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he first scene of Big Love is one helluva doozy. We watch Bill Hendrickson (Bill Paxton) waking to a gloomy dawn. He looks majorly dispirited in his tightie whities. A woman lies next to him. He asks if she's up. No answer. Bill flashes back to the night before. The light is all golden shadows. He is making love to the woman, who turns out to be the second of his three wives, Nicki, played by the perpetually smoldering Chloë Sevigny. He thrusts. She breathes a deep, womanly breath; they are doing it. But suddenly Paxton's square jaw betrays a flicker of panic. He glances down at his loins. We cut back to Bill at dawn. He offers the bathroom mirror a dreadful stare, dresses for work, then leaves a $100 bill on the bedside table for Nicki, as if he were no more than an impotent john.
   It's a brilliant opening salvo, chiefly because it so brutally banishes the notion that Big Love is going to be a glorification of polygamy. In fact, in its finest moments the series is about the crisis of American superabundance, as it extends from the material world to the domestic and spiritual realms. But of course, it's also a TV show, and Tom Hanks is an executive producer, which means the thoughtful stuff comes embedded in the comforting platitudes and scenarios of a soap opera.
   The basic setup runs like so: Bill was raised in a polygamist sect. Since leaving at sixteen, he has gone mainstream in all ways except that he has married three women: Barb (Jeanne Tripplehorn), his first wife and designated boss lady; Nicki, a manipulative shopaholic who grew up with Bill, and Margene (Ginnifer Goodwin), a former babysitter who recently married into the family and now

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has two babies of her own. There are seven kids, ranging in age from Margene's infants to Bill and Barb's high schoolers. It's a given that every single member of the Hendrickson clan is incredibly good looking. Bill owns a chain of home-improvement stores in the Utah suburbs and drives a big-ass SUV. By all superficial appearances, he is living the American dream in triplicate.
   The central drama of the show resides in the wifely battle for the one limited resource: Bill's attention. Bill himself is overextended; his failure to achieve wood plainly results from feeling pulled in too many directions. He solves this problem in the typical American fashion — he pops Viagra and starts shtupping like a champ, which only leads to more problems. Margene, for instance, yelps like a porn star, which scares his other wives' children.
  

Big Love suggests evangelical movements are expressions of the American lust to possess more than our fair share.

 (I'm truly sorry to report that none of the sex scenes carry much of an erotic jolt. This is one of those shows in which all the women mysteriously manage to make love without baring more than an occasional collarbone.)
   Another source of trouble: because polygamy is illegal, and because Bill is a high-profile businessman, his marital arrangement has to remain a secret. Thus, the wives live officially as neighbors, in separate homes, with a shared backyard compound. There are aspects in which this communal lifestyle holds great appeal, given the crushing atomization of modern life. But for the most part, the pitched battles over Bill's love and money feel degrading, and it's unclear why an ostensibly strong, modern woman like Barb would sign on to such a plan.
   Left almost as an afterthought in all this are the kids. The show would have us believe that a quick hug or word of praise from dad will sustain them. But that's clearly rubbish. I can hardly wait to see how the teenagers will act out their peculiar family values in the world at large.
   Still, there's clearly more than enough household strum-und-drang to sustain the series. But again, this being TV, we get a big, juicy subplot in the form of Nicki's father, Roman (Harry Dean Stanton), the head of the sect from which Bill was banished. Roman doesn't just look creepy; he looks recently exhumed. The show tries to play him as the evil polygamist, the bad preacher man who invokes the name of God to bilk his flock and marry all the pretty young things. By contrast, the show goes to great lengths to demonstrate Bill's decency. Paxton does a lot of anguished squinting; much of the time he looks constipated.
   But what make Big Love fascinating are the implicit connections between our hero and his antagonist. Bill may operate a legitimate business and struggle to honor his family obligations, but he shares with Roman the same basic worldview: polygamy is not only his right but his duty. God has become the bagman for his own sexual and genetic greed. This is the single most exciting notion Big Love offers: the suggestion that

Bill is a wish fantasy dressed in a hairshirt.

evangelical movements are in part spiritual expressions of the imperial impulse, the American lust to possess more than our fair share. All of which is frankly obvious if you know even the least bit about Mormon history. You might also see: Bush, George W., Iraq, regressive tax cuts, faith-based charity, and so on. Bill and Roman both use the Almighty as the instrument of their earthly ambitions. Roman is simply more extreme, and upfront, about the practice.
   The show's best scenes dramatize how this hypocrisy comes back to bite Bill on the ass. Toward the end of the second episode, we see Bill praying to Jesus Christ for clarity while sitting in his giant GMC truck. He then proceeds to Margene's house and begs her forgiveness for screwing Nicki on their marriage bed during one of his Viagra rages.
   "You are a valued member of this family," Bill says in a tender, fatherly tone. "We weren't complete, not until you. You made us complete. I wasn't complete until you, and our fine sons." He touches her cheek. Margene looks up at Bill, all doe-eyed. A tear rolls down her cheek. She waits a beat, then whispers, "But I still need a car." That's how God kicks it in the world of Big Love: he's overruled by childish, material wants.
   Bill is a wish fantasy dressed in a hairshirt. Watching him suffer a burden of his own making allows us the pleasure of judging, and forgiving, our own excesses. This is the same formula that has worked so well with HBO's most beloved anti-hero, Tony Soprano. The big question facing Big Love is whether the show will devolve into just another evening soap — Dallas with a Mormon makeover — or push deeper into the pathologies of American fundamentalism. The series is well written and expertly acted. It has a chance to say something important about the abuse of faith in this country. Let us pray the producers choose the righteous path.  n°

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
	Steve Almond's new essay collection is (Not that You Asked). It is, like much of his work, filthy.

©2006 Steve Almond and Nerve.com.