‘Only Murders In The Building’ has forgotten about the murders
In its fifth season, ‘Only Murders In The Building’ appears content to pour out a Merlot humour, unchallenging but smooth enough to go down easy
Do you remember The Three Investigators? Those slim detective novels we read as children featured enthusiastic young sleuths falling into cases more complicated and sinister than their age would normally allow, but because the titles of the books were prefaced with the words “Alfred Hitchcock presents", we expected shadowy things. We knew Jupiter Jones and his pals would stumble into genuine danger, into mysteries with teeth. The director’s name on the cover promised darkness, and those paperbacks delivered. The boys went at it with gusto, uncovering secrets that mattered. The stakes remained high.
The TV series Only Murders In The Building—streaming in India on JioHotstar, and featuring three unlikely seekers of truth who cater to three different demographics—similarly advertises suspense with its very title. A corpse is found up in the same fancy Manhattan building, season after season. The great Dianne Wiest shows up this year, in fact, to scold the detectives: “Four is a lot of murders," she tuts. Now in its fifth season, however, the show appears to have given up on the whodunnit. The new season takes no real stab at mystery or plotting, and the delightful troika of Martin Short, Selena Gomez and Steve Martin (the co-creator of the series) don’t really seem to care about the actual murder. This is not an accusation as much as it is an observation: the show has turned into something else entirely. It has exchanged its trench coat for a dressing-gown.
Gomez’s character Mabel is settling scores with a childhood frenemy, treating the investigation as background noise to her personal vendetta. Martin’s character Charles cares more about being catfished by a potential online girlfriend than about the mystery itself, obsessing over emoticons and response times while evidence—literally—piles up around him. At one point Martin Short’s character Oliver, ostensibly recording a dramatic teaser line for their true-crime podcast, pauses mid-sentence: “Oh, I’m taking a panorama." It’s clear that both crime and podcast are besides the point now. The genre has become a playground rather than a framework, a suggestion rather than a structure. Murder as muzak.
This isn’t to say that the show doesn’t have its own pleasures. There’s Christoph Waltz, playing a billionaire tycoon of indiscernible antiquity, speaking about the residents of a big city and calling them “metropolloi"—a perfect portmanteau that captures both his character’s pretension and the show’s linguistic playfulness. There’s Bobby Cannavale, playing a mobster and wearing ludicrously big white gardenias in his buttonhole and speaking in cliches about how wives are like ravens, who like shiny things. This is corroborated by Meryl Streep hamming it away as Oliver’s wife Loretta, saying things like “I could do a Pinterest board, which is kinda like a murder board, but for finding our style as a couple."
Even the jokes, you see, are about how little the murder matters. The lines are good, as are the actors. There is an amiable wittiness afoot… but Only Murders In The Building now appears content to pour out a Merlot humour, unchallenging and unambitious, smooth enough to go down easy. This is hangout television, low on stakes and high on silliness, a cosy mystery that has forgotten to be mysterious. The red herrings have become the main course, and nobody seems to mind that the fish is fake.
Our three protagonists remain curious and clumsy, but their heart isn’t in it. They stumble through the season creating chaos rather than solving it, the podcast now entirely superfluous. It serves as an excuse rather than a purpose. Again, because Gomez and Martin and Short have found—and honed—such a wondrous odd-throuple energy, it’s invariably enjoyable to watch them going through the paces, particularly Short. His Oliver Putnam has become the show’s beating heart, a narcissist so transparently needy that he becomes endearing, or at the very least, worth enabling. When he alludes to having a Tony, Mabel calls him out, and Short—ever-ready to snort and fib his way out of a situation—clarifies: “My Tony Robbins bobblehead." Delicious.
In one priceless scene, Short and Martin become so amused by the phrase “go fuck yourself" that the two comic legends collapse into giggles with all the hilarious energy of an outtake—even while they’re standing next to a corpse. The moment encapsulates what the show has become: charming actors having too much fun to remember they’re supposed to be in a thriller. Even when revelations turn up and it’s time for action, Oliver prudently pauses. “First we must nap," he announces. “Oh yeah."
This feels sad because there used to be more. Despite its ever-comedic heart, Only Murders In The Building had feelings for its victims, fleshed-out backstories for its suspects, and an infectious love for the various aspects of New York City living. Now it’s just a soft-shoe dance that doesn’t care about the footprints as long as the shoes are soft enough.
It may be time to call an end to these unlikely adventures and these lazily, conveniently plotted shenanigans, despite the amusing array of guest stars. The mystery is merely mood-lighting. What we have here is a hangout comedy about three buddies bonding over microphones and mortality: The Three Instigators. Let them nap, I say. Alfred Hitchcock would yawn.
Streaming tip of the week:
Those in the mood for a truly well-plotted comic mystery should look up Shane Black’s hilarious The Nice Guys, available to rent on Apple/Amazon. Ryan Gosling and Russell Crowe have incredible chemistry as two men out of their depth, fumbling with clues and corpses, hunting for a missing girl.
Raja Sen is a screenwriter and critic. He has co-written Chup, a film about killing critics, and is now creating an absurd comedy series. He posts @rajasen.
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