I’ve always been open about my addictions and have taken a perverse
pride in the fact that they’ve never interfered with my ability to be a
functional—if often unemployed—member of society. For example, in
college when my Absolut-fueled existence earned me the nickname Big
Drink and a reputation for passing out in flower beds, I still brushed
the soil off my shirt and stumbled to my 8 a.m. Italian class without
ever having to drop a mi dispiace to explain my absence.
Since
then, I’ve had brief but infinitely solvable issues with Marlboro Reds
and Diet Coke, along an outstanding Visa balance big enough to have
purchased several sovereign nations. None of these things ever wrecked
my world like what I’m fighting now, my ever-growing obsession with Law & Order: SVU.
"In the criminal justice system, sexually based offenses are considered especially heinous. In New York City, the dedicated detectives who investigate these vicious felonies are members of an elite squad known as the Special Victims Unit. These are their stories."
- The voiceover in the opening credits of Law & Order: SVU
I…will…die alone
I will diiiiie
I will diiiiie
Alo-o-o-one
As long as I
Keeeep watching SVU-U-U-U
I will die alone
- Lyrics I’ve written for the SVU theme song, which you should start singing when Mariska Hargitay’s name appears onscreen and continue until the “Created by Dick Wolf” title card
I’m not sure how this started, how I became unable to leave the house until I’d buried my ass in the sofa cushions for a pair of hours to watch as creepy pediatricians or jealous exes eventually end up handcuffed with their cheekbones pressed into a concrete sidewalk.
Just like any drug, the fact that it’s readily available probably makes it that much harder to resists and since SVU airs on no less than four networks I’m billed for monthly, I can spend almost any afternoon flipping from channel to channel, watching Mariska Hargitay’s hair grow out and noting Christopher Meloni’s single slightly constipated-looking facial expression.
For years, I was immune to any incarnation of Law & Order and only recall watching one SVU ep in its entirity, the one where the Unfortunate Looking One from Sex & the City—another show I managed to avoid because I was too busy watching baseball—had a handful of personalities and eventually hacked up her family (Season 9, “Alternate”). The only reason I sat still for that sixty minutes was because I’d wrapped up a date and hoped for some end-of-the-evening making out before learning that schizophrenia is a shitty aphrodisiac.
Some form of Law & Order has been on television since 1990 and if we’re all wiped out by This Little Piggy Pandemic, the only things to survive will be cockroaches, Keith Richards, and several episodes of original recipe L&O. The most enduring spinoffs, SVU and Criminal Intent (aka Law & Order: Jeff Goldblum), have recently been joined by ITV’s own Law & Order: UK which—from what I’ve queued up online—is exactly like the others, except the attorneys wear floppy wigs.
None of ‘em have me hooked like Ess Vee You and I don’t know why. The cast is solid enough, with Hargitay and Meloni being joined in the squad room by longtime L&O set piece Richard Belzer, all loose skin and oversized eyeglasses, and ex-rapper Ice-T, the dude who once dropped a song called “Cop Killer”.
With the exception of Belzer’s occasional one-liners, the dialogue is forgettable and the plots are often inane, frequently ending with the “perp” either breaking down in the interrogation room or going batshit insane when they’re dropped in the defendant’s chair.
At this point, I’ve seen enough episodes to 1) know from the twenty word cable guide summary whether it’s one I’ve already caught; and 2) to figure out who the Bad Guy is somewhere between commercials for Boniva and Time-Life Romancing the 70s box sets. Within the first twenty minutes, a shifty-eyed family member, neighbor, or tangentially involved coworker will be dropped into the script and 90% of the time, that’s your guy. Or girl. Or guy dressed as a girl.
If the grieving parents forget to mention their drug-addled son, you know he’s the one who kidnapped their doe-eyed bio-daughter (Season 7, “Blast”). If a baby-killing co-ed’s dad becames overly clingy, it’s because he went all Appalachia on her and fathered his own grandchild (Season 7, “Taboo”). If the special guests are former comedians—say, Martin Short, Bob Saget, or Robin Williams—they absolutely committed whatever crime unfolds before the opening credits (Season 6, “Pure”; Season 8, “Choreographed”; Season 9, “Authority”).
I’ve tried to deploy my budding detective skills to figure out what dragged me into SVU in the first place, but I can’t. After spending FOURTEEN HOURS several Saturdays ago watching USA’s all-day marathon and trying to build a bedsore, I decided that maybe it is the predictability, the fact that there are problems that can be solved in the sixty minutes before Dick Wolf’s name scrolls onscreen. The day I figure it out is the day I can finally unplug my DVR and walk away. Right after I find out whose tiger ate that poor hooker.