Many of television’s most compelling series are populated by characters so complex, so dynamic, so real that a viewer could easily imagine them existing outside the confines of a glowing screen. ABC’s Scandal is … not one of those series.

Sure, its cast of brilliant Washington insiders may look like a rainbow coalition. But their ambitious, hyper-competent personalities are nearly identical, and they all speak in the same rat-a-tat register that creator Shonda Rhimes first perfected on Grey’s Anatomy. During its truncated first season, the show cared so little about distinguishing these people from one another that my roommate and I made a game of trying to remember the names of the glamorous lost souls who work for the superhumanly capable Olivia Pope (Kerry Washington). To this day, we exclusively refer to Darby Stanchfield’s Abby Whelan as “Long Red.”

That said, Scandal does feature one character who operates on a slightly different wavelength—former assistant U.S. Attorney David Rosen (Josh Malina), Olivia’s friendly nemesis turned quasi-employee (and Long Red’s kinda-sorta ex-boyfriend). His name is generic but appropriate, considering how neatly David embodies two classic Yiddish types: the mensch and the schlimazel.

First, the good one: While Olivia and her ilk run around disturbing crime scenes, covering up their clients’ misdeeds, and even rigging presidential elections—all in the name of “wearing the white hat,” the show’s much-repeated idiom for being a good guy—David shows a Javertian devotion to upholding the law. Even more importantly, he’s the only person in Washington who calls Olivia out for pretending the nation’s rules don’t apply to her. “You just expect me to bend the law for you once again, out of blind faith and admiration,” he tells his frenemy at the beginning of Season 2. “You pour a good bourbon, Olivia—but so does the dive bar down the street.” Translation: “I won’t back down, no matter how flawless you look in that cream-colored suit.”

And David isn’t afraid to speak truth to even higher powers, either. When he spots the CIA waterboarding Olivia’s hacker-slash-assassin Huck—after that tortured genius is arrested for apparently shooting the president; did I mention that Scandal is amazing?—the lawyer is rightfully horrified. One hour (and more than a few impassioned monologues) later, Huck is freed, thanks largely to David’s crusade.

But even though David reigns as Scandal’s moral center—or perhaps because he does—the show seems determined to make him the unluckiest TV character this side of Jerry Gergich. Olivia and co. repeatedly defeat David in court, despite his careful preparation and airtight arguments. His quest to tell the world about how Olivia fixed the election ends with David losing his prestigious government job, being reduced to teaching a high school civics class, and facing financial ruin so great that his mother has to start paying his rent. Oh, and then he wakes up next to a butchered blonde. (Don’t worry—he’s being framed.)

As the man himself moans—in one of his only overt allusions to being Jewish—he must be the “single most unlucky schmuck” on Earth. Despite his perch on the moral high ground, David eventually finds himself asking Olivia for her help, as well as a job—though at least he’s continually conflicted about his decision. (“Did you take a commission when I sold my soul to the devil?” he asks Olivia at one point, seeming deadly serious.)

By contrast, actor Joshua Malina has led a charmed life. He’s had the good fortune to play variations on David—whip-smart, idealistic, more than a little nerdy—on both Sports Night and The West Wing, Scandal’s most prominent spiritual ancestors. (Theory: Shonda Rhimes is Aaron Sorkin minus sanctimony, plus sex. Discuss.) It’s no wonder that back in January, Tablet nominated him to succeed Jarrod Bernstein as the White House’s official Jewish community liaison.

Knowing that Malina’s made a career out of playing this one guy does diminish David’s novelty somewhat … but either way, he remains Scandal’s most likeable and empathetic figure, especially once you factor in Malina’s obsessive live-tweeting of the show. And I really do hope that he and Long Red can work things out in the end.

Previously on Network Jews:

Agent Mulder, Supernatural Expert and Conspiracy Theorist on 1990s sci-fi hit The X-Files

Michael Ginsberg, the Smartass Ad Man on Mad Men

Dr. James Wilson on Fox’s Dark Medical Procedural House

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The post Network Jews: David Rosen, the Unlucky Mensch on ABC’s ‘Scandal’ appeared first on Jewcy.

There are two types of people in this world: Those who will proclaim, loudly and often, that Seinfeld is the greatest sitcom ever created, and those who will audibly agree—but secretly prefer Friends.

Any self-respecting MOT in the second group should feel especially ashamed. After all, Seinfeld is practically the televised equivalent of FUBU—or perhaps FJBJ. Though the phenomenally successful series was and is popular among latke-eaters and mayo-lovers alike, many of the series’ most famous episodes—the one with the chocolate babka, the one with Elaine’s shiksappeal, the one with the mohel, for Chaim’s sake—are unapologetic about their Semitic bent. Bright, silly Friends, by contrast, seems blandly all-American, utterly nondenominational—goyish, even.

And yet Seinfeld’s white-bread cousin was created by two Brandeis grads, composed by a writing staff that was “a third to half” Jewish, and largely populated by archetypes familiar to anyone who’s ever logged time at a Jewish summer camp. There’s Rachel Green (Jennifer Aniston), the spoiled JAP with a heart of gold and a fixed nose; her best friend Monica Geller (Courteney Cox), the formerly overweight, hyper-competitive neurotic; and Monica’s older brother Ross (David Schwimmer), the nerdy nebbish with a mournful look and an unfortunate fondness for hair gel.

Though any Jew worth her weight in geldings would recognize these three as kindred spirits, a casual, gentile viewer could go years without realizing that one half of the whitest sextet on television is secretly ethnic. Rachel, Monica, and Ross’ Jewishness is tacit rather than Seinfeld-ishly explicit. It peeks through via their last names, their Long Island origin stories, their fondness for quips, and their difficult relationships with their mothers.

But if your average viewer were forced to choose which Friends character seemed most Hebrew, chances are he’d immediately point to Ross. The series’ unlikely romantic lead has the stereotypically dark looks of what Granny Hall would call a “real Jew.” His intellectually focused profession (paleontologist), whiny voice, and emasculating history (married a lesbian, played the bagpipes, got stuck in a pair of leather pants) also mark him as a classic schlimazel.

Yet even Ross almost never acknowledges his Jewish background. In a way, this makes sense: Ross is an academic first and foremost, meaning he’s much more likely to lecture his pals about evolution than to discuss Talmud. It’s no coincidence that the one time Professor Ross does speak openly about his Jewish heritage—in Season 7’s “The One With the Holiday Armadillo”—he has an educational mission: He’s trying to teach his son Ben about Hanukkah.

Ben, an assimilated kid weaned on Christmas specials and red-and-green wrapping paper, proves a hard nut to crack. So Ross quickly gives up his quest and resolves to rent a Santa suit instead—only to find none available so close to December 25. Friends isn’t exactly known for verisimilitude; rather than visiting another store or nixing the costume altogether, Ross opts for an unconventional outfit and appears to Ben as The Holiday Armadillo. Cue laugh track.

The Holiday Armadillo does manage to achieve Ross’ goal, imparting Christmas tidings as well as the story of Hanukkah—with a few twists, thanks to his well-meaning but dense Catholic friend Joey (Matt LeBlanc). (Says Matthew Perry’s Chandler when the tale is over: “My favorite part was when Superman flew all the Jews out of Egypt!”) The gang ends the episode by lighting up a Hanukkiah—only to forget entirely about Hanukkah when the next season’s “holiday” episode rolls around.

Ross’ blatant addressing of his family’s Judaism is clumsy and goofy; each time Jewish actor David Schwimmer says the word Hanukkah, he sounds like a Spanish instructor deliberately pronouncing the word fajita. Perhaps, then, it’s for the best that his—and Monica’s, and Rachel’s—religious background went mostly unremarked upon throughout Friends’ run. It’s more fun to play a game of “Spot the Tacit References” than to wince at benevolent but awkward attempts to make the implied explicit.

Previously on Network Jews:

Dr. Glenn Richie, the Jewish doctor on Childrens Hospital

Jeremy Goodwin, the wide-eyed Wunderkind on Sports Night

Harry Goldenblatt, the unlikely Casanova on Sex and the City

The post Network Jews: Ross Geller, Monica’s Nerdy Paleontologist Brother on ‘Friends’ appeared first on Jewcy.

But even in the midst of chaos, a few things remain relatively steady from episode to episode. (Yes, this contradicts everything I just said. How very Glee!) There are the songs, of course, which form the show’s backbone even as they become increasingly irrelevant to its plot. And then there are the characters, who, in the grand tradition of long-running TV comedies, can each be described by a handful of rigid defining traits. Brittany Pierce (Heather Morris) is a dumb cheerleader. Finn Hudson (Cory Monteith) is a sensitive jock. Santana Lopez (Naya Rivera) is a bitch. And Rachel Berry (Lea Michele) is a talented, obnoxious, and Jewish superstar in training.

During Glee’s first few seasons, Rachel’s Semitism was as ingrained as her thirst for a Broadway spotlight. The character’s middle name is Barbra, as in Streisand—another Jewish performer who doubles as Rachel’s idol. Early in Season 1, she briefly dated fellow Member of the Tribe Noah Puckerman after he supposedly received the following message from God: “Rachel was a hot Jew and the good lord wanted [him] to get into her pants.” (Puck seduced his non-shiksa goddess by singing “Sweet Caroline,” presumably because Glee couldn’t get the rights to “Miracle of Miracles.”) During a second season episode that’s themed on religion, Rachel even told her once and current boyfriend that if the two of them ever have kids, they must be raised according to her faith. When Finn agreed, she allowed him to round second base.

Rachel, then, is the classic prudish overachiever with a kosher twist—Election’s Tracy Flick with a better voice and a bigger nose. (TV creators really need to think of a more creative way to describe their young, type-A female characters.) Or, at least, that’s who she once was. As time has passed and Glee has burned through storylines with increasing manic frequency, the series’ writers have been forced to take shortcuts. And instead of slowing down Glee’s breakneck pace or sacrificing potential iTunes singles for extra scenes of dialogue, they’ve chosen to neglect previously established characterization—thus making their show’s already archetypal characters even less dimensional.

Much like Will Schuester’s redeeming qualities or Tina Cohen-Chang’s entire personality, Rachel’s Jewish-ness has been a casualty of this downsizing process. There was a time when an entire episode—Season 2’s “Born This Way”—focused on Rachel’s yearning to transform her Semitic schnoz into a dainty, goyish nose like blonde cheerleader Quinn’s. (The irony: Quinn is played by Dianna Agron, a Southern Jew who’s a card-carrying bat mitzvah. By contrast, Lea Michele has a Jewish father but was raised Catholic.)

But as Season 3 draws to a close tonight, Rachel’s once-vital religion has been all but forgotten. In this year’s emphatically denominational holiday episode, for example, Rachel presented Finn with an exorbitant Christmas list, enthusiastically participated in an homage to The Judy Garland Christmas Special, and cheerfully sang a bevy of Christmas carols—only remembering her heritage during a quick, barely audible “Happy Hanukkah!” shouted just as the hour ended. And when Rachel noted during last week’s episode that she’s “still Jewish,” her remark was more of a sheepish reminder than an affirmation.

Demanding some semblance of reliability would be asking too much of Glee at this point. Nonetheless, it’s disappointing to watch one of network TV’s most visible Jews lose an affiliation that used to define her—even if her rendition of “Don’t Rain on My Parade” can still put Barbra to shame. (Provided, of course, that she can remember the words.)

Previously on Network Jews:

Maurice Levy, the Jewish lawyer from David Simon’s HBO drama The Wire

Krusty the Clown from FOX’s long-running animated classic The Simpsons

Annie Edison from NBC’s cult favorite Community

The post Network Jews: Rachel Berry from FOX’s ‘Glee’ appeared first on Jewcy.

And as Community itself has gotten both progressively weirder and less easily classifiable, Annie, in turn, has begun to shed her Flickian skin. Season 1’s Annie was an academically focused but emotionally fragile innocent who proudly proclaimed that she was “totally comfortable being uncomfortable with [her] sexuality.” (Her only sexual encounter hadn’t exactly been worth writing home about: “I had relations with my high school boyfriend,” she told fellow Community members Shirley and Britta. “We did it to Madonna’s Erotica on the floor of his walk-in closet … He’s gay now.” Incidentally, this incident recalls one from Brie’s own past.)

Two years later, Annie hasn’t exactly learned to cut loose—but she has morphed into an infinitely more complicated character. The Annie we know today is still an ambitious, rule-abiding gunner who records all her classes to facilitate easier note taking. She’s also still more comfortable playing yenta with the members of her study group than taking charge of her own romantic destiny. But at the same time, Annie’s proven she has a wild streak that enables her to transform into, say, a badass, paintball gun-toting action heroine if need be. Season 1 Annie would have confessed immediately if she had broken her roommate’s priceless Dark Knight DVD; Season 3 Annie elects instead to stage an elaborate fake robbery, claiming that a mysterious stranger nabbed the DVD in question.

And though Annie still retains an aura of erotic inexperience, she’s somehow become Community’s most overtly sexualized character as well. See, for example, “Teach Me How to Understand Christmas,” an absurd and dirty number Annie performs in Season 3’s musical holiday episode. The thin premise is that Annie doesn’t get how to celebrate the season because she’s a Member of the Tribe. Though the song is obviously meant as a send-up of bawdy carols like “Santa Baby,” parodic suggestiveness is still suggestiveness; Annie performs the tune in a barely-there Santa costume that puts the “ho” in “ho ho ho.” By its conclusion, she’s straddling arrogant ex-lawyer Jeff and cooing, “Boopie doopie doop boop, sex!” (That’s literally the last line in “Teach Me.”)

Annie’s evolution is likely the result of the show’s scripts mining the discrepancies between Brie herself—the sexually liberated, worldly actress in her late 20s—and the character she plays. But there’s also an in-universe explanation for her development. It all comes back to Annie’s own fractured childhood: While she identifies as Jewish throughout Community’s run, in Season 2 she reveals that her dad—like Brie’s own—is actually a Christian. Before her parents got divorced, she explains, the holidays at her house were always “a minefield of overlapping rituals.” Annie reacted to the chaos of her broken home by prizing order above all other virtues—a choice that eventually led to an Adderall addiction, which is what landed her in community college in the first place.

But prolonged exposure to the nuttiness exuded by the rest of Community’s cast has thwarted Annie’s best efforts to stay disciplined. Now, with every episode that passes, she’s becoming more like them: unhinged and unpredictable. And as Annie moves away from personifying the archetypal brittle overachiever, she just gets more interesting. This shift means that as the show moves forward—hopefully all the way to a fourth season—we may be less likely to, say, see Annie bristle when her friends call her a Jew rather than Jewish (“Say the whole word!” she urges in Season 1’s “Comparative Religion”). Ultimately, though, it’s a positive sign of growth—even if in this case, growing up means growing progressively more unglued.

Last week on Network Jews: Schmidt from New Girl

Hillary Busis writes for EW.com and tweets here

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