Having just wrapped up its third and weakest season, Sons of Anarchy hasn’t jumped the shark yet – but they rode their bikes right up to the edge of the ramp and thought about it. Year three is dominated by two things -- Jax’s obsessive search to locate his kidnapped son Abel, know forever after as “The Wee Bay-beh,” and also by a massive amount of action taking place in Ireland.
Yes, like the Brady family’s Hawaiian vacation, the Sons actually pack up and head to Belfast – sorry, to “BELL-FAHHHHst,” in search of wayward Abel. Or rather, their stunt doubles do, as rather than schlep the cast off to Ireland, we’re witness to some of the most awkward second-unit editing and set dressing in recent memory. Manhole covers convincingly scream out, “Port of Belfast.” Large groups of always-helmeted stunt drivers wearing SAMCRO leathers tool their bikes around the actual Irish countryside, always from a distance, always in a group. When the cast is shot supposedly in Ireland, they’ve tried to find California locations that match Ireland for greenery and tweak the filtering somehow -- it is painfully obvious that we’re still somewhere in Cali – not Kerry.
It would be easy to forgive a little sketchy verisimilitude, but unfortunately it’s combined with some very good actors mounting some very bahd Oyrish Ock-cents. I love Titus Welliver, but as rogue IRA bad guy Jimmy O’Phelan, the incredibly talented Welliver is out of his “dapth.” His Jimmy O runs roughshod over so many “Da’s” and “Fa’ers” it will put you off your Guinness. Deadwood veteran Paula Malcomson (she’ll always be Trixie to me) fairs much better – she was actually born in Belfast – but she has to slog through so many "Wev got to thank aboot the weeee bay-behs!" that it’s hard to stave off the eye-rolling. You will be overwhelmed with Liams and Seans and Brogans by the time that they’re through.
You have to admire any show that tries to be more epic, but when Sons starts to feel more like The Boondock Saints, you want the original vibe of the show back! Regulars Kim Coates as Tig and Scot Tommy Flanagan as Chibs really shine in their supporting roles this year. There’s a terrific cameo early on by none other than Stephen King. But the dynamic lost its way this season. As fantastic and intense as Charlie Hunnam is as Jax, the show needs to return equal face time to Ron Perlman as patriarch Clay, who spent far too much time in the shadows in these episodes.
Just when I was ready to skip St. Patrick’s day and call for a ban on any Amercians ever being cast as Irish again, Sons stepped up and redeemed itself with an absolutely killer season finale that rocked and rocked hard. Supreme kudos to Ally Walker’s slithery agent Stahl, who stole every scene she’s in. But best of all, the writing in the finale really came back to full strength and it felt like some healing had finally begun. The shark had been avoided and Sons was back where it belonged.
It was a long strange trip this season, browther, ent oy fur wan um glahd we’re dohne.
Yes, like the Brady family’s Hawaiian vacation, the Sons actually pack up and head to Belfast – sorry, to “BELL-FAHHHHst,” in search of wayward Abel. Or rather, their stunt doubles do, as rather than schlep the cast off to Ireland, we’re witness to some of the most awkward second-unit editing and set dressing in recent memory. Manhole covers convincingly scream out, “Port of Belfast.” Large groups of always-helmeted stunt drivers wearing SAMCRO leathers tool their bikes around the actual Irish countryside, always from a distance, always in a group. When the cast is shot supposedly in Ireland, they’ve tried to find California locations that match Ireland for greenery and tweak the filtering somehow -- it is painfully obvious that we’re still somewhere in Cali – not Kerry.
It would be easy to forgive a little sketchy verisimilitude, but unfortunately it’s combined with some very good actors mounting some very bahd Oyrish Ock-cents. I love Titus Welliver, but as rogue IRA bad guy Jimmy O’Phelan, the incredibly talented Welliver is out of his “dapth.” His Jimmy O runs roughshod over so many “Da’s” and “Fa’ers” it will put you off your Guinness. Deadwood veteran Paula Malcomson (she’ll always be Trixie to me) fairs much better – she was actually born in Belfast – but she has to slog through so many "Wev got to thank aboot the weeee bay-behs!" that it’s hard to stave off the eye-rolling. You will be overwhelmed with Liams and Seans and Brogans by the time that they’re through.
You have to admire any show that tries to be more epic, but when Sons starts to feel more like The Boondock Saints, you want the original vibe of the show back! Regulars Kim Coates as Tig and Scot Tommy Flanagan as Chibs really shine in their supporting roles this year. There’s a terrific cameo early on by none other than Stephen King. But the dynamic lost its way this season. As fantastic and intense as Charlie Hunnam is as Jax, the show needs to return equal face time to Ron Perlman as patriarch Clay, who spent far too much time in the shadows in these episodes.
Just when I was ready to skip St. Patrick’s day and call for a ban on any Amercians ever being cast as Irish again, Sons stepped up and redeemed itself with an absolutely killer season finale that rocked and rocked hard. Supreme kudos to Ally Walker’s slithery agent Stahl, who stole every scene she’s in. But best of all, the writing in the finale really came back to full strength and it felt like some healing had finally begun. The shark had been avoided and Sons was back where it belonged.
It was a long strange trip this season, browther, ent oy fur wan um glahd we’re dohne.
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