Imagine a sitcom that somehow manages to skirt the hospital scene for half a season; does it still retain its sitcom essence? We may never unravel this mystery, as "Modern Family" dives headfirst into the realm of healthcare once more, albeit cloaked in the guise of a seemingly run-of-the-mill episode.
Phil is one of those men who, upon his wife's demise, would transform the living room into a "hall of wizardry," a testament to his eccentricities. For the first time in recent memory, perhaps for the first time in seasons past, this reminder strikes home: Luke isn't merely a quirky lad blessed with an array of humorous lines; he is Phil's very essence in flesh and blood. These two Dunphy males embody a species of unpredictably exhilarated mad geniuses, alternating between moments of profound wisdom and sheer idiocy. Luke, currently in the kitchen, channels his inner mad scientist, transforming old appliances into novel marvels of ingenuity – the self-buttering toaster, the coffee-brewing bot. Give him too much leeway, and he'll soon turn your ice-cube dispenser into a flame-spouting dragon. (The post-credits sequence showcasing his popcake/flipjack inventions feels like a delightful micro-movie chronicling a typical day in the life of Phil and Luke.)
Alex, a rebel in reverse, drives her mother Claire to distraction. Claire tosses and turns at night, plagued by the specter of Alex navigating high school with the responsibility Claire herself never embraced. "I imposed those curfews so you could defy them, my dear! Sleep is for the faint-hearted! PSATs, shm-SATs!" Claire would watch "Spring Breakers" and yearn she'd pushed Alex to audition for a lead role.
A grievance worth noting: When a spouse utters, "Talk to your children," it's an unsightly phrase, akin to a blight. On the flip side, Claire's command, "Stop talking; step away from the children," though seemingly reliced from a '90s comedy, fits seamlessly within the context of their relationship and this beloved show.
The fragile Spanish influence at the Casa del Pritchett-Delgado teeters on the brink. Jay revels in his affluence, never missing an opportunity to remind Manny that he, Jay, is the family's financial lifeline. Yet, he harbors a deep distaste for the wealthy, especially those "pampered, privileged preppies with sugary attitudes." On the horizon looms a formidable presence—perhaps the self-made Pritchett spirit? Beware, all.
Enter Richard Riehle, a Brian Doyle-Murray doppelgänger adorned with an impressive mustache, as Claire's hospital roommate. Intruding upon the Dunphys' latest standoff, the mustache maven (a Jeff Bridges-esque hippie, according to Phil) dishes out some sage Riehle wisdom, advocating for children to be allowed to be their authentic selves. But what might these true selves entail? Behold, the ghosts of the Dunphys' future descend! Haley, eternally confusing archivists with exorcists, and Alex, both appear somewhat cartoonish in their adult avatars. As for grown-up Luke... he is unmistakably, fully realized Luke. Uncanny, indeed. (It's comforting to know Luke will mature into a bearded giant.) The entire scene is invaluable.
"You might want to wheel her past the burn unit—she just got incinerated," reads chapter 439 of "The Slow and Steady Edifice of Phil Dunphy's Legacy in Our Hearts."
"Just sit on them," Mitch advises Cam, referring to his restless hands. These two continue to deliver some of the most innovative and norm-defying asides. Nonetheless, the plotline where the two dads require female reinforcement to manage their daughter leaves me uneasy. Lily's fleeting notion that she might be gay triggers another red flag before it fizzles out as a false alarm. In Lily's mind, gay is akin to a nationality. "You're not gay, you're Vietnamese," the dads reassuringly inform her. Their ignorance of their daughter's birthplace is obnoxious, yet there's an underlying issue at play. The allure of America's egocentric mindset is potent—it's all too simple to feign parental sophistication and diligence when all one truly desires is to kick back and binge-watch Netflix.
In Jay's childhood library, every book bore the vulgar graffiti of dicks, a stark contrast to the opulent tomes adorned with gold plates presumably owned by the affluent children. This stark difference serves as a poignant illustration of Jay's deep-seated envy towards those not born with a silver spoon in their mouths.
Meanwhile, Mitchell, a devoted and unashamedly gay father, finds himself wrestling with the notion that his daughter might share his sexual orientation. His knee-jerk reaction is to dismiss it as a fleeting phase, vomiting out words like, "You're just confused." This contradicts the very essence of acceptance and love that should define a parent's relationship with their child, and it plays right into the hands of conservative narratives—even within the LGBTQ+ community, there's skepticism about the authenticity of such struggles.
Phil and Claire, in their moment of confusion akin to a scene from "A Christmas Carol," bombard their children with contradictory advice. Haley, perceiving this as "reverse psychiatry," labels it aptly, only for Claire to shoot down her perception with, "No, honey; actually, nothing is," elevating the absurdity to a new level of hilarity.
The private musings of these characters offer a unique delight, painting vivid pictures of their inner worlds. Luke's thought process remains an enigma wrapped in a mystery, yet it's incredibly plausible that this child could somehow piece together clues in a manner that leads him to believe his parents have been abducted.
Lastly, we witness Manny donning the guise of a brash, tongue-tied tough guy, proudly declaring, "I like books for reading them," before abruptly transitioning into an awkward moonwalk. This scene perfectly captures Manny's endearingly quirky side, showcasing his attempt to assert his machismo while inadvertently revealing his charming innocence.
Ah, the Vietnamese restaurant—a scene etched with the sharpest, most impactful writing in recent recall. Even amidst the cringe-worthy spectacle of Mitch and Cam compelling their presumably Vietnamese waitress to educate their daughter, Lily stirs up quite the commotion. She loudly proclaims, "I hate Vietnam! I hate Viet-naaaam. I wanna go home. I'm gay. I'm GAY!" And is this the inaugural utterance of the phrase "white people" on Modern Family? Hail Gloria, the valiant warrior against the scourge of boring, Americanized white people. This sequence stands as one of the rare instances where the show nails its often-repeated schtick of being an "equal opportunity offender."
The Dunphy offspring experience a moment of profound insight into their still-maturing parents and the manner in which Phil and Claire neglect their own problems by fixating on their children. Ding, ding, ding! The offspring rebuke their self-satisfied parents, urging them to "be better at being adults!" and then ride off on a crest of sibling unity. And lo and behold, lurking behind the curtain that once revealed the future Dunphys, emerges the next generation of the Dunphy clan.
Parental enhancements? Implemented uniformly. Lessons? Imbibed. Until we meet again.
