he opening credit sequence, which links tarot cards to newsreel footage of Depression-era
America, sets the tone. An opening monologue by the diminutive carnival ringmaster Samson (Anderson) provides the background: the war in heaven, which divided the universe into the forces of good and evil long before God gave Earth to "the crafty ape called man." The war continued, generation after generation, until the A-bomb exploded at Trinity, at which point man forever gave up wonder and entered a new age defined by reason. This is the story of the final battle between champions.
Ben Hawkins (Stahl) is an escapee from a chain gang, still wearing ankle chains under his stolen clothes. Ben has returned home to his family's impoverished farmhouse outside Milfay, Okla., in time to witness his mother's death. He wants to bury her on the land, but the driver of a bulldozer, sent by the bank repossessing the farm, threatens to run him down if he doesn't make room for the destruction of the house. As the traveling carnival passes by, Samson is just cynical enough to wager two bits on Ben's fate under the bulldozer treads. His best friend
and confidante, the roustabout Jonesy (Tim Dekay), wins the bet by intervening, arranging for the demolition to be delayed long enough for an impromptu funeral. When Ben collapses, the carnival takes him in.
Both Ben and the carnival harbor secrets. Ben is cursed with a healing touch that can cure everything up to and including death while exacting a terrible price in return. Samson is beholden to Management, an unseen presence occupying a cabinet in his wagon, which gives him orders and has plans for Ben. At Management's urging, Samson gives Ben a job as a laborer. Ben is reluctant to join the "freaks" of the carnival, but goes along for lack of any better options.
The carnival's denizens include Lila the Bearded Lady (Debra Christofferson), a pair of conjoined twins (Karyyne and Sarah Steben), Gecko the Lizard Man (John Fleck) and various roustabouts and cooch girls (strippers who offer their sexual favors for extra cash). We meet Sofie (DuVall), a lonely young fortuneteller dominated by the unseen commands of her immobile, unspeaking mother, Apollonia (Diane Salinger). We also meet Professor Lodz (Patrick Bauchau), a blind performer who knows more than he's telling about Ben's destiny, and Ruthie (Barbeau), a snake charmer much older than Ben who coaxes him into her bed. Some of these people have sinister motives.
Meanwhile, in Mintern, Calif., we meet Brother Justin (Brown), an evangelical preacher
living with his sister, Iris (Madigan). Even as Ben investigates his own omens, Brother Justin manifests his own odd gifts. He thinks his powers are a gift from God, and he dedicates himself to building a new church, where he will minister to the spiritual needs of the impoverished and displaced. But his wrath against those who oppose him in this endeavor suggests another, more subterranean master.
As dark miracles proliferate on both sides, both men struggle to maintain their souls in the face of the powerful forces that have come to life inside them. Both are tested. And both take the first steps toward the ultimate confrontation. ...
Reminiscent of the masters
Some people noticed the specialness of Carnivàle early on, while others peppered it with charges that can only be described as specious. One very common criticism, bandied about in national magazines but ridiculous on its very face, was that it's too much like David Lynch's cult series Twin Peaks. Since the shows are set in completely different eras, have completely different settings and offer completely different characters, whose lives are driven by completely different story engines, which are pitched at completely different emotional palates, with completely different visual designs, the main evidence for this almost-nonsensical claim, aside from a certain abundance of dream sequences and prophetic visions, is the presence of the diminutive Michael Anderson, that earlier show's mysterious "dancing man," as this show's carnival ringleader, Samson.
This is not exactly fair to the gifted Anderson, a mere visitation in the earlier show, whose complex character in this one is a respected leader of his community, with personal heartbreaks and a hidden agenda. He's been given a role with an emotional depth rarely offered to actors of his physical stature, who are all too often relegated to clowns, bit players or props. Any critic or Internet maven who immediately seizes upon his mere presence in this series as an excuse to claim that this show is just like Twin Peaks—rather than going to the revolutionary effort of, you know, actually understanding it—is being shallow at best and bigoted at worst. One might as well claim that the presence of little people, the
dream sequences and the supernatural edge make both shows "just like" The Wizard of Oz. But one would be just as deluded and stupid.
For a more accurate approximation of the show's flavor, imagine a bumpy meld of Ray Bradbury's
Something Wicked This Way Comes, John Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath and Stephen King's The Stand. That's heady company, but even those comparisons are inexact. Bradbury's spooky carnival was a magical creation seen in the glow of small-town childhood, idealized even as it was rendered an object of terror: The carnivale is a dusty, hardscrabble, disreputable enterprise, always one show away from dissolution, and fully realized down to the degrading conditions endured by its impoverished working men and prostitute cooch dancers. Steinbeck's classic portrait of the dispossessed hordes fleeing the poverty of the Depression-era Dust Bowl had relevance to the poverty-stricken of all times, but he didn't offer that as the background to a supernatural canvas. And King's tale may have featured an apocalyptic clash between good and evil, on a battlefield the size of America, but he was obliging enough to offer clear delineations between one side and the other, whereas Carnivàle's antagonists, who at this point have not yet met except in dreams, don't wear such easy labels, and for much of the season it wasn't entirely clear just which sides the Fanatical Evangelist and the Well-Meaning But Self-Absorbed Young Man were going to choose. (The answer seems resolved to me, but not to some other dedicated viewers, who think the jury's still out on that one.)
Another charge often leveled against the show is that it's slow-paced and that "nothing ever happens." This is just as wrong, but it's easier to see where it comes from, in that the pacing is indeed deliberate. Entire episodes are taken up by character interaction, the slow unfolding of detail and the methodical building of dread. There are numerous subplots involving the power struggles and sexual politics of the carnival, the longings of characters who consider themselves trapped there, the dreams they harbor and in some cases abandon, and Brother Justin's deep crisis of faith. All of these progress in due time. Carnivàle is not "slow-paced," but rich. This is in no way, shape or form a show that feels like it's being made up on the fly. Everything has the feel of a story worked out in detail and in advance, with enough room for all the skirmishes, struggles and tragedies experienced along the way.
The performances are strong, too. Everybody's persuasive, but I'd single out Clancy Brown, whose tormented Brother Justin is a vivid portrayal of a well-intentioned man who seems damned to become something much worse. Clea DuVall, who plays the tough but vulnerable Sofie, is another heartbreaking presence. Her character seems an inevitable love interest for Ben, but he wants nothing to do with her, and her story isn't going anywhere that obvious.
Experienced as a whole, Carnivàle is heartfelt, multilayered storytelling, a "novel for television" in the best sense of the phrase, and so far one of the very best works of fantasy the medium has ever produced.
