Psych You Out in the End

This past Friday finally marked the season premiere of Psych, now in its sophomore go-round on USA. Also known as the return of scripted TV to the wasteland called Our Summer Oh Seven. Honestly, I’m surprised that more networks don’t better use this time as a launching pad for new shows, or old shows, or any shows, what with the abject lack of competition and all, but go figure. At this point I’d watch pretty much anything, with the possible exception of Hidden Palms – seriously, my bar is set just slightly above overwhelming blandness – and nobody’s taking advantage. But this is neither here nor there, unless here is the fact that Psych is generally awesome, and there is the fact that it's on again, and together these make me happy. Onward, to the show:

Overall, the episode was a little uneven. I mean, I like Tim Curry as much as the next girl – Clue is still kind of amazing, and my roommate once hooked up with a guy actually named Tim Curry, which entertained us to no end, for reasons that are still a mystery – but his Simon Cowell impression wore thin after approximately two minutes. Gina Gershon’s cracked-out uni-shoed Paula was a little funnier, but for an even shorter period of time. Ultimately, however, the main problem was that the mystery just wasn’t very, uh, mysterious. I mean, I know that the cases are really just there to let Shawn and Gus do their thang, but C’MON. This one was like an enigma shrouded in lazy, buried in a shoebox filled with nobody cares.

Which brings me to my second-ish point. Are they trying to phase out the whole Shawn-has-mad-crazy-powers-of-observation angle? On the one hand, honestly, it could be a blessing. Lately the zoom/flash/kapow of it all often feels like a bit of an overstatement, contextually. Like, he narrows his eyes and Ziiiiiiink! That lady’s wearing pants! Shawn. I love you, but BFD. That’s called “seeing.” I can do that. On the other hand, back in the days when he could walk into a bar, close his eyes, and recite all nine people there who hated kittens, or didn’t wash their hands after they used the bathroom, or whatever…well, that was pretty fucking cool, and something I could get behind. You’re a fake psychic, dude, and that’s a beautiful thing to be. Work it.

Of course, none of this is to say that I didn’t enjoy the show, overall. The writing is still sharp, the non-sequiturs abound. Not their finest hour, sure, but still possessing of that special Shawn/Gus magic that really charms one’s proverbial pants off. Seriously, James Roday and Dule Hill (great in West Wing, even better here) are so perfectly cast, it’s impossible NOT to secretly think that they’re totally best friends/roommates in real life, and that after a long day of shooting they go home to eat peanut butter & jelly sandwiches together, except that James ate ALL the Crunchy Jiff again, with his fingers, which totally pisses Dule off.