Terrence Howard stars as a record mogul with a troublesome family in Empire, on TV2. Photo / Supplied
Terrence Howard stars as a record mogul with a troublesome family in Empire, on TV2. Photo / Supplied
First things first: that conspicuous item in the Empire costume department that deserves its own Instagram account. Terrence Howard's character, Lucious Lyon, wore it within the opening few minutes of the much-hyped new drama series, (Tuesdays, 8.45pm, TV2), channelling both 90s-era Puff Daddy and The Wiggles.
The white skivvy wasa pointed reminder that this record mogul is old-school to the bone, a former Philly drug-pusher who has since built an empire that trades, not only off R&B and hip-hop, but merchandise and image.
The neck meringue also aptly sums up the show, one that feels so comfortable in its skin that its kingpin is happy flaunting, as they say in the States, a daggy turtleneck.
There's not too much else cringeworthy about Empire, other than the inevitable cheese that comes with such high-intensity melodrama. Part gangster soap, part family feud of Dynasty proportions, it's a show that looks and sounds epic, and delivers what it says on the tin: a ghetto-fabulous prime-time soap opera. It's not every day Timbaland fronts up with the soundtrack and The Butler writer Lee Daniels turns up on the credits as creator of this poised-to-crash house of cards.
After the doctor hands Lucious a death sentence, he tries to decide which of his three privileged sons will run the company when he's gone. The most obvious candidate appears to be his eldest, Andre, who dresses in sharp suits and knows about business. He also takes meds every day, hinting at troubles ahead.
Then there's middle child Jamal, a talented R&B singer, whose homosexuality has caused a significant rift with his dad.
Youngest son Hakeem is the problem kid but also talented, a rapper distracted by booze and chicks. Overshadowing virtually all of them is Lucious' clever, stroppy first wife, Cookie, (Taraji P Henson) fresh out of jail, and wanting her share of the company she helped to build. Throw in a battle of the brothers and wives, a murder and, weirdly enough, Courtney Love (who turns up later in the series) and you've got a fresh, glossy show with more tantrums and lash extensions than the Kardashians.
"This is MY COMPANY!" screeches post-slammer-Cookie, parading around the office in her furs, glaring at Lucious' pretty young fiancee, Anika. Sure, some over-the-top scenes deserve some eye-rolling. "Nothin' gonna tear my family apart," intones a young Lucious, pre-Cookie-in-the-slammer days.
And yes, the musical interludes come on like a hip-hop version of Glee, the good times transforming into virtual music videos, characters taking to the keys to show they're pissed off. But, unlike the sappy Grey's Anatomy or last decade's mainstream hit Desperate Housewives, Empire feels destined for a broader audience. You don't even have to love hip-hop to appreciate that it's a vehicle to explore such big ticket items as race, sexuality and power.
In this golden age of television - in which the best-loved hits have come from cable shows such as Breaking Bad, Game of Thrones and True Detective - Empire is a rare beast with hit written all over it.
