Rainn Wilson's Cranky Detective Backstrom Continues to be a Genius/Jerk in the Woefully Cliched "Bella"
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For Everett Backstrom, the brilliant, troubled detective Rainn Wilson plays in Backstrom, a cigar is more than just a distinctive prop. In this case, at least, a cigar is most assuredly not just a cigar. It’s his way of saying, “I’m here, I’m deeply unpleasant, and I don’t care who I offend or annoy with my noxious cigar smoke.”
There’s the phallic component, of course. Backstrom takes perverse pride in being a real dick to everyone around him, with the notable exception of velvet-voiced veteran colleague Detective Sergeant John Almond (Dennis Haysbert).
Haysbert’s fame as a ubiquitous voiceover artist, particularly through television commercials, proves distracting.
Now, when I see, or more importantly, hear Haysbert, my dumb brain wonders what the guy from the Allstate commercials is doing pretending to be a detective. Haysbert has had such an impressive career in television and film that it seems beneath him to have a supporting role on a small-screen turkey like this.
I couldn’t help but wonder what Haysbert is doing in a thankless supporting role in a bad television show. The answer, I suspect, is that he is making a large sum of money for doing a small amount of easy work.
Haysbert is not breaking a sweat here. He’s not challenging himself as an actor or trying to understand the character and his world. He’s just a professional picking up a paycheck.
There’s a nice moment when Almond bails Backstrom out of a jam when he’s dumped nearly naked out of an ambulance by rage-filled firefighters hungry for vengeance.
Almond is the only person Backstrom treats with respect. He’s also the only supporting character that he does not make a special point of insulting gratuitously. In this refreshingly quiet moment, Backstrom and Almond connect because they hold each other in high regard.
Of course, EVERYONE holds Backstrom in high regard due to his reputation as a contemporary Sherlock Holmes, with the notable exception of the D’Agonistino brothers, a pair of firefighting jocks who made Li ’l Backstrom’s life a living hell when they were children.
This is supposed to humanize the character, but Wilson commits to the character’s comic arrogance so intensely that it’s difficult, if not impossible, to feel sorry for him. The cliche about the arrogant and narcissistic is that they’re overcompensating for deep-seated insecurity.
In this episode in particular, we’re supposed to have empathy and compassion for Backstrom, the chubby geek being tormented by the jocks and the popular kids.
In a related development, Backstrom immediately decides that a series of arsons that plagued Seattle and then Backstrom’s hometown of Portland, Oregon, were set to cover up thefts.
Backstrom very conveniently asserts that the D’Agonistinos, his personal nemeses, whom he still despises with the proverbial white-hot burning passion, are not only not the heroes they profess to be but rather arsonist thieves.
Backstrom trusts his gut because he thinks, with reason, that he is unusually, even uniquely intuitive and brilliant.
Do you know who else trusts his gut? Donald Trump. In The Art of the Deal, a book Tony Schwartz ghostwrote specifically to make Trump seem like an arrogant lunatic, Trump writes about how much he trusts his gut because it never steers him wrong.
Saying that you go with your gut is an arrogant way of saying that you don’t feel the need to waste time with facts, information, and experience when you have hunches and concepts for plans.
Trump saw the detectives on TV go with their gut and figured that since he had the greatest instincts of anyone who has ever lived, he should follow suit.
Backstrom doesn’t mind seeming arrogant and narcissistic. His prickliness serves a purpose: it pushes well-meaning people away so that he can continue to experience a life of sadness and solitude.
I’m new to police procedurals, so it’s fascinating learning the ubiquitous cliches of the genre. Early in the episode, for example, there’s a walk and talk in which a supporting character essentially rattles off all of the episode’s exposition in a giant info dump that feels relatively organic because a detective being brought up to speed on a case would need all of that information.
I’m more amused by Backstrom’s sidekick, tenant, and connection, Gregory Valentine (Thomas Dekker), a gay goth hustler and career criminal who snitches on his criminal associates for his best friend, Backstrom.
It’s an archetype most famously embodied by Samuel “Skinny Boy” Skinner on the pilot episode of Chief Wiggum, P.I and Police Squad’s appropriately named Johnny the Snitch. It’s a ridiculous caricature that Dekker plays with a light touch. He knows just how ridiculous the character is and has fun with it.
While Backstrom hypothesizes that his childhood bullies are to blame for a string of arsons/robberies, another suspect emerges in a sexy fire artist/shameless red herring who specializes in the same kind of fire as the ones being investigated.
Backstrom seems to work backward. He’ll dramatically declare someone guilty, then look for evidence to support his contention. Yet because he’s so damned smart and his instincts are so impeccable, he gets away with it. He gets away with everything. You can do that if you’re a brilliant white straight man in a position of authority. Backstrom breaks many, if not all, the rules, but his coworkers cover his ass on account of his peerless genius.
Late in the episode, he seems to be experiencing a cardiac arrest, which is supposed to further humanize the antihero. It’s canonical that Backstrom is in very bad health, exacerbated by his drinking and smoking.
Movies and television shows about alcoholics use two forms of lazy shorthand to indicate that a character has a drinking problem. First and foremost, a character will swill hard liquor straight from the bottle. They need to get the poison in their body as quickly as possible. They don’t have time for extra steps like procuring a glass and then pouring the alcohol into it.
The second way to illustrate lazily that a character should be in Alcoholics Anonymous is to have them use hotel bottles to turn boring, non-alcoholic coffee into a boozy treat.
Backstrom employs both of these lazy signifiers in one episode alone. It’s not about subverting or suspending up cliches and conventions so much as it’s about serving them straight.
The show shares the universe’s deference toward Backstrom. We should think it’s profound when he says, “The truth is always dark. That’s how you know it’s the truth,” instead of rolling our eyes in annoyance.
Backstrom has what appears to be a cardiac arrest late in the episode. This is supposed to further humanize the character even further by emphasizing his fragile health and mortality.
It rings false, however. That is also true of a closing shot in which Backstrom retrieves his beloved childhood kite and lets it soar in the park. Backstrom is a boy again, lost in a world of wholesome, innocent pleasures. It should be poignant, but it’s not.
I find this journey weirdly fascinating because it takes me to a world I don’t know but feels familiar. Backstrom borders on self-parodic. It almost feels like a spoof of shows like Monk.
It’s not good, but it is, at the very least, reasonably engaging. I’m not particularly impressed by the show, but it’s a painless way to waste forty minutes.
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