Toward the end of the sixty-sixth annual Emmy Awards, hosted by Seth Meyers, on NBC, Julianna Margulies won for lead actress in a drama series and said, “What a wonderful time for women on television!” And she’s right—it’s the golden age of television, as we’re well aware, a time of complex, well-written roles for women as inmates, teachers, detectives, lawyers, veeps, and Targaryens. But when Margulies said this, a big laugh went up on Twitter, and in living rooms all over the country—because, yet again, we’d been watching an Emmys show whose jokes were not so golden age. Minutes before, we’d witnessed Sofia Vergara, in a long white dress, spinning on a pedestal while Bruce Rosenblum, the president of the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences, stood next to her and said, “Our success is based on always giving the viewer something compelling to watch.” Eew!
Meyers made several jokes last night about the changing nature of television—the rise of cable and Netflix with their prestige dramas and comedies, and the relative stodginess of network television. As in recent years, the Emmy program seemed to want to bask in that prestige while staying true to its own nature: pleased with itself and a little smarmy. If some director or other less famous person accepted an award, a helpful graphic would appear underneath as he or she spoke, assuring you that a real star, like Jimmy Fallon or Matthew McConaughey, would be onscreen in seven minutes.
Much has been written about late-night television in recent months, with many people wondering aloud about the relevance and vitality of the late-night talk-show format, which is still wildly dominated by white men. In the logic of NBC and convention, there was no other choice to replace Jimmy Fallon than Seth Meyers, long the head writer of “Saturday Night Live” and a veteran “Weekend Update” anchor. But Meyers in many ways seems to embody the obsolescence of the genre. He was a fine fake newsman on “Weekend Update,” but as a person—a real host, a presence—he seems to have little at stake other than his own success or failure, as measured by the success of his jokes. You don’t feel any passion, personality, or vulnerability. But he does a fine job razzing the industry. “MTV still has an awards show for music videos even though they no longer show music videos,” he said in his opening monologue. “That’s like network TV holding an awards show and giving all the trophies to cable and Netflix.” Cut to a delighted Kevin Spacey, of Netflix’s “House of Cards,” laughing and having the time of his life. Meyers made several jokes about when the Emmys were being held—on a Monday, not a Sunday. O.K., that’s different. But who cares? Then, gleefully, Meyers delivered this clever speech:
Repulsive! But I’m glad I know about “booty-call friend,” a fun, gentlemanly way to get “fuck buddy” past the network censors. Meyers doesn’t seem to realize, either, that if you’re the world’s most establishment white guy, you might avoid a “New phone. Who dis?” joke. Or, this line, when introducing Zooey Deschanel and Allison Williams: “One is known for a show where she has bangs, one is known for a show where everyone bangs.” Thanks, Samantha.
Humanity returned when Louis C.K. won for comedy writing, for “Louie.” He smiled big, looked happy, and looked great in his tux—a touching detail, since comedian Louie is so often in deliberate comfort-wear, talking about the horrors of the middle-aged body. He held his Emmy and smiled. “Thank you, that’s very nice, I appreciate that!” he said. It felt, possibly, like the night’s first moment of sincerity. “I want to thank Sarah Baker, who played the main role in the episode,” he said.
“I’d like to thank Ron Lynch, who gave me my first shot as a comedian, and Conan O’Brien who gave me my first job on television, and that goes way back.” He was humble, warm, and likable. Likable, too, to my surprise, was Jimmy Kimmel, who normally seems like a smug bully—he came out and teased Matthew McConaughey. (“I happen to know he traded his TV for a conch shell full of weed.… You just won the Oscar like five months ago. No offense, but how many of those speeches of yours are we supposed to sit through?”) McConaughey looked delighted. Kimmel wasn’t kind, exactly, but he had personality and ideas—I’ll take it. He ended with a shout-out to Tracy Morgan, who’s recovering from a tour-bus crash; this was a welcome note of decency. “We’ll see you next year, Tracy,” Kimmel said.
As the night went on, we heard the “Modern Family” song too many times—a sound that for me, in Emmys past, has become synonymous with rage—in part because the “Family” members expect that they’ll be onstage, winning things, and they seem a little too comfortable with noodling around while they’re there. Gail Mancuso, who won for comedy directing, dragged out a joke about how she was going to look McConaughey in the eyes during her speech; Ty Burrell, who won for supporting actor in a comedy series, read a speech that he claimed was written by the kids in the cast, which was probably intended to be a charming bit of self-deprecation but ended up being the opposite.
It was mildly fun when Julia Louis-Dreyfus and Bryan Cranston, presenting another award, made a little joke about when Cranston had played Tim Watley, the dentist who dates Elaine and converts to Judaism for the jokes, on “Seinfeld”—a tip of the hat to the era when we were just lovable network-watching slobs, tuning in to dependable nuts-and-bolts TV like “Seinfeld” on Thursday nights like the innocents we were.
Jim Parsons, winning yet again for his role as Sheldon on “The Big Bang Theory,” seemed humble and sincere, even apologetic. “There’s no accounting for taste,” he said. “Modern Family,” take note.
Then Julia Louis-Dreyfus won for “Veep.” On her way to the stage, Cranston leapt into the aisle and kissed her—a callback that took the form of a makeout, and which was all the more impressive for being reliant on her winning. “He was on 'Seinfeld,' ” Louis-Dreyfus said when she took the stage.
In the category of supporting actor in a miniseries or movie, dominated by actors from HBO’s long-time-coming adaptation of Larry Kramer’s “The Normal Heart”—Come on, “Normal Heart!,” I thought—all five heads in the multi-cam shot seemed surprised when Martin Freeman, of “Sherlock,” won. And Freeman’s head wasn’t even moving—he wasn’t there. Nor was “Sherlock” ’s Benedict Cumberbatch, who later beat out “The Normal Heart” ’s Mark Ruffalo. Nothing against “Sherlock,” but it didn’t feel right.
Even poor Weird Al Yankovic seemed deflated in this setting; his performance of TV themes with made-up lyrics—a seemingly fun idea—was barely weird at all. His version of “Mad Men” even brought to mind the eerie Allison Williams rendition of the theme a few years ago. In any case, I’ll take the Weird Al idea over last year’s freakiness, the “Breaking Bad” dancers in hazmat suits, any day.
Julianna Margulies beamed when she announced the Emmy for best TV movie: “The Normal Heart.” Excellent. The cast, the director, Ryan Murphy, and the writer, Larry Kramer, came onstage. The crowd gave a standing ovation. Kramer, frail, bundled up in a coat and scarf, wore an ACT UP hat. He used a cane. Murphy said, “We’re only here because of one person, and that’s Mr. Larry Kramer. We did this for him.” Murphy thanked Julia Roberts and Mark Ruffalo, “who got this movie made.” He said that it had taken thirty years to get it produced. “We’re going to use the remainder of our time to ask the young people watching to become Larry Kramers, to find a cause that you believe in to fight for, that you will die for. Go online, look up AMFAR, look up the Elizabeth Glaser Pediatric AIDS Foundation. This is for all of the hundreds of thousands of artists who have passed from H.I.V./AIDS since 1981. Your memory and your passion burns on in us. And this is for them. Thank you.”
Then, bright and beaming Seth Meyers, unable to perceive or adapt to mood, came bursting back onscreen, yelling, “Now let’s all do our best Ricky Gervais impression and give a huge round of applause for Ricky Gervais!” Not a bad joke, if the moment is right for busting on Ricky Gervais. But it was not the right moment. Then Gervais came onstage, joking at length about how much better he was than everybody else in his category. That was the right time to bust on Ricky Gervais.
More weirdness came when the wonderful Stephen Colbert won for, as Gwen Stefani put it, “The Colbort Report,” and when Jimmy Fallon and Colbort did a bit pretending that Fallon was claiming the award because she said it wrong. Colbert whispered in Fallon’s ear, and then, when that was over, thanked his excellent team of writers, a bunch of guys “and one woman—sorry for that, for some reason.” I can’t believe that he meant to be dismissive, but he sounded it. And then we got to see Sofia Vergara, spinning interminably on that revolving platform.
Before the show began, and I remembered that we’d have the whole “Breaking Bad” spectacle resurrected, I was pre-exhausted. I loved “Breaking Bad,” but we’d done it all already—the hailing of Vince Gilligan as a genius, the passionate speeches about journeys travelled and the good people of Albuquerque. Yet in the context of this Emmys show, I welcomed it. I would have loved to see Josh Charles win supporting actor in a dramatic series for his last season on “The Good Wife,” but there was no denying Aaron Paul, or any of the “Breaking Bad”ders—it’s like they excitedly invented a religion and we are all still touched by it. “I feel like I’m gonna throw up,” Paul said. He feels things, there’s no denying it. “Breaking Bad, it has changed my life. I’m standing up here because of one man: Vince Gilligan.” And so on. He thanked his wife for marrying him and for spreading kindness across the globe, giving us a Web site to refer to see how she did it, and he danced off the stage, pumping his Emmy.
The In Memoriam segment, like the Weird Al segment, seemed to mess with and deflate, rather than honor, the emotions that it was meant to produce, setting its slide show of beloved faces—Casey Kasem, Mesach Taylor, the Professor from “Gilligan’s Island,” Eli Wallach, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Peter O’Toole, Don Pardo, Shirley Temple, Ruby Dee, Marcia Wallace (on “The Bob Newhart Show” and “The Simpsons,” in a nice touch), Ramis, Stritch, and others—to Charlie Chaplin’s “Smile,” sung by Sara Bareilles.* It ended, of course, with a picture of Robin Williams, and Bareilles singing, “You'll find that life is still worthwhile, if you just smile.” Another well-intentioned but awful moment. Never have I been so grateful to see Billy Crystal.
“He made us laugh, hard. Every time you saw him,” Crystal began. “On televisions, movies, night clubs, arenas, hospitals, homeless shelters for our troops overseas, and even in a dying girl’s living room for her last wish,” he went on. Crystal, Williams’s longtime friend and peer, was moved, warm, loving, sentimental. He ended on a celestial note, then said, “Robin Williams—what a concept.”
Clips showed Williams as we remember him: loving, hyper, naughty, innocent.
The rest of the night belonged mostly to “Breaking Bad”—Anna Gunn, for best supporting actress in a drama, Moira Walley-Beckett, for writing* the “Ozymandias” episode, Cranston, for actor (“I’d like to dedicate this award to all the Sneaky Petes of the world,” he said, referring to a family nickname), and the show itself, for best dramatic series. “This is indeed a wonderful time to be working in television,” Gilligan said, looking like a Sneaky Pete himself. The cast stood behind him, elegant, reunited, wearing black, thrilled one more time with the magic that their hyperviolent meth-and-Nazis show inspired in all of us. The get-off-the-stage music started to play as Gilligan was wrapping up his warm and non-indulgent speech, in the final seconds of “Breaking Bad” ’s moment.
Seth Meyers, peppy as ever, ended with one last Monday joke. “Only four days till the weekend!” he said. T.G.I.M., everybody.
*Correction: An earlier version of this post misidentified Moira Walley-Beckett’s award, and the composer of “Smile.”