The sophomore season of ABC's "Modern Family" didn't kick off with a resounding bang; rather, it began with what could only be described as a comedic crash, we surmise. Throughout the series' inaugural run, garages were invariably scenes of disarray, and in this fresh chapter, we witness Phil Dunphy grappling with his bicycle in the storage, only to unleash a torrent of Rubbermaid containers brimming with Legos and other plastic relics of childhood upon his unsuspecting head. It's nothing short of miraculous how the Dunphy abode remains as meticulously organized as it does — oh, how immaculate it is, much like the pristine homes of the Pritchett-Delgados (comprising Claire's father Jay, his second spouse Gloria, and her pre-teen son) and the Pritchett-Tuckers (inhabited by Claire's sibling Mitch, his life partner Cameron, and their adopted infant daughter). Despite the countless mishaps and laughter-inducing clutter that pepper their daily existences.
In its maiden season, "Modern Family" adeptly struck a chord between the heartwarming and the humorous, twisting an array of quirky bizarreness into even the most touching scenarios, seldom allowing itself to sway too far in either direction. For the season premiere last evening, however, it veered slightly towards the sugary end of the spectrum, as all three clans grappled with the pangs of growing up. Phil's encounter with suburban debris cascading onto his cranium prompted a heart-to-heart with Claire about an old, dilapidated station wagon that also bore the brunt of the junk — whether to retain it for their eldest daughter, the lazy and soon-to-be-licensed Haley, or sell it off. (Haley's moon-faced, airheaded surliness has now become somewhat of a recurring joke; whereas middle sister Alex and younger brother Luke underwent unexpected transformative arcs in the previous season, Haley's closest brush with change was an unfortunate boozy afternoon on a family vacation in Hawaii. Thus, this season hints at uncovering a latent spark within her or confirms that the writers peculiarly relish portraying her as a teenage punching bag.) Nevertheless, with a bit of persuasion, it becomes evident that Claire's distress isn't so much about Haley potentially discovering (as she and Phil once did) that the backseat is the ideal size for accommodating a mattress, but rather, her melancholy stems from her children's rapid growth.
Gloria, too, contends with a semblance of the same emotional tension concerning Manny, her pre-teen son from her first marriage, whose cautious yet precocious journey through adolescent life, love, and assimilation into the expansive Pritchett-Dunphy-Tucker family furnished some of the first season's highlights. Last night, we observed him attempting to charm Kelly, a schoolmate: "She's not my girlfriend," he insists, defensive towards probing Jay and Gloria. "She's merely coming over to discuss the life cycle of silkworms." However, by the day's end, the children had merged their science notes into a single journal ("It just felt natural," sighs the tween sweetheart), and Gloria begins to perceive the looming specter of another woman encroaching upon her territory. When Manny ditches a movie date with her to dine with Kelly's family, it shatters her heart. "The leading cause of death among Colombian women is when their sons tie the knot," she mourns. Yet, by nightfall, Manny has moved on from Kelly ("Kelly didn't like my jacket — and she even ordered for me") and onto the next prospect, calling another girl with whom he's shared a few exhilarating rounds of Six Degrees of Sir Francis Bacon (bless her soul). However, like Claire's vision of her family's swiftly advancing future, this revelation strikes her deeply.
In the third quadrant of the narrative, the friction persists between the two grown-ups, Cameron and Mitchell, whose daughter Lily has somehow become even more endearing during the break. They have resolved to grant her the princess castle of her (and their) fondest dreams. They sideline the intricate blueprints that Mitchell has apparently spent a lifetime designing, opting instead for a ready-to-assemble kit. Just enough assembly is required to spark a significant rift between the couple, further escalated by the inclusion of power tools and Mitchell's macho father, Jay.
Prior to commencing the project, Cameron and Mitchell are interviewed together, exuding equal parts support and excitement for the castle-building endeavor. However, when Cameron is alone, he confides his trepidations: "Should an accident occur, I hope he kills me," Cameron admits, his teddy bear-like jowls trembling. "I fear I wouldn't inspire as a disabled individual." His sentiment may hold some truth, yet he deserves praise for persevering through the construction alongside Jay, whose ongoing struggle to come to terms with his son's homosexuality was a delicately woven narrative thread throughout much of the previous season. But few things can forge a bond between a grudgingly heterosexual individual and their child's gay life partner quite like the construction of a pink-and-purple princess castle, right?
Jay's relationship with Mitchell presents a different scenario: After reminiscing to the confessional camera about building a bookshelf with his son years ago — "It was my Vietnam, and I was right there in the trenches" — he finds himself having to rescue his son from a locked playhouse after a doorknob malfunctions and a bird flies in (perhaps a vengeful cousin of the one Mitchell had fatally struck with a tennis racket in the season one finale). Perhaps it's his hammer time with Cameron, or perhaps it's the gradual erosion of his old-fashioned parenting tendencies, but Jay now seems more aware of Mitchell's desperate desire to contribute in some traditionally masculine capacity. "I yearn to glance out into my yard and say, 'There's a piece of me in that princess castle,'" Mitchell says, eyes bleary with exhaustion. Presumably, Lily adores the castle simply because she is adorably perfect. We fervently hope she remains a perpetual baby, never aging, forever the most remarkable, silently smiling, vague little lump on television.
Meanwhile, the Dunphys embark on one final journey in their vintage station wagon, driving to a cherished spot with the kids squished in the backseat, munching on fast food. It's a heartwarming tableau — a family growing up yet cherishing the special routines of their not-so-distant past. Of course, it all unravels spectacularly, even by the standards of this catastrophe-prone show: sputtering, vomiting, rogue spiders, a Neglected parking brake, and a station wagon caring down a cliff. In the blink of an eye, the show transitions from a heartwarming moment to one of sheer panic, only to rights itself once more, as is its wont. Change may indeed be looming, but at least we still have these moments. And, of course, Lily.
