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fangasmicWhite Collar turned fourteen whole episodes old this week!
By most accounts, it has had a pretty great inaugural season. It was slick! It was timely! It was fun! Importantly, to us, it was gay like balls touching balls! Even as we enjoyed the effervescent oxycodone-induced bespoke high of White Collar, we here at Fanspastic HQ struggled with an existential crisis the entire time we watched this show. Okay, maybe only I struggled with it the most, but we have a standing rule that the person who hates the series the most is required to recap it, so:
The concept is fantastic, and all the series regulars do amazing work and have really excellent chemistry with one another -- but THE WRITING IS SO FUCKING INCONSISTENT. Watching White Collar is like dating a teenaged boy, where one day he will bring you a daisy chain for your hair and tell you he loves your freckles, and then half an hour later calls you fat slut because you won't swallow when you blow him. Like -- what? WHAT? Are you good? Are you terrible? Seriously? I CANNOT TELL.
To be fair, the showrunners probably realized that a significant percentage of their viewership was in it to see Neal and Peter beam at one another adorably and would check back in no matter how nonsensical or AGONIZING the dialog is, which, all right, hats off to you guys for selling a quality product and not cutting it with talc or bleach powder or crushed up chalk or whatever; excuse me while I go roll up a $100 and find a mirror.
Still, the experience of watching White Collar with an editorial eye is one of those things where a person is liable to find themselves collapsed on their living room couch, drunk on pussy booze with a neighbor, staring at the blinking red light on the DVR and having the sort of out-of-body experience, because nobody should ever find themselves at like, 11 p.m. mumbling, "Why are you sculpting shirtless?"
The episode starts with Neal showing up late for a meeting, which means Not As Cool As Lesbian Probie and Jones have coffee but have no coffee for Neal. Some pouting happens, and the explanation of a con that is probably supposed to signify Neal's rapid-fire shifting of priorities throughout the rest of the episode, but actually is pretty forgettable but for the fact that the only person whose coffee isn't ruined is Peter's. Neal knows where his bread is buttered. But obviously not that well because he gets a text -- Hi, Research in Motion product placement, hi, notice how nobody in the White Collar universe uses anything other than a Blackberry, nobody -- and tells Peter that June is throwing a champagne brunch. To not go would be breaking the social contract between gays and their fabulous, rich lady friends the universe over.
See, Peter understands -- White Collar takes a beat to rub it in the faces of people who actually live in New York that New York currently fucking sucks and that it took all its b-roll during the lazy warm breezes of late summer -- and Neal leaves, presumably to stop by Balducci's for some organic strawberries to go along with the Veuve Clicquot, except, OH SNAP. THAT'S NOT CHAMPAGNE OR A BRUNCH.
That's Alex! Telling Neal she knows where the music box he's been looking for to exchange for Kate's freedom is! They can't get at it unless they work together. Nakedly.
In case you can't tell from the gratuitous nudity and sex-noises in water that came out of this scene, thus begins White Collar's violently heavy-handed attempt to make us believe that Neal Caffrey, the guy who went to jail for, broke out of supermax because of, and is willing to throw everything away over Kate, possibly hooks up with Alex. Not just with whores and stuff, or even FBI agents and their hot event planner wives after he walks their dog and they all cuddle up and talk about their white picket fence future, no -- with over-bronzed pickpockets whose hair extensions are a different color than her actual hair.
(Alex as a character is a disappointment. She could have been utilized as a really interesting look into Neal's development as a con artist and thief, as well as a great counterpoint to him in the criminal world -- instead, she keeps getting framed as someone who shares a romantic past with him, which always overshadows any other characterization she might bring to the role. It also does not help that whoever dresses this actress clearly fucking hates her.)
At some point, Neal finds his pants again (probably he folded them carefully and put them somewhere the pool water wouldn't besmirch them) and went home to tell Mozzie the news: that EFWBE (Emaciated Fingersmith With Bad Extensions) Alex revealed that (a) she knows the location of the all-important amber music box that will free Kate and Neal to the wings of love and (b) that she won't help him get to it unless he can ditch his association with the FBI and (c) it's in the Italian consulate.
Neal decides obviously that the best way to do that is not to tell Peter about it and to go to their mortal enemy, Fowler, also known as ugly blond guy we are programed to hate because he is mean to Peter. It's simplistic, but it works, because seriously, seriously I fucking hate that dude.
Mozzie thinks it's an idiot idea. (So do we, Moz.) And meanwhile, in BKLYN MOTHERFUCKERS Peter is staring at an embarrassment -- literally, an embarrassment -- of Google Map printouts and preparing to torture Neal with deviled ham sandwiches on a stakeout. (What? Are they even working on a case?) El wants to know why Peter isstalking lovingly monitoring their shared ex-con extra hard today, and Peter mumbles something about Neal ambulating a specific location over and over again and finding it suspect. Clearly, I'm not cut out for the FBI, because my default reaction is to wonder if there's maybe a trunk sale happening there.
Neal makes contact wearing a gray turtle neck and his hat. In my head, Michael Kors is calling this outfit "lazy" and "uninspired." Nina thinks it's "inoffensive, but really nothing special at all." Heidi sighs, "It just doesn't look very expensive." I want to know where in Neal's 2 mile radius anywhere in fucking Manhattan is there a parking structure that's that empty -- ever. Anyway:
Back at Neal's artist loft (located just two short subway stops into the land of Jumanji), this effectively hits the fan. Mozzie, Alex and Neal debate plans to get into the Italian consulate -- at least until there's a knock -- ever polite, that Peter Burke -- and Peter bursts into the room with the same sort of barely repressed fury your boyfriend blows in with when you've got a room full of drunk lady friends and he doesn't want to make a fucking scene in front of outsiders. Alex and Mozzie, who are not exactly the dullest crayons in the box, either, beat feet, leaving Neal and Peter to fight in privacy.
Okay, so I made that last part up. Anyway, Peter leaves, presumably to put his head in Elizabeth's lap and let her cuddle him and let Sachmo drool his love and devotion all over him, and Neal is left to stare broodingly at his hardcore artist's easel that is decorated with cliched and ridiculous non-artist tools, like that pallet that is hung over the back. Because artists, as you know, do not need actual quantities of paints with which to paint, and when they are done with their pallet, they do not leave it on a table or a shelf or with the clutches of hideously misshapen tubes of paints and thinners and their brushes -- meticulously washed -- and just hang them over the back of their easels. Okay.
Also, thus follows the BIGGEST WHAT THE EVER LOVING FUCK moment to date in White Collar. Brace yourselves.
See Neal. See Neal sculpt shirtless. Sculpt, Neal, sculpt!
Let me echo the lingering thought you may have after your brain recovers from a honking injection of Matt Bomer's exquisitely waxed flesh: what?
Like, far be it for us to judge a show when it heeds the ravening lusts of 5 million fangirls to strip its male leads down gratuitously (see also: Merlin, Arthur Pendragon), but seriously, what? I was pretty drunk by this point in the episode the first time I watched it, but mostly I shouted at the TV, "WHAT? WHAT? WHY ARE YOU -- WHY ARE YOU FORGING NAKED? WHY DO YOU NEED TO BE SHIRTLESS TO FORGE ART?" Like, aside from the pool of chemical happiness on which your brain is probably floating looking at the sleek lines of his body, WHAT? WHAT? Why? WHY? He couldn't wear a t-shirt for that? No battered work shirt he kept for his art projects? No button-up he stole from Elizabeth who stole it from Peter that he balls up and smells at night and touches himself to? What I would have paid to be a fly on the wall of Matt Bomer's apartment when he first read that script and said, "Wait -- wait -- what?" Have you seen that guy? Neal Caffrey is all polish, but Matt Bomer is actually pretty scruffy -- enjoy that chest-waxing, White Collar lead. And the subsequent sulking from your sex partner when your happy trail is gone.
This is what Elizabeth thinks about this bullshit:
Back to the story. After Neal is done with his tantric art forgery (I am sure that if you rub your uncovered skin up against the clay, it looks more authentic), Alex shows up, and Fowler makes good on his agreement that if he lets Neal off his monitoring, he will steal the music box and give it to Fowler: the light on Neal's tracker goes off. Somehow, MENTOR -- the program that was spying on Peter earlier this season -- is involved. Nobody knows why, although we do find in this episode that Fowler is answering to a higher power, too, one he wants to get away from as quickly as possible, a freedom that, too, can be earned with this music box. That thing better be filled with fucking unicorn eggs.
Fowler takes the opportunity to harass Elizabeth at her workplace -- a gorgeous little whitewashed space obviously meant to be somewhere in SoHo filled with apparently $2,000 worth of caviar and some now super scandalized clients after Fowler busts in and starts trashing the place and -- oh shit -- pushing Elizabeth.
Peter, rightfully, punches Fowler in the face. Fowler, because he's a kink bastard, clearly gets off on it, and Peter gets suspended, and his badge and gun are taken away. Transformed thusly into a civilian and a woman out on bail, he and Elizabeth make their way back to Brooklyn, furious, at which point Neal calls and apologizes for getting them into this mess. Peter informs Neal he's under house arrest, which is hard, because it turns out Neal is knocking on his front door as they speak. Awkward. Understandably, they're both banished to the backyard with Sachmo while El gets some shit done for work, and probably doesn't want to see either of them until they check themselves before they wreck themselves.
It is here that Peter decides it is time to make a call.
GUYS, GUYS LOOK! IT'S PROBIE! IT'S DIANA! IT'S OUR FAVORITE PROBIE! IT'S OUR LESBIAN PROBIE! SHE OF THE HATS AND COMPETENCE! LOOK AT HER GORGEOUS SMILE!
Apparently in White Collar's universe, she and her girlfriend Christy have settled happily in Washington D.C., where she has an unspecified job title that provides her more access to the FBI's internal workings -- and specifically, the Office of Professional Review where Fowler lurks -- than Peter. (In reality, Marsha Thomason went off to go act as James Franco's girlfriend on General Hospital for a few episodes. We assume that girlfriend decided to leave after Franco's love affair with Kumiko was legitimized in this South Korean marriage. L'Chaim, dude.) Diana agrees to break into Fowler's office to see just what the fuck is going on, which goes about as well as you can imagine -- poorly.
Meanwhile, Neal (having acquired an invitation to the Italian embassy after donating his shirtlessly forged piece of priceless art), Alex (having acquired an invitation after seducing a duke) and Mozzie (having secured employment as an assistant server), are busy stealing the music box. The actual con is pretty boring, except for Neal openly declaring that he's an international art thief there to steal them blind, which, hah. He gets tossed in a convenient wood slat -- this is another OH WHITE COLLAR WHY? WHAT? WHY? MOMENT -- jail, and then Mozzie does some heroics with a digital camera on a telescoping arm and they steal themselves a....music box!
As my friend watching it with me said, "THAT IS THE UGLIEST FUCKING MUSIC BOX I HAVE EVER SEEN."
AND NOBODY OPENS IT. WHAT THE FUCK. WE'VE BEEN LOOKING FOR THIS POS ALL GOD DAMN SEASON AND NOBODY EVEN OPENS IT TO CHECK IF THERE IS A BABY UNICORN IN THERE OR THE DOORWAY TO GOD DAMN NARNIA. WEAK.
In the remainder of the episode, there's some double-crossing and Alex coming through in the end, and Neal being traded his freedom with Kate as "deep cover" agents for OPR -- in effect, Fowler and Neal buying each other off -- but let's focus on what's really important here, we have the three interactions that make up the heartbeat of the series, and what really keeps people coming back over and over again:
Neal, barely having escaped capture at the Italian consulate, arrives home to a furious Peter, and they fight about feelings and stuff, which is 90 percent agonizingly poorly written dialog with a brief detour into delightful gay --
-- after which we find out that Kate made the deal with Fowler to trade the music box for their legal freedom (the reasons why Fowler must get the box are "above his pay grade"). Meanwhile, Neal goes around making his goodbyes. To Mozzie:
Who is wearing hideous but realistic New York Fuck You Winter Ugh Weather approved ugly earmuffs that he probably bought for $5 in cash on Canal, and who also asks Neal if he's going to tell the Suit (Peter) that he's running. Neal ducks the question, and makes a phone call instead:
Firstly, Neal, nice 12th grade girl handwriting. He tells Elizabeth he's secured her the chance to run what is probably supposed to be the premiere event in the city for the year, trying to make up for what he fucked up, and hesitating, he and Elizabeth have an amazing conversation:
The fact that Neal is, at this point, about to throw away all the trust he's established with Peter and so close to being home and free with Kate, is wondering about whether what he feels for her is real is so enormously telling. If you do the math, who knows how long they've actually been together? Assuming they spent a few years together before he went to jail, Neal's still been in supermax for four years, and since he's gotten out, they've never shared a moment together, just a few stolen words over unsecured and disposable phone lines -- how well do they really know each other at this point? Does he still love her? Is she the same? Is he the same? Will they still fit together the way they had in the past? Is it worth it? Is it real? The Neal Caffrey who busted out of jail in the pilot was unshakeable in his faith in Kate, in the certainty that their love was real; this guy? This guy is something different altogether, and far, far more interesting.
Over in FBI-land, Peter and Diana have an interlude with Fowler in the basement of the OPR building. Basically, that means Peter shoots Fowler twice, which turns out to be okay because Fowler was wearing a vest, but Peter admits he wouldn't have cared either way. (If you are in the market for watching Tim DeKay kick ass, take names, and shoot people, this is your episode.) Fowler squeals on where Neal's going, and Peter takes off, which leads to basically the only scene that makes this whole episode worth watching, which transmutes into the scene that had me throwing shit across my apartment and wanting to punch people in the neck.
Neal gives Peter back his consultant's badge, and tries really hard to be earnest and disinterested in the fact that he's dumping Peter. Peter is, like some characters in Seinfeld, refusing to acknowledge that they're broken up in classic psycho girlfriend fashion that everybody who is desperate to hold onto someone several notches up the dating food chain more attractive than they are knows intimately.
GAY. SUPER GAY. Like, incredibly, revoltingly, are you fucking serious gay. This is the type of gay that like, fascists ban, for weakening the resolve of the nation. And like, you're all caught up in the emotional tenor of the moment because you can feel it! Neal is on the bubble! He's at the tipping point! He's tried the life that Peter has offered, the one where he's fabulous and does the right thing and still gets to use his power for evil but evil in good ways! And it's fun! And Peter's the only person who's ever been smart enough to keep up with him, and it's nice to have someone he doesn't run circles around, for once, and -- and --
AND THEN THIS SHIT HAPPENS.
As Liz Lemon would say: WHAT THE WHAT. Like, WHAT? WHAT? WHY DID YOU GUYS JUST BLOW UP KATE'S PLANE? IS SHE STILL ON THAT FUCKING THING? WE DO NOT KNOW. WHAT THE HELL WAS EVEN THE PURPOSE OF THAT! You've more or less defanged Fowler as an antagonist since we know he's not doing this for his own interests, that he's at someone's beck and call; the music box is gone, and (see above rage) WE STILL DO NOT KNOW IF IT CONTAINS EITHER UNICORN EGGS OR NARNIA OR POSSIBLY BOTH, Kate, the only other person that existed with a sinister air is missing, we STILL don't know what the fuck MENTOR is all about and I have this fucking collection of HIDEOUS ASS SCREENCAPS OF MATT BOMER'S FACE ALL DISTORTED BY WTFERY AND GRIEF. WHITE COLLAR YOU HAVE BESMIRCHED MY HARD DRIVE.
Someone could make a viable argument that White Collar, in knowing that it's got its second season, is going to cash those checks it's writing. The show has plenty of time to make good on this season finale, sure -- but like, what the fuck was the point? Aside from clunky, horrible writing throughout the episode, Eastin and Co. have taken a turn for the seriously holy shit, why? This narrative element -- I refer to it as Sherman Marching Through All These Fucking Plotholes -- was favored, too, by assholes like Chris Carter, and Eric Kripke, but the difference is that those shows were, from inception, bigger than White Collar.
I'm not talking about budget or network, I'm talking sheer scale. White Collar has always been a smaller, but sophisticated series about sophisticated crime, and the eternal delight of it was watching Matt Bomer be effortlessly charming, to wander around committing heinous crimes and winning our hearts, chipping away at Peter Burke's iron resolve, tricking him into having fun. They solve fucking crime, all right? What the shit is this? Explosions and conspiracy theories? Sure, the seeds of Kate and the current shitshow were sown early in the series, but who ever saw this level of unnecessary plot sprawl coming? Every editor knows that the key to good writing is to cut, cut, cut. Do you need a red pen? I can mail you a box. They're cheap at Office Max, White Collar. Early in the series it seemed possible that maybe Kate was the big bad, that maybe Fowler alone was the big bad, hell, for a month there in the middle we all wondered if Peter was the big bad, but the river keeps getting muddier and longer and wider and stupider and all the delightfully polyamorous sex fandom is writing isn't enough to keep us distracted forever, and now we don't even have a clear end target.
Shape the fuck up, White Collar. I mean. I will be there with gay bells on and a mirror and also a rolled up $100 for your season two premier, but I DO IT WITH RESERVATIONS, OKAY? SHAPE THE FUCK UP, WHITE COLLAR.
In other news, fuck you, White Collar, this recap was brought to you by three days, two fingers of vodka, a six-pack of Woodchuck, and 4200 words.
By most accounts, it has had a pretty great inaugural season. It was slick! It was timely! It was fun! Importantly, to us, it was gay like balls touching balls! Even as we enjoyed the effervescent oxycodone-induced bespoke high of White Collar, we here at Fanspastic HQ struggled with an existential crisis the entire time we watched this show. Okay, maybe only I struggled with it the most, but we have a standing rule that the person who hates the series the most is required to recap it, so:
The concept is fantastic, and all the series regulars do amazing work and have really excellent chemistry with one another -- but THE WRITING IS SO FUCKING INCONSISTENT. Watching White Collar is like dating a teenaged boy, where one day he will bring you a daisy chain for your hair and tell you he loves your freckles, and then half an hour later calls you fat slut because you won't swallow when you blow him. Like -- what? WHAT? Are you good? Are you terrible? Seriously? I CANNOT TELL.
To be fair, the showrunners probably realized that a significant percentage of their viewership was in it to see Neal and Peter beam at one another adorably and would check back in no matter how nonsensical or AGONIZING the dialog is, which, all right, hats off to you guys for selling a quality product and not cutting it with talc or bleach powder or crushed up chalk or whatever; excuse me while I go roll up a $100 and find a mirror.
Still, the experience of watching White Collar with an editorial eye is one of those things where a person is liable to find themselves collapsed on their living room couch, drunk on pussy booze with a neighbor, staring at the blinking red light on the DVR and having the sort of out-of-body experience, because nobody should ever find themselves at like, 11 p.m. mumbling, "Why are you sculpting shirtless?"
The episode starts with Neal showing up late for a meeting, which means Not As Cool As Lesbian Probie and Jones have coffee but have no coffee for Neal. Some pouting happens, and the explanation of a con that is probably supposed to signify Neal's rapid-fire shifting of priorities throughout the rest of the episode, but actually is pretty forgettable but for the fact that the only person whose coffee isn't ruined is Peter's. Neal knows where his bread is buttered. But obviously not that well because he gets a text -- Hi, Research in Motion product placement, hi, notice how nobody in the White Collar universe uses anything other than a Blackberry, nobody -- and tells Peter that June is throwing a champagne brunch. To not go would be breaking the social contract between gays and their fabulous, rich lady friends the universe over.
PETER: What kind of monster would I be to keep Neal Caffrey from a champagne brunch.
See, Peter understands -- White Collar takes a beat to rub it in the faces of people who actually live in New York that New York currently fucking sucks and that it took all its b-roll during the lazy warm breezes of late summer -- and Neal leaves, presumably to stop by Balducci's for some organic strawberries to go along with the Veuve Clicquot, except, OH SNAP. THAT'S NOT CHAMPAGNE OR A BRUNCH.
That's Alex! Telling Neal she knows where the music box he's been looking for to exchange for Kate's freedom is! They can't get at it unless they work together. Nakedly.
In case you can't tell from the gratuitous nudity and sex-noises in water that came out of this scene, thus begins White Collar's violently heavy-handed attempt to make us believe that Neal Caffrey, the guy who went to jail for, broke out of supermax because of, and is willing to throw everything away over Kate, possibly hooks up with Alex. Not just with whores and stuff, or even FBI agents and their hot event planner wives after he walks their dog and they all cuddle up and talk about their white picket fence future, no -- with over-bronzed pickpockets whose hair extensions are a different color than her actual hair.
(Alex as a character is a disappointment. She could have been utilized as a really interesting look into Neal's development as a con artist and thief, as well as a great counterpoint to him in the criminal world -- instead, she keeps getting framed as someone who shares a romantic past with him, which always overshadows any other characterization she might bring to the role. It also does not help that whoever dresses this actress clearly fucking hates her.)
At some point, Neal finds his pants again (probably he folded them carefully and put them somewhere the pool water wouldn't besmirch them) and went home to tell Mozzie the news: that EFWBE (Emaciated Fingersmith With Bad Extensions) Alex revealed that (a) she knows the location of the all-important amber music box that will free Kate and Neal to the wings of love and (b) that she won't help him get to it unless he can ditch his association with the FBI and (c) it's in the Italian consulate.
Neal decides obviously that the best way to do that is not to tell Peter about it and to go to their mortal enemy, Fowler, also known as ugly blond guy we are programed to hate because he is mean to Peter. It's simplistic, but it works, because seriously, seriously I fucking hate that dude.
Mozzie thinks it's an idiot idea. (So do we, Moz.) And meanwhile, in BKLYN MOTHERFUCKERS Peter is staring at an embarrassment -- literally, an embarrassment -- of Google Map printouts and preparing to torture Neal with deviled ham sandwiches on a stakeout. (What? Are they even working on a case?) El wants to know why Peter is
Neal makes contact wearing a gray turtle neck and his hat. In my head, Michael Kors is calling this outfit "lazy" and "uninspired." Nina thinks it's "inoffensive, but really nothing special at all." Heidi sighs, "It just doesn't look very expensive." I want to know where in Neal's 2 mile radius anywhere in fucking Manhattan is there a parking structure that's that empty -- ever. Anyway:
Dear Peter Burke,In all seriousness though, this is a good place to detour and talk about one consistent character beat I love in White Collar, and that the show has been faithful to from day one: the effortless competence of each of its characters. One of those major failings of a TV show that gets its viewership all exercised about it is always when one of the characters somehow contracts Asshole Moronas, a disease from which one almost always bounces back from once some asinine plot point is established or the writer's room gets another injection of Mountain Dew Code Red and stops being a bunch of lazy fuckers. White Collar, for its many and sundry failings wrapped up in a slick coat of gloss, has never defaulted to making any of its characters idiots in order to forward its plot -- in fact, the whole idea would fall apart if Neal turned into a moron or Peter became a dumbass. More than that, they play up on this idea of lowered expectations and invert it, like when Neal was terrified Peter would embarrass him and blow the undercover job at the wine tasting, and Peter was bloody-minded enough just to let Neal think it until he busted out with some knowledge of his own.
Seriously, that last screengrab of you? Staring? I really thought I had fucked up, accidentally switched over to Lifetime, Television for Women, and that Neal had just broken free from your jealous clutches for the first time in a decade, but you were waiting for him outside of the grocery store where he now works for minimum wage but is happy to be independent and has assumed a fake name that he got out of a romance novel he read when recovering from your jealous beatings all those years. Also, it does not help that you have Elizabeth there to enable this behavior, since obviously she enjoys it when you guys are able to share things -- ie: attractive, ex-convict pets -- and having someone else to dote on.
I am not saying that you are a violent, stalking man-wife-beater or anything, really, only that perhaps you should really reference this webpage to ascertain you are not slipping into any of that behavior. Just a suggestion.
Kisses, Fanspastic
Back at Neal's artist loft (located just two short subway stops into the land of Jumanji), this effectively hits the fan. Mozzie, Alex and Neal debate plans to get into the Italian consulate -- at least until there's a knock -- ever polite, that Peter Burke -- and Peter bursts into the room with the same sort of barely repressed fury your boyfriend blows in with when you've got a room full of drunk lady friends and he doesn't want to make a fucking scene in front of outsiders. Alex and Mozzie, who are not exactly the dullest crayons in the box, either, beat feet, leaving Neal and Peter to fight in privacy.
PETER: I know you met with Fowler. And now Alex and your little buddy are all here. You've got your whole crew to steal the box. Tell me I'm wrong.
NEAL: You're wrong.
PETER: I don't understand you. I gave you a shot at a better life.
NEAL: It's not the life I want.
PETER: Okay. We all have our weakness. Kate's yours. Do the right thing, Neal. You're fooling yourself if you think Kate's on your side.
NEAL: I'm going to stare bleakly out my windows at my $100 million view now, and yearn for you. The sweetness of ballpoint pen ink and bureaucracy you exude. Your off the rack suits. The hideousness of your ties, that remind me that within the boredom of each ordinary day resides the opportunity to make you understand the importance and value of a willingness to shop -- and subsequently spend money at -- Thomas Pink and Hugo Boss.
Okay, so I made that last part up. Anyway, Peter leaves, presumably to put his head in Elizabeth's lap and let her cuddle him and let Sachmo drool his love and devotion all over him, and Neal is left to stare broodingly at his hardcore artist's easel that is decorated with cliched and ridiculous non-artist tools, like that pallet that is hung over the back. Because artists, as you know, do not need actual quantities of paints with which to paint, and when they are done with their pallet, they do not leave it on a table or a shelf or with the clutches of hideously misshapen tubes of paints and thinners and their brushes -- meticulously washed -- and just hang them over the back of their easels. Okay.
Also, thus follows the BIGGEST WHAT THE EVER LOVING FUCK moment to date in White Collar. Brace yourselves.
See Neal. See Neal sculpt shirtless. Sculpt, Neal, sculpt!
Let me echo the lingering thought you may have after your brain recovers from a honking injection of Matt Bomer's exquisitely waxed flesh: what?
Like, far be it for us to judge a show when it heeds the ravening lusts of 5 million fangirls to strip its male leads down gratuitously (see also: Merlin, Arthur Pendragon), but seriously, what? I was pretty drunk by this point in the episode the first time I watched it, but mostly I shouted at the TV, "WHAT? WHAT? WHY ARE YOU -- WHY ARE YOU FORGING NAKED? WHY DO YOU NEED TO BE SHIRTLESS TO FORGE ART?" Like, aside from the pool of chemical happiness on which your brain is probably floating looking at the sleek lines of his body, WHAT? WHAT? Why? WHY? He couldn't wear a t-shirt for that? No battered work shirt he kept for his art projects? No button-up he stole from Elizabeth who stole it from Peter that he balls up and smells at night and touches himself to? What I would have paid to be a fly on the wall of Matt Bomer's apartment when he first read that script and said, "Wait -- wait -- what?" Have you seen that guy? Neal Caffrey is all polish, but Matt Bomer is actually pretty scruffy -- enjoy that chest-waxing, White Collar lead. And the subsequent sulking from your sex partner when your happy trail is gone.
This is what Elizabeth thinks about this bullshit:
Back to the story. After Neal is done with his tantric art forgery (I am sure that if you rub your uncovered skin up against the clay, it looks more authentic), Alex shows up, and Fowler makes good on his agreement that if he lets Neal off his monitoring, he will steal the music box and give it to Fowler: the light on Neal's tracker goes off. Somehow, MENTOR -- the program that was spying on Peter earlier this season -- is involved. Nobody knows why, although we do find in this episode that Fowler is answering to a higher power, too, one he wants to get away from as quickly as possible, a freedom that, too, can be earned with this music box. That thing better be filled with fucking unicorn eggs.
Fowler takes the opportunity to harass Elizabeth at her workplace -- a gorgeous little whitewashed space obviously meant to be somewhere in SoHo filled with apparently $2,000 worth of caviar and some now super scandalized clients after Fowler busts in and starts trashing the place and -- oh shit -- pushing Elizabeth.
Peter, rightfully, punches Fowler in the face. Fowler, because he's a kink bastard, clearly gets off on it, and Peter gets suspended, and his badge and gun are taken away. Transformed thusly into a civilian and a woman out on bail, he and Elizabeth make their way back to Brooklyn, furious, at which point Neal calls and apologizes for getting them into this mess. Peter informs Neal he's under house arrest, which is hard, because it turns out Neal is knocking on his front door as they speak. Awkward. Understandably, they're both banished to the backyard with Sachmo while El gets some shit done for work, and probably doesn't want to see either of them until they check themselves before they wreck themselves.
It is here that Peter decides it is time to make a call.
GUYS, GUYS LOOK! IT'S PROBIE! IT'S DIANA! IT'S OUR FAVORITE PROBIE! IT'S OUR LESBIAN PROBIE! SHE OF THE HATS AND COMPETENCE! LOOK AT HER GORGEOUS SMILE!
Apparently in White Collar's universe, she and her girlfriend Christy have settled happily in Washington D.C., where she has an unspecified job title that provides her more access to the FBI's internal workings -- and specifically, the Office of Professional Review where Fowler lurks -- than Peter. (In reality, Marsha Thomason went off to go act as James Franco's girlfriend on General Hospital for a few episodes. We assume that girlfriend decided to leave after Franco's love affair with Kumiko was legitimized in this South Korean marriage. L'Chaim, dude.) Diana agrees to break into Fowler's office to see just what the fuck is going on, which goes about as well as you can imagine -- poorly.
Meanwhile, Neal (having acquired an invitation to the Italian embassy after donating his shirtlessly forged piece of priceless art), Alex (having acquired an invitation after seducing a duke) and Mozzie (having secured employment as an assistant server), are busy stealing the music box. The actual con is pretty boring, except for Neal openly declaring that he's an international art thief there to steal them blind, which, hah. He gets tossed in a convenient wood slat -- this is another OH WHITE COLLAR WHY? WHAT? WHY? MOMENT -- jail, and then Mozzie does some heroics with a digital camera on a telescoping arm and they steal themselves a....music box!
As my friend watching it with me said, "THAT IS THE UGLIEST FUCKING MUSIC BOX I HAVE EVER SEEN."
AND NOBODY OPENS IT. WHAT THE FUCK. WE'VE BEEN LOOKING FOR THIS POS ALL GOD DAMN SEASON AND NOBODY EVEN OPENS IT TO CHECK IF THERE IS A BABY UNICORN IN THERE OR THE DOORWAY TO GOD DAMN NARNIA. WEAK.
In the remainder of the episode, there's some double-crossing and Alex coming through in the end, and Neal being traded his freedom with Kate as "deep cover" agents for OPR -- in effect, Fowler and Neal buying each other off -- but let's focus on what's really important here, we have the three interactions that make up the heartbeat of the series, and what really keeps people coming back over and over again:
Neal, barely having escaped capture at the Italian consulate, arrives home to a furious Peter, and they fight about feelings and stuff, which is 90 percent agonizingly poorly written dialog with a brief detour into delightful gay --
PETER: I need to know, what about us? Are we on the same side here?
NEAL: You said I earned the right to make my own choices. You changing your mind?
-- after which we find out that Kate made the deal with Fowler to trade the music box for their legal freedom (the reasons why Fowler must get the box are "above his pay grade"). Meanwhile, Neal goes around making his goodbyes. To Mozzie:
Who is wearing hideous but realistic New York Fuck You Winter Ugh Weather approved ugly earmuffs that he probably bought for $5 in cash on Canal, and who also asks Neal if he's going to tell the Suit (Peter) that he's running. Neal ducks the question, and makes a phone call instead:
Firstly, Neal, nice 12th grade girl handwriting. He tells Elizabeth he's secured her the chance to run what is probably supposed to be the premiere event in the city for the year, trying to make up for what he fucked up, and hesitating, he and Elizabeth have an amazing conversation:
NEAL: There's something I wanted to ask you.
ELIZABETH: Yeah?
NEAL: You and Peter. How'd you know?
ELIZABETH: Well. I think there's a difference between loving the idea of someone, and actually loving who they really are.
The fact that Neal is, at this point, about to throw away all the trust he's established with Peter and so close to being home and free with Kate, is wondering about whether what he feels for her is real is so enormously telling. If you do the math, who knows how long they've actually been together? Assuming they spent a few years together before he went to jail, Neal's still been in supermax for four years, and since he's gotten out, they've never shared a moment together, just a few stolen words over unsecured and disposable phone lines -- how well do they really know each other at this point? Does he still love her? Is she the same? Is he the same? Will they still fit together the way they had in the past? Is it worth it? Is it real? The Neal Caffrey who busted out of jail in the pilot was unshakeable in his faith in Kate, in the certainty that their love was real; this guy? This guy is something different altogether, and far, far more interesting.
Over in FBI-land, Peter and Diana have an interlude with Fowler in the basement of the OPR building. Basically, that means Peter shoots Fowler twice, which turns out to be okay because Fowler was wearing a vest, but Peter admits he wouldn't have cared either way. (If you are in the market for watching Tim DeKay kick ass, take names, and shoot people, this is your episode.) Fowler squeals on where Neal's going, and Peter takes off, which leads to basically the only scene that makes this whole episode worth watching, which transmutes into the scene that had me throwing shit across my apartment and wanting to punch people in the neck.
NEAL: Are you here to arrest me?
PETER: I'm still a civilian. And I know about MENTOR. I know you can walk away and it's all legal.
NEAL: ...Then why are you here?
PETER: I'm here as your friend.
NEAL: You understand I'm getting on that plane.
PETER: I also know you're making the biggest mistake of your life.
NEAL: This is what's best for everyone, Peter. You go back to your life, I get to have one of my own.
PETER: You already have one. Right here. You have people who care about you. You make a difference. You do.
Neal gives Peter back his consultant's badge, and tries really hard to be earnest and disinterested in the fact that he's dumping Peter. Peter is, like some characters in Seinfeld, refusing to acknowledge that they're broken up in classic psycho girlfriend fashion that everybody who is desperate to hold onto someone several notches up the dating food chain more attractive than they are knows intimately.
PETER: You said goodbye to everyone but me. Why?
NEAL: I don't know.
PETER: Yeah you do. Tell me.
NEAL: I don't know.
PETER: Why?
NEAL: You know why.
PETER: Tell me!
NEAL Because you're the only one who could change my mind!
PETER: ...Did I?
GAY. SUPER GAY. Like, incredibly, revoltingly, are you fucking serious gay. This is the type of gay that like, fascists ban, for weakening the resolve of the nation. And like, you're all caught up in the emotional tenor of the moment because you can feel it! Neal is on the bubble! He's at the tipping point! He's tried the life that Peter has offered, the one where he's fabulous and does the right thing and still gets to use his power for evil but evil in good ways! And it's fun! And Peter's the only person who's ever been smart enough to keep up with him, and it's nice to have someone he doesn't run circles around, for once, and -- and --
AND THEN THIS SHIT HAPPENS.
As Liz Lemon would say: WHAT THE WHAT. Like, WHAT? WHAT? WHY DID YOU GUYS JUST BLOW UP KATE'S PLANE? IS SHE STILL ON THAT FUCKING THING? WE DO NOT KNOW. WHAT THE HELL WAS EVEN THE PURPOSE OF THAT! You've more or less defanged Fowler as an antagonist since we know he's not doing this for his own interests, that he's at someone's beck and call; the music box is gone, and (see above rage) WE STILL DO NOT KNOW IF IT CONTAINS EITHER UNICORN EGGS OR NARNIA OR POSSIBLY BOTH, Kate, the only other person that existed with a sinister air is missing, we STILL don't know what the fuck MENTOR is all about and I have this fucking collection of HIDEOUS ASS SCREENCAPS OF MATT BOMER'S FACE ALL DISTORTED BY WTFERY AND GRIEF. WHITE COLLAR YOU HAVE BESMIRCHED MY HARD DRIVE.
Someone could make a viable argument that White Collar, in knowing that it's got its second season, is going to cash those checks it's writing. The show has plenty of time to make good on this season finale, sure -- but like, what the fuck was the point? Aside from clunky, horrible writing throughout the episode, Eastin and Co. have taken a turn for the seriously holy shit, why? This narrative element -- I refer to it as Sherman Marching Through All These Fucking Plotholes -- was favored, too, by assholes like Chris Carter, and Eric Kripke, but the difference is that those shows were, from inception, bigger than White Collar.
I'm not talking about budget or network, I'm talking sheer scale. White Collar has always been a smaller, but sophisticated series about sophisticated crime, and the eternal delight of it was watching Matt Bomer be effortlessly charming, to wander around committing heinous crimes and winning our hearts, chipping away at Peter Burke's iron resolve, tricking him into having fun. They solve fucking crime, all right? What the shit is this? Explosions and conspiracy theories? Sure, the seeds of Kate and the current shitshow were sown early in the series, but who ever saw this level of unnecessary plot sprawl coming? Every editor knows that the key to good writing is to cut, cut, cut. Do you need a red pen? I can mail you a box. They're cheap at Office Max, White Collar. Early in the series it seemed possible that maybe Kate was the big bad, that maybe Fowler alone was the big bad, hell, for a month there in the middle we all wondered if Peter was the big bad, but the river keeps getting muddier and longer and wider and stupider and all the delightfully polyamorous sex fandom is writing isn't enough to keep us distracted forever, and now we don't even have a clear end target.
Shape the fuck up, White Collar. I mean. I will be there with gay bells on and a mirror and also a rolled up $100 for your season two premier, but I DO IT WITH RESERVATIONS, OKAY? SHAPE THE FUCK UP, WHITE COLLAR.
In other news, fuck you, White Collar, this recap was brought to you by three days, two fingers of vodka, a six-pack of Woodchuck, and 4200 words.