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Review: Futurama: Season Seven (Part 2)

It will stay encapsulated in the memory banks of allegiant viewers, frozen in time for a thousand years like a certain clumsy pizza delivery boy.

3.5

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Futurama: Season Seven (Part 2)

There isn’t much that represents the metaphysical heart and soul of Futurama better than the Planet Express crew’s faithful freighting ship. The ever-dependable vessel has been to hell and back, damaged and reformatted in a wealth of ways both comical and cruel, yet the lumbering lime-green spacecraft remains an iconic, trustworthy source of steadfast entertainment and excitement. The same can be said of Futurama itself, a series that rarely delivers an episode without a dozen or so memorable one-liners and an animated sci-fi-inspired set piece that makes a strong case for there still being considerable value in American-made cartoons. The Planet Express ship is at the center of “2-D Blacktop,” the first episode of the second half the show’s seventh, and presumably final final, season. It’s an outing that embodies everything that makes Futurama a stone-cold classic: eccentric yet oddly sympathetic characters, scores of clever pop-culture homages, and a unique visual aesthetic that isn’t afraid to experiment with a variety of styles both vintage and modern.

Professor Farnsworth’s (Billy West) latest modifications to the Planet Express transport, or “Bessy” as he affectionately likes to refer to her, quickly go awry, landing the ship in the junkyard and causing his employees to once again doubt his technical savvy. Without a reliable way to make their deliveries, Leela (Katey Sagal) decides to procure the 31st-century equivalent of a soccer mom’s carpool-ready SUV: a clunky, windowless hovering box with an overly padded interior and ultra-sensitive motion detectors, a sacrifice of speed and sexiness in favor of safety. Meanwhile, Farnsworth salvages ol’ Bessy from the scrapheap, saving her from being melted down (but not before we see both Speed Buggy and Speed Racer’s Mach 5 fall victim to laughably violent liquefaction), and refits the aging barge as a lean, mean, space-racing machine. The episode’s ultimate spectacle is as sublime as Futurama gets, a rousing mad dash that, by design, trumps the entirety of Fast & Furious 6. Leela’s mom-van faces off against the Professor’s souped-up Planet Express hot rod in a showdown on a massive möbius strip, the two vehicles eventually colliding post-Dimensional Drift, sending Leela, Farnsworth, finish-line flag-waving Fry (also voiced by West), and stowaway Bender (John DiMaggio) into a 2D microcosm that’s a hyper-surreal fusion of Flatland and Paper Mario.

The second episode, “Fry and Leela’s Big Fling,” slows things down, but only in the high-octane action department. The writers bring to the table epigrammatic jabs at the depravity of targeted advertising, animals in captivity, and reality television. Beginning with Fry and Leela’s hilariously fruitless attempts to get some alone time (Bender, apparently working his after-hours gig, tries to rob them at a park) and climaxing with a never-could’ve-seen-that-coming twist that evokes The Truman Show without being the slightest bit cliché, the episode remains a remarkable balancing act throughout. Even as it summons a multitude of farfetched scenarios, obscure references, and rapid-fire jokes, it still manages to effectively reinforce the emotional cornerstone of Futurama’s offbeat universe: Fry and Leela’s rollercoaster courtship. In the short span that we see the enraged orangutan Dr. Banjo (David Herman) shooting tranquilizer darts at a marmoset pajamas-wearing Amy (Lauren Tom), we also witness (mostly off-screen, of course) Fry and Leela, for perhaps the very first time, consummating their love in a refreshingly non-satirical manner. It’s a scene that strangely mirrors the pair’s embracing, severed limbs floating among the stars in “A Farewell to Arms.” It’s moments like this that, as the curtain presumably closes on Futurama after these final 13 episodes go to air, will stay encapsulated in the memory banks of allegiant viewers, frozen in time for a thousand years like a certain clumsy pizza delivery boy.

Cast: Billy West, Katey Sagal, John DiMaggio, Lauren Tom, Phil LaMarr, Maurice LaMarche, Tress MacNeille, David Herman Airtime: Comedy Central, Wednesdays @ 10 p.m. Buy: Amazon

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Review: Russian Doll Resists Becoming a Simplistic Morality Tale

The Netflix show’s premise is like a playfully morbid Escher painting.

3

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Russian Doll
Photo: Netflix

The premise of Russian Doll, in which Nadia (Natasha Lyonne) keeps dying during her 36th birthday party only to awaken each time at the start of the night, suggests a playfully morbid Escher painting. In one episode, Nadia dies multiple times by falling down the same staircase and snapping her neck; in another, she learns her lesson and avoids the stairs by using the fire escape, only to later choke on a chicken wing. The character’s repetitive 24-hour cycle provides a showcase for Lyonne: The actress, uniquely suited to play a sardonic New Yorker such as Nadia, highlights the dark comedy of the character’s situation as well as her lingering emotional damage.

Nadia eventually meets Alan (Charlie Barnett), a man who also keeps dying, and together they hunt for a way out of their peculiar situation. The discoveries they make along the way don’t always make logical sense—in part because, while Alan has some vaguely compulsive tendencies, the series isn’t specific about his personal issues. Although Nadia and Alan begin to grasp that their salvation may depend on confronting their emotional and mental damage, the series never quite provides an answer for exactly how they found themselves in these loops to begin with. Do these cycles befall other people besides Nadia and Alan? Are they an act of god? Does it all have to do with Nadia’s cat, who has recently gone missing?

The fact that Russian Doll doesn’t address the specific root of Nadia’s predicament, though, invites a number of interpretations. And by glossing over the precise details of its central mystery, the series resists reducing Nadia’s quest to a simplistic morality tale. She can be vulgar, unfiltered, and even cruel. She also indulges in a breadth of vices. Without ever suggesting that she must alter herself to meet the expectations of others, though, Russian Doll maintains an astute understanding of which aspects of Nadia are permanent and which are malleable. It suggests that the parts of her that need changing, like her self-loathing and emotional numbness, relate primarily to her own happiness rather than virtue or goodness. In a philosophical conversation with between her and Alan, the series seems to make the case that morality is relative, amorphous, and immaterial.

In resisting convenient lesson-teaching, Russian Doll sustains its central mystery and never collapses into saccharine didacticism. There’s no checklist for Nadia to attend to in order to free herself, no great wrongs that need righting. She must get better, but not necessarily to be better—though, in some instances, she does that as well. And while the resolution of her predicament is somewhat vague, it remains sweetly fulfilling, because, while the series deals in opaque supernaturalism, its protagonist is easy to root for as she fumbles toward happiness.

Cast: Natasha Lyonne, Yul Vazquez, Elizabeth Ashley, Greta Lee, Charlie Barnett Airtime: Netflix

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Review: Netflix’s The Umbrella Academy Slumps Into Mopey Mediocrity

The series is unable to render any of the visual imagination its source material practically begs for.

1.5

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The Umbrella Academy
Christos Kalohoridis/Netflix

So many superhero stories—particularly the gritty Marvel shows in Netflix’s stable—focus on minimizing the weirdness of their characters, streamlining their iconic costumes, and simplifying their origin stories, in order to flaunt a kind of fashionable semi-plausibility. At first, The Umbrella Academy seems to buck this trend by remaining refreshingly off the wall. The series is populated by characters like a talking chimpanzee butler named Pogo (Adam Godley) and time-traveling assassins in children’s masks (Mary J. Blige and Cameron Britton). In the first 10 minutes of the pilot, an impossibly beefy man hangs out on the moon. As the series wears on, though, it reveals itself to be largely incapable of juggling such promising absurdity with the demands of the average TV superhero melodrama.

Adapted from the Eisner-winning Dark Horse comic book drawn by Gabriel Bá and written by My Chemical Romance’s Gerard Way, the series sifts through the wreckage of a superhero team that’s less a nuclear family than a family gone nuclear. In 1989, more than 40 women around the world were spontaneously impregnated and gave birth to super-powered children. The mysterious billionaire Sir Reginald Hargreeves (Colm Feore) adopted seven such children and trained six, sans one apparently without powers, into a crime-fighting team that grew up, grew dysfunctional, and grew apart. The patriarch’s sudden death brings the estranged siblings back together, including the time-traveling Number Five (Aidan Gallagher).

Despite such an audacious premise, The Umbrella Academy quickly slumps into mopey mediocrity, unable to render any of the visual imagination the material practically begs for. Throughout, the action is sloppy, the cinematography is pedestrian, and the production design is gray and largely nondescript. Beyond a ‘50s-flavored donut shop and the apparent nonexistence of cell phones, the series barely bothers to portray its retro setting. There are brief flashes of style, but The Umbrella Academy is largely content to abuse slow-mo and ironic needle-drops. Several drug trips, the hijacking of an ice cream truck, a meeting with God, and other such moments feel more like aberrations than examples of a coherent tone, gestures toward an irreverent personality the series never sustains.

The majority of The Umbrella Academy is marred by fumbled attempts at character development and stilted performances. The protagonists rarely transcend the broadest strokes as the Netflix series dwells on the same few character beats and displays of sibling bickering and mind-numbing romance. Only Robert Sheehan’s anarchic Klaus, who takes drugs to dull his ability to commune with ghosts, and Ellen Page’s frustrated Vanya, who has no powers at all, seem to benefit from the show’s attempts to beef up its breezy source material. Their character arcs are the most heartfelt and relatable, rooted in fear and insecurity.

Occasionally, The Umbrella Academy hits on something profound about feeling inferior, abandoned, and alone, mostly in its flirtations with familial trauma. Reginald Hargreeves was a cold man, and he left lasting emotional and physical scars on each of his children; he referred to them by numbers instead of names. But rather than look to the past, the series advises its characters to let go and focus on what’s in front of them, who they’ve grown into, and how they can heal together. The problem, of course, is that the show’s past seems significantly more interesting than its present, which is confined to the same handful of locations and full of red herrings that delay obvious plot twists.

Way and Bá’s comic exhibits none of the bloat that sinks this adaptation. It’s briskly paced, with exaggerated art and striking colors that perfectly service the story’s unhinged invention and wacky detours. For whatever weirdness the TV series promises at its outset, it ends up as another distended superhero show that smooths out its source material’s idiosyncrasies until little remains of whatever made it appealing in the first place.

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Review: Amazon’s The ABC Murders Is a Formulaic Adaptation

The miniseries transforms Agatha Christie’s novel into a formulaic, adamantly bleak exercise.

1.5

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The ABC Murders
Amazon Prime

Re-fashioned by screenwriter Sarah Phelps as a beaten-down man sporting a goatee instead of his trademark moustache, the Hercule Poirot of Amazon’s three-part adaption of Agatha Christie’s The ABC Murders is a total bore. John Malkovich, in bringing this iteration of the famed detective to life, performs accordingly, as the actor’s oddball charisma is nowhere to be seen. Here, Poirot’s dogged stoicism scans as disinterest.

While much of Poirot’s investigative work is dispassionate and mechanical, however, the story’s central mystery is deftly plotted, with Christie’s trail of breadcrumbs twisting and turning toward a clever and surprising conclusion. Poirot receives regular letters from The A.B.C. Killer, a serial murderer who leaves a trail of victims across the British countryside and seems to know Poirot personally. The killer at least has an encyclopedic knowledge of Poirot’s life before the detective fled for England from his native Belgium during the first World War.

Poirot’s time in Belgium is a secondary mystery here, one that’s hinted at in repetitive, vague flashbacks. The series leans heavily on the mystery of the detective’s traumatic past, allowing his suffering to subsume any of the character’s other discernible traits. He’s merely a tortured man, and when the story hidden in those flashbacks is finally revealed, the truth (which is an invention of this adaptation) does little to explain anything about Poirot except his misery. It doesn’t even enhance our understanding of his prodigious investigative skill.

The characters who surround Poirot are sketched with as little nuance as the detective himself. Inspector Crome (Rupert Grint), for one, exists solely to eye Poirot with suspicion; the boyish Grint instills his character with a hint of adolescent insecurity that suggests a professional jealousy, but that isn’t something that’s otherwise explored in the writing. Elsewhere, the killer’s victims are caricatures, and the likely killer, a creepy-looking man named Alexander Bonaparte Cust (Eamon Farron), is defined by two traits: masochism and epilepsy.

Director Alex Gabassi renders The ABC Murders’s 1930s setting with an attention to detail both large and small, from eerie Victorian-era mansions to period-specific cigarettes. Indeed, the most memorable moments from the series are touches of visual flair. A climactic chase through a rail yard cleverly uses track switches to build suspense and surprise as CGI trains thunder by, and in one of the show’s most striking (and revolting) moments, a close-up of a man’s bulbous cyst precedes a similar close-up of a runny fried egg.

The ABC Murders also makes painstaking note of a rising nativist movement. Xenophobic posters can be seen at train stations, and characters often cringe at Poirot’s French linguistic flourishes. These elements plainly gesture toward Brexit and the broader, worldwide surge of nationalism in 2019. But Phelps struggles to thematically relate the fascism that envelopes the setting to the story’s events as they unfold, or even to Poirot’s modus operandi as a detective. Poirot remains a cipher, humorlessly bearing the weight of a tragic origin story and a nation’s decay on his shoulders. In the end, The ABC Murders suffocates the enthralling, exciting qualities of a detective mystery beneath a layer of self-regarding grimness.

Cast: John Malkovich, Rupert Grint, Michael Shaeffer, Andrew Buchan, Eamon Farren, Jack Farthing, Tara Fitgerald Airtime: Amazon Prime

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