The Shat came backAs anyone who’s ever met a Canadian knows, we are duty bound to point out celebrities who hail from The Great White North. Not in a boastful way, mind you, just slipped gently into the conversation, e.g.: Non-Canadian: I can’t talk right now, I’m watching Jeopardy. And so it goes. There are, however, some celebrities that certain among us do not feel compelled to identify: Bryan Adams, Céline Dion, Pamela Anderson, those weird Tilly sisters… and, up until recently, William Shatner was high up on that list for me. He always struck me as a mere smirking scenery chewer, a lumbering self-satisfied joke. And, genius as they were, shows like TJ Hooker (for some reason, still showing here in France) did nothing to change my mind. Au contraire, mon shatnaire. (I suppose it’s only right to point out here that I have a special loathing of Star Trek, and please don’t try to convert me. Far too many have tried, including an older brother whose argument usually concluded with a punch in the face – only because I thought we should be watching Gilligan’s Island – and several university professors after too many doobies: It’s totally existential, man, bold philosophy, explores every facet of human existence.) Then, a couple of years ago I saw this. I watched it over and over, laughing myself silly each time, and spent days yelling out ‘It’s a Chevy van!’ in response to any question. Then I began to notice Shatner parodying himself all over the place, looking befuddled and tumbling off the hoods of cars, and felt myself coming around. There’s something deeply appealing and redemptive about self-mockery, particularly among the famous, even more so among celebrities become cult icons for stony-faced cartoon heroics, and most of all by those who are frank about having been trampled by the system, having experienced their nadir. Then came the perfect Has Been album with Ben Folds – an unexpected earnest passion in songs of loss and fumbling and slow self-realisation; by track three you’re almost ready to forget Mr. Tambourine Man ever happened. Or at the very least to forgive. But it wasn’t until Denny Crane that Shatner became my hero. Boston Legal is a truly awful show, full of ludicrous and expedient impossibilities, but the scenes between Shatner and James Spader are pure gold (all the rest warrants fast forward). As he struts down the halls in slick, hugging the pudge three-piece suits, playing the overripe, opaque bully who never learns his lesson, the Shat has the face of a has-been, carrying that air of having been to the brink and always threatened with going back. But there he is, gobbling up the scenery and upstaging them all, clearly delighted and a little surprised to be back, and still here – laughing at himself, and all those who take any of it too seriously. William Shatner? Canadian.
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