market for a new trimmer for quite some time, I was excited to get my hands on it. The trimmer marks two important milestones for Walker & Company: It’s their second product offering—a subscription-based shaving system, which combats razor irritation, was the first—and manufacturing it required electrical engineering expertise.
Critics have questioned whether or not Walker & Co., which is based in Palo Alto, qualifies as a tech startup. The Bevel Trimmer should answer that question; it is mostly superior to its rivals. It was shepherded from concept to finished product by Mir Anwar and Mari Sheibley, Walker & Company's director of operations and creative director, respectively, along with some help from the design firm Bone & Black (whose founder, Martin Bone, currently serves as creative director at Eileen Fisher and previously worked at Philips's men's grooming unit). The Bevel Trimmer costs $199 and is marketed as a vast improvement over its rivals. Whereas some cordless trimmers lose power when unplugged, the Bevel Trimmer claims zero power loss. Its blades have a special coating that repels oil and water to prevent residue buildup—I’m too embarrassed to show you my Andis blade—and it also snaps off to reveal a "Bevel Dial" (patent pending) underneath, which can simply be rotated left or right to adjust sharpness—no toolkit required.
Since the trimmer is marketed as a "pro-sumer" device, for both the average Joe and his barber, I decided to first let my ear-lowerer, Lester Greene at De Lux Hair Gallery in Fort Greene, Brooklyn, give me a shape-up using the product. Greene has been cutting my hair for a little more than two years now, and we often discuss new haircare products and techniques I should try—along with work, socio-economic issues, relationships, and all the other sundry topics overheard in primarilyblack barbershops. It has always been obvious that Walker knows this familial relationship well: Walker & Co.’s online lifestyle publication, Bevel Code, features profiles on Kanye’s and President Obama’s barbers, as well as a "Find Your Barber" platform for readers looking for Bevel-approved styles. This relationship is a crucial cross-promotional tool for selling Bevel Trimmer units. For example, I first started using the Andis T-Outliner because a former barber did. Greene, 42, had never heard of Tristan Walker or Bevel—but as we unboxed it, a younger, 30-ish barber visiting from next door ran over with wide eyes: "Oh, is that that new Bevel?!?"
We flipped open the lid of the box and were thanked (via a hand-signed note) from Walker and the musician Nas, a company investor, for our patronage, and were greeted with the words "Welcome To The Bevel Fam" in big white letters under the lid. Though the paper wrapper with the boring product details / certifications was a bit tough to remove, the actual product casing was a delight to open. There was the slow-open, air-tight effect that is most associated with the packaging of Apple products. Right away, Lester loved the design of the trimmer, and started to resemble a kid with a new toy, twirling it in his hands, admiring the grip provided by the faceted surface. Lester said he was in the process of finally going cordless, and was intrigued. "It’s futuristic," he said, as he directed me over to the chair. "It’s very modern, compared to the basic design we’ve been accustomed to for the past 30 years." He continued to shower the trimmer with compliments as he started in on my hairline, fantasizing about how much time he could save with the snap-off blade.
He switched between using the cord and going cordless, and said he couldn’t detect any power loss (though the device was a little loud, either way). Then I noticed that he kept switching back to his standard trimmer, made by Wahl. "Is it giving a close cut?" "Uhh…not the sharpest," he replied with hesitation, and said that he was having to do twice as much work with the Bevel Trimmer than with his old faithful. After a few more minutes I heard him say to the Bevel in his thick Trinidadian accent, "Yeah, I had enough of you," and he finished the rest of the shape-up with his old standby. I was a bit surprised—how could my barber not like the Bevel Trimmer, which had just gotten a ringing endorsement from DJ Khaled on Snapchat? I left the barbershop puzzled, and it wasn’t until I reached out to the company did I realize the issue: The Bevel Dial, which my barber had tinkered with before commencing the cut, wasn’t turned all the way up to the sharpest setting. (In barber speak, this is called "zero-gap."
Some people prefer duller settings to accommodate different types of designs, or soft or sensitive skin.) In Lester’s defense, the knob on the dial is a tad small and hard to turn—neither his hands or mine are exactly Donald Trump-sized—and it’s easy to imagine that he thought the knob was turned completely to the right. Aside from that design tweak, though, Walker & Co. should also consider a more hands-on selling approach for first-time Bevel Trimmer users, since it’s so drastically different from other competitive products (neither Lester nor I even thought to check the Bevel Dial as he complained about its non-sharpness). Though Walker & Co. is still a small company, it has already demonstrated that it understand and appreciates the value of "doing things that don’t scale," as the Silicon Valley adage goes. Whether this takes the form of in-person sales reps or producing how-to videos, barbers and consumers won’t be able to unlock the Bevel Trimmer’s superiority if it feels too foreign.
