My husband used to fret that I was convinced civilization was about to collapse because I watched zombie movies, but he had it backwards. Having grown up in 1950s and â60s Detroit, I saw firsthand how fragile even apparently solid social infrastructures can be, and ours seem particularly vulnerable these days. To pick just three existential threats out of a very large hat, hackers are poised to shut down the Internet, a foreign dictator plays chicken with nukes while an American presidential candidate keeps asking why we donât use ours, and a global refugee crisis makes homelessness in New York City look manageable by comparison. Thatâs why I love stories about the zombie apocalypse: Theyâre a safe way to explore my fears about the breakdown of society, and to imagine how we might rebuild our lives and create communities after a major disaster.
One of The Walking Deadâs most consistent strengths is the social systems it conjures up, with Rickâs (Andrew Lincoln) group representing one reaction to the collapse of civilizationâcreating a family-like community of warriorsâand every other group they come across representing another. As season seven of the series opens, Rickâs group is aware of more human colonies than ever beforeânot just their gated community of Alexandria, but also the Hilltop. And then thereâs the ironically named Sanctuary, the roost ruled by Negan (Jeffrey Dean Morgan), a murderous psychopath so powerfully evil that his systematic breakdown of Rickâs group in this episode is difficult to watch.
Neganâs black-hearted lack of humanity is the logical end game of a series that has been consistently interested in the question of how to be a moral person in this unforgiving world, where turning the other cheek or granting people the benefit of the doubt can be a death sentence for yourself or your comradesâa question thatâs been gaining urgency throughout the run of The Walking Dead. In the showâs early seasons, the doubts some characters raised about the sometimes morally dubious lengths to which Rick and his group went to survive were easy to dismiss. Thatâs partly because the killings were motivated purely by self-defense, but also because those who expressed doubtsâlike Father Gabriel, and several Alexandria residentsâwerenât so much pacifists as passive, too frightened or âsoftâ to put down a walker. Their inaction was at least as morally compromised as Rick and companyâs militancy, since it endangered the people around them.
Season six of the series introduced conscientious objectors who were harder to dismiss. When Morgan, Rickâs old mentor and protector, showed up at Alexandria, his new stance of principled nonviolence challenged the groupâs matter-of-fact bloodthirstiness in a way Rick couldnât just brush past. And Carol, whose badass bona fides were established many times over, gives in to the self-doubt the expressive Melissa McBride has hinted at for a long time, her anguished crisis of faith was spurred by guilt over killings that sheâand we, more than likelyâsaw as justified at the time.
The bleak mockery of a community that Negan forces the group to acquiesce to in âThe Day Will Come When You Wonât Be,â and the tortures he submits them to, make any moral qualms they may have suffered in the past pale to the point of near absurdity. And yet it was a morally questionable choice made by Rickâs group that opened them up to the full force of Neganâs black fury: They agreed to wipe out the Saviors in exchange for supplies, the first time theyâd ever killed except in self-defense.
Which brings us to the conclusion of the cliffhanger AMC has been holding over us for six months, like an electronic version of Neganâs bat, Lucille. I was braced for Glenn (Steven Yeun) to get the bat, mainly because his death had been foreshadowed so many times before, not just in the cliffhanger from last season that saw him stranded atop a dumpster, but way back to that flu in the third season that nearly killed him. But I hadnât expected it to be preceded by Abrahamâs (Michael Cudlitz). And really, can anything prepare you for seeing two faces youâve been watching for years reduced to puddles of blood and goreâlet alone the final insult Rick sees in his rear-view mirror, of a hungry walker dropping to its knees to lap one of them up? Or that God-testing-Abraham-like scene of Rick being ordered to chop off Carlâs wrist?
Judging by the torrent of angry comments and stories about Glennâs presumed death and reemergence last season, most fans think it was a sadistic ploy by the show to gin up ratings. I donât doubt that it was done mainly to create buzz, but I wonder if it may have been more merciful than sadistic. After all, having already mourned Glennâs death softened last nightâs blow just a bit, and Glennâs return last season gave us a little unexpected time with him (just the thing we always long for after the death of someone you care about), before he left us for good. And at least Abraham got some merciful resolution in season six, coming to terms with the pain of his wife and childrenâs death in one episode, reconciling with Eugene in another, and moving toward a relationship with Sasha (Sonequa Martin-Green) in which the two were feeling hopeful enough to talk about having babies together.
But thereâs no mercy in this episode. Every quick cut of a peaceful and happy timeâincluding, most poignantly, Rickâs brief visualization of Neganâs taunt about how the group imagined themselves all sitting around a table enjoying a meal as they grew old togetherâis a sliver of the lost past or a vision of a future that can now never happen. As legendary comedian John Cleese points out in his very funny summary of the first six seasons of The Walking Dead, the most important thing to remember while watching the show is that there are no safe places in this world. And the corollary to that rule is: There can be no complacent people. The moment someone starts to settle into a comfy routine, you can be sure thereâs a bloody death in his or her future.
Accustomed to beating the odds and secure in their bonds to each other, Rick and his group had begun to believe that they could handle anything. And The Walking Deadâs audience wanted to believe that they were right, as weâve been trained by nearly everything else in our culture to privilege hope and to expect the impossible from our heroes. Neganâs ferocious sadism is a devastating reminder to us all that, when social systems break down, the leadership void is often filled by sociopathic strong men.
For more recaps of The Walking Dead, click here.
Review: On Becoming a God in Central Florida Is a Cultish Portrait of Capitalism
The showâs myriad absurdities are resonant reminders of how tough it is to get lost in the labyrinth of capitalism.3
Florida water park employee Krystal Stubbs (Kirsten Dunst) earns the nickname âthe alligator widowâ after her husband, Travis (Alexander SkarsgĂ„rd), works himself into bleary-eyed exhaustion and, then, gator-inhabited waters. Travis fell victim to a friendly neighborhood pyramid scheme, Founders American Merchandise, whose promises of wealth and prosperity prompted him to dump the familyâs life savingsâincluding their mortgage and life insuranceâinto FAMâs coffers, leaving Krystal holding both the bag and their baby. As conceived by Showtimeâs On Becoming a God in Central Florida, this vision of 1992 America is a morass of hucksters and hollow promises, and the series explores that world with both a sharp eye and a peculiar sense of humor.
FAM is fronted by Obie Garbeau II (Ted Levine), a mustachioed messiah figure whose plans and philosophies are distributed via cassette tape to the pyramid schemeâs participants. Fueled by a volatile combo of spite and desperation, Krystal has had all she can stand of Garbeau and true believers like her husbandâs âuplineâ supplier, Cody Bonar (ThĂ©odore Pellerin). As Krystal, Dunst is a whirlwind of charisma, and she makes you believe that the character, as her mask of Southern-accented politeness dangles by a thread, can take on the whole system by herself. Yet her schemes to do so often send her tumbling back to the bottom time and again, dragging people like her manager and neighbor, Ernie (Mel Rodriguez), down with her.
Krystal doesnât even want to get rich, much less do it quick; she just wants some stability, to the point where she takes on odd jobs like teaching a water aerobics class. But through some cruel confluence of fate and capitalism, she has to get in deep with FAM to get permission to fill her class with the people below her on the FAM pyramid. Sheâs paid two dollars per aerobics attendee, after all, and thatâs nothing to sneeze at when she needs to get her homeâs utilities turned back on and doesnât want to sleep in the water parkâs supply room.
What keeps On Becoming a God from succumbing to suffocating bleakness is its silly tone, that toothy, dead-eyed smile with which it regards a faintly psychopathic Americana. Itâs filled with weird cult terminology and self-consciously goofy names, from a FAM blasphemer being called a âstinker-thinkerâ to characters frequently mistaking Bonar for various pronunciations of âboner.â Even Garbeauâs name sounds like âgarbage.â The showâs imagery grows more dreamlike and hallucinatory as the season progresses, from Garbeau viciously smashing all the fruit in his refrigerator to Krystal being immersed in a womb-like tub thatâs supposed to let her re-experience her own birth. When you follow the myth of exceptional American individualism this far into the weeds, the series posits, nothing makes sense anymore.
The showâs brand of dark, quirky comedy, however, feels stretched a bit thin over 10 episodes of at least 40 minutes each. Suggesting an excellent half-hour comedy saddled with an excess of incident, On Becoming a God doesnât always know when to pull back on its weird developments and ironical names, resulting in a tone that can feel as derisive as it does empathetic toward people struggling to survive under capitalism. The longer people drone on about âthe Garbeau system,â innocently suggest Olive Garden is their idea of fancy, and use âstinker-thinkerâ with real conviction, the fuzzier the line gets between laughing at the systemâs absurdity and just laughing at people weâre supposed to see as suckers.
When the comedy does work, the series keenly captures our dubious relationship with the prospect of wealth, as when Cody praises Krystal by calling her a âmillionaire in waiting.â She and the others under FAMâs thumb arenât kept down by any dearth of ingenuity so much as their lack of power. At worst, theyâre naĂŻve due to immersion in a culture that encourages them to regard the wealthy with adulation rather than skepticism, and in such moments, the series engenders sympathy: If the showâs eccentric world hardly makes sense to us, how can it make sense to the characters caught up in its various scams? On Becoming a God may take place in 1992, but its myriad absurdities are resonant reminders of how tough it is to âget ahead,â and how easy it is to get lost in the labyrinth of capitalism.
Cast: Kirsten Dunst, ThĂ©odore Pellerin, Mel Rodriguez, Beth Ditto, Ted Levine, Usman Ally, Eric Allan Kramer, Cooper Jack Rubin, Alexander SkarsgĂ„rd Network: Showtime
Review: Carnival Row Is a Haphazardly Stitched-Together Genre Pastiche
The series is a genre patchwork whose individual elements fail to coalesce into a coherent whole.2
Among Carnival Rowâs fantastic creatures is an especially monstrous one made of sewn-together bits of dead things: centaurs, humans, a sea animal, and so on. The beast, the exact nature of which is the subject of sustained buildup and disappointing payoff, proves a fitting avatar of Amazonâs fantasy series, a genre patchwork whose individual elements, though compelling in bursts, fail to coalesce into a coherent and satisfying whole.
Prior to the events of the series, the Pact and the Burgue, two human empires, waged a colonialist war to control Tirnanoc, the home of a winged, fairy-like race called the Fae. The Burgue falsely claimed to be fighting to protect the Fae, and following the Pactâs victory, refugees have fled to the Burgueâs capital city, where theyâre oppressed and indentured. Now, a series of violent murders are being committed against the cityâs non-humans, and while the tribalist all-human constabulary canât be bothered to investigate them, detective Rycroft Philostrate (Orlando Bloom), or Philo, relentlessly pursues the cases.
Throughout its loosely connected storylines, Carnival Row fully and melodramatically commits to diverse genre traditions. Imogen Spurnrose (Tamzin Merchant), a vilely racist socialite, engages in a taboo romance with a non-human, and the series soaks her arc in a vat of wondrously cheesy monologues that embody the most exaggerated tendencies of period dramas. Philoâs sleuthing, while grim, is peppered with the delicious clichĂ©s of hard-boiled noir. At one point, the police chief tells Philo that he canât save all of the non-humans in danger, and Philo slams his fists on the chiefâs desk and roars, âDamn it, I can save one!â
The series, however, suffers from the fundamental tension between its over-the-top genre tropes and the gravity with which it handles its socio-political allegory. A group of koboldsâteeny, trollish bipedsâis âdeported,â and the event is initially quite poignant. But the histrionics of Imogen, Philo, and others, as well as the showâs frequently shallow development of its characters, undermine that pathos. The series bewilderingly deems the hateful Imogen worthy of redemption solely on the grounds that she has sex with a non-human. Such context renders the deportation, and events like it, more glib than reflective.
Vignette Stonemoss (Cara Delevingne), a newly arrived Fae refugee and Philoâs former lover, grants the audience its most immediate view into the oppression of non-humans, primarily through her indentured servitude to Imogen and her domineering brother, Ezra (Andrew Gower). When working, Vignette is made to wear tight clothing that binds her wings. This restrains not only Vignetteâs ability to fly, but also her sense of self. Unfortunately, the showâs writing similarly limits Delevingne, tying her performance down with overwrought dialogue that undercuts the emotional climaxes sheâs routinely tasked with delivering.
Carnival Row prioritizes a certain kind of messiness: not the mess of feeling and thought, but that of the body. Over the course of Philoâs investigation, we get up-close looks at each murder victimâs mangled corpse, and these moments put the weaknesses of the showâs direction on full display. In addition to having the cadavers shoved in our faces, weâre repeatedly smacked in the head with testaments to the violenceâs gruesomeness: At one point, a police officer vomits at a crime scene, and later, a child witnessing a killing urinates in his pants, the resulting puddle filling the frame. The emphasis on excretions, perhaps meant to contextualize the violence to viewers all but desensitized to butchery, feels lazy and unsubtle.
The showâs world-building feels haphazard rather than meticulous. We see, in a single episode, a few shots of a religious icon: a Christ-like figure, whoâs hanged instead of crucified. Thereafter, dumbfounded characters exclaim âBy the martyr!â at every opportunityâbut whoâs the martyr? When a radical religious group poised to play a key role in the second season reveals itself, it does so toward the very end of the season in cursory, tacked-on fashion. Maybe most egregious is the early promise of Lovecraftian horror that dissipates almost instantly. The antagonistâs brand of evil, it turns out, is too familiar to inspire cosmic horror.
Not an episode goes by that doesnât make one wonder what Carnival Row could have been had it not bitten off far more than it can chew. Thereâs much to like hereâmostly the kaleidoscopic genre-mixingâbut not enough to overcome the showâs confused handling of the socio-political allegory at its core. Would that this beast were more thoughtfully stitched together.
Cast: Orlando Bloom, Cara Delevingne, Tamzin Merchant, Andrew Gower, Indira Varma, Jared Harris, Karla Crome, David Gyasi, Arty Froushan, Caroline Ford, Simon McBurney, Ariyon Bakare Network: Amazon
Review: Season Two of Succession Paints a Humanizing Portrait of the Billionaire Class
The series demystifies the billionaire class while simultaneously painting a terrifying picture of their unstoppable momentum.3
HBOâs Succession, which concluded its first season after media scion Kendall Roy (Jeremy Strong) bungled a coup of his father Loganâs (Brian Cox) conglomerate, Waystar Royco, derives its acerbic satire from envisioning real-world corporate mergers as hostile takeovers performed by bullies and proxy wars waged between families with the wealth of developing nations. The morally bankrupt, mostly bumbling, but never harmless Roy family constitutes a garish caricature of billionaire excess. In season two, as they attempt to stave off their companyâs acquisition by absorbing a news competitor called Pierce Media, Succession underlines the moral bankruptcy which flows from the Roysâ unfettered avarice, while simultaneously lamenting the poisonous toll such greed takes on the family.
To the limited extent that Succession is interested in the humanity of its characters, Kendall is the only member of the Roy clan who could ostensibly be considered a protagonist. Heâs self-destructive, addicted to booze and cocaine, and the Jesse Armstrong-created series draws a direct line between Loganâs abusive nature and Kendallâs substance abuse. Strongâs performance emphasizes Kendallâs fear and self-loathing; the character carries himself like a beaten dog throughout most of the season, cowing to his fatherâs verbal abuse and stoically absorbing various retributions from his family after his failed corporate coup. Kendallâs suffering stems directly from his past ambitions, yet he remains pitiable.
Which is why, in the rare moments when Kendall seems to feel anything other than crippling fear and humiliation, such as when he connects emotionally with another wealthy addict at a corporate retreat, the series is imbued with a surprising pathos. The character, who has cruelly shuttered start-ups, attempted to overthrow his own father, and left a man for dead in last seasonâs climax, is a reflection of one-percent privilege. And yet, even as Succession deploys the Roy familyâs inconceivable wealth as a get-out-of-jail free card for Kendall, it also portrays the Waystar heir as acknowledging and hating his privilege. Heâs the sole character here who seems to know shame, which makes him the showâs most complex figure.
Of course, though it locates the humanity in Kendallâs character, the series has no interest in humanizing anyone else in the Roy clan. It frames their family meetingsâwhich often entail board meetings, corporate retreats, or strategy briefingsâas lawless war games. Rarely do any of them speak honestly, unless itâs to insult one another. The Roy siblings never take statements at face value; each one has a unique agenda, and the series derives thrills from watching this toxic family attempt to further deepen their pockets. While the familyâs attempt to acquire Pierce Media constitutes a trenchant critique of capitalistic impulse (the foundering Waystar can survive only by acquiring Pierce, a company that Succession portrays as honest and civically valuable), the series derives suspense by suggesting that any of the terrible Roys could potentially sink the dealâor emerge as a family hero.
While dark humor and palace intrigue are the cornerstones of Succession, season two develops a sense of lingering melancholy that, while not aimed at making its main characters more sympathetic, imparts a poignancy to the never-ending conflicts within the Roy family. In such moments as when Shiv (Sarah Snook), Kendallâs sister and the savviest Roy, is shocked and skeptical when hugged by her brother, the series underlines the way the Roys have forfeited even their familial bonds in the service of greed. They never let their guard down, and in such instances, Succession whittles the brokenness of the Roy family to its most essential level, and imparts an elegiac sensibility: that these emotionally stunted people operate solely with regard to their appetites, and define themselves entirely by their status as winners or losers.
The Roy family members are sincere only in their insults, and their attempts to undercut each other works to take each seemingly innocuous conversation between them into the realm of real stakes. They speak almost exclusively in slights, from the unimaginative (âassholeâ) to the poetic (âpusillanimous piece of fucking foolâs goldâ) to the tasteless (âcumdumpâ), and the series revels in the way they tear at each other. The scenes which feature the entire family in a room together, supposedly acting as one entity on behalf of Waystar but undermining each other at each turn, exude an enthralling quality; such meetings devolve into hideous curiosities, layered with malevolence and bitter humor.
In the seasonâs most memorable sequence, the Roys have a dinner with the Pierces, the family who own the news company they wish to acquire. Itâs a moral vetting, in which the Pierces are discerning just how corrupt their suitors are. For long stretches, the showâs camera bounces around a dinner table, as the Roy family, with all its conflicting agendas and glaring character flaws, implodes. Itâs a breathtaking, grotesque sight, which tidily sums up Successionâs ethos: The Roys might be unworthy of their fortune, but that fortune ensures that theyâll never have to answer for their shortcomings. As they fail upward, the series demystifies the billionaire class while simultaneously painting a terrifying picture of their unstoppable momentum.
Cast: Brian Cox, Kieran Culkin, Jeremy Strong, Sarah Snook, Matthew Macfadyen, Alan Ruck, Nicholas Braun, Hiam Abbass, Peter Friedman, Natalie Gold, Rob Yang Network: HBO
Review: The Righteous Gemstones Is an Uneven but Compelling Study of Faith
The series is a compelling and humanizing study of its characters, the faith they profess, and the world they strive to proselytize.3
One could frame the premise of The Righteous Gemstones as a question: What if Danny McBride played another unduly self-assured dolt overflowing with machismoâbut this time a pastor? Created by McBride, the series initially seems content to coast on the humor of that premise. But it gradually cracks the cynicism with which it frames its characters and their work, offering poignant glimpses into their inner lives. Despite its proclivity for forced, flat subplots, The Righteous Gemstones is a compelling and humanizing study of its characters, the faith they profess, and the world they strive to proselytize.
The series follows the Gemstones, a Southern family of televangelists as successful as they are crass, avaricious, and blasphemous. Led by widowed patriarch Dr. Eli Gemstone (John Goodman), whose network of mega-churches generates millions of dollars a day, the three Gemstone kids help run the family business: prodigal son Jesse (McBride) and boyish goof Kelvin (Adam DeVine) are pastors, while Judy (Edi Patterson) works behind the scenes, her dreams of preaching stifled by a tradition of misogynistic paternalism.
The myriad tensions that boil between the Gemstones are the source of much hilarity, but the showâs non-familial conflicts vary in the quality of their execution. Kelvinâs mission to save the soul of a big donorâs teenage daughterâshe parties, curses, and has sexâbenefits from its short-and-sweet screen time and inclusion of Kelvinâs right-hand man, Keefe Chambers, an ex-Satanist played by Tony Cavalero, who infuses Keefeâs awkward, deadpan drawl with bewitching earnestness. Thereâs also the escalating turf war with John Seasons (Dermot Mulroney), the pastor of a parish in which the Gemstones open a new worship center led by Baby Billy (Walter Goggins), Eliâs conniving and just-shy-of-smooth brother-in-law. But most prominent is the far too time-intensive blackmailing of Jesse, a central storyline that almost never warrants the space devoted to it, thanks to its particularly sluggish pacing and the shallow characterization of the lead blackmailer, Scotty (Scott MacArthur).
As the season progresses, the flimsiness of the blackmail plot is rendered all the more conspicuous by the strength of the showâs intra-family drama. Eli has been in a perpetual state of mourning since the death of his wife, Aimee-Leigh (Jennifer Nettles), and his grief distances him from his children, who are constantly at each otherâs throats. After the first episode, which suffers from stilted writing that leaves the Gemstone siblingsâ relationships feeling rather inorganic, the series settles into a delightful groove of caustic one-liners and the sort of McBrideismsâfrom charactersâ confoundingly lofty language to their intense, unwarranted self-seriousnessâthat permeate the writer-actorâs work with longtime collaborator Jody Hill. After calling a meeting and, at its start, playing an excruciatingly prolonged series of notes on a xylophone, Jesse says, âMusic has always soothed my vicious temper,â with McBride delivering the line wonderfully aware of his characterâs ridiculousness. The whole cast pulls from McBrideâs playbook and demonstrates similar comedic deftness as their characters add to the showâs manic verbal storm of insults and misplaced haughtiness.
For all the glee that it derives from the cruelty of its characters, though, The Righteous Gemstones refuses to damn them outright. It quietly gives the audience reasons to sympathize with the family and the people in their orbitâor, at least, to feel something closer to sympathy than antipathy: Jesseâs bedtime kisses on his kidsâ foreheads; Kelvinâs wholehearted acceptance of Keefe; Judyâs frustration with the familyâs sexism; Baby Billyâs wrathful reminder to Eli that he was Aimee-Leighâs brother before Eli was her husband. These people, the series suggests, might not be charlatans. They seem to believe in what theyâre doing, merely practicing their faith, albeit loudly and passionately and opulently. Theyâre chasing genuine Christian goodness as they conceive it, however dubious that conception may be.
All of the Gemstones have moments of vulnerability, but the series is at its kindest, and most poignant, when exploring Eliâs grief. If his motivations donât serve God, itâs because they serve Aimee-Leigh, whose memory he labors to honor. At one point, Eli sits alone at a candle-lit dinner table, facing a portrait of him and his late wife. He speaks to her, his tired baritone reaching for nothing, resounding in the silence. Later, after getting into a dust-up with Judy, Eli watches her sing and dance onstage alongside Baby Billy. Sheâs talented, like her mother was. Eli looks on, smiling for a moment longer than he usually does. The sceneâs use of slow motion allows his joyâas well as Judyâsâto last for ages. Itâs a stirring, cathartic image that reveals the Gemstonesâ squabbles for what they truly are: trifling, fleeting things.
Cast: Danny McBride, John Goodman, Edi Patterson, Adam DeVine, Walton Goggins, Cassidy Freeman, Tim Baltz, Tony Cavalero, Gregory Alan Williams, Skyler Gisondo, Valyn Hall, Scott MacArthur, Dermot Mulroney, Jennifer Nettles, Kelton DuMont, Troy Anthony Hogan, Gavin Munn, James DuMont Network: HBO
Review: The Terror: Infamy Excels as an Indictment of American Oppression
The series is striking not only for its scope, but for how uncompromising it is.3
In American history books, itâs no more than a footnote that, in a fit of racist paranoia after the attack on Pearl Harbor, the U.S. government corralled Japanese-Americans like animals into concentration camps. And in the white-dominant engine of American pop culture, itâs been barely represented. In this context, The Terror: Infamy is striking not only for its scope, but for how uncompromising it is. Its radicalism for taking place primarily in those camps feels matter-of-fact, with a cast dominated by non-white actors, many of whom go long stretches speaking in subtitled Japanese. There is, in the six episodes provided to critics, no POV for some complicit yet intended-to-be-sympathetic outsider, and the series portrays Japanese traditions without breaking them down for an unfamiliar audience. There is, after all, scarcely anyone living in the camps who might need those traditions explained to them.
The Terrorâs prior season, which fictionalized the disappearance of Sir John Franklinâs expedition to the Arctic in the mid-1800s, was also concerned with race; the ordeals of its characters invoked themes of colonialist hubris, the very specific terror of white men arriving by boat to new lands, eyes alight with thoughts of conquest. Though Infamy moves to another time, story, and place, its mind for terror is similar: What is the dominant race capable of when the minority is under its boot? Itâs another âpeople are the real monstersâ story, albeit one of impressive thematic weight, plus unfortunate modern relevance, given the resurgence of internment camps under the current presidential administration.
Displacement runs deep through Infamy, not just in the literal sense of how its characters are forcibly relocated, but in howâno matter where they goâtheyâre never really at home. Chester Nakayama (Derek Mio) is a nisei, or second-generation, Japanese-American man who, following the attack on Pearl Harbor, is constantly regarded with suspicion, followed by accusatory eyes set above mouths that spit âJapaneseâ like a dirty word. He and others like him are caught in between, rejected by the only place heâs called home under unfounded suspicions of espionage and disconnected from the culture that birthed his ancestors.
For Chester, thereâs nowhere left to go save for the fenced-in purgatory of those internment camps. Infamy understands the anxieties of race-related displacement, of not being accepted in places you naĂŻvely believed would appreciate you, and with that understanding it builds a narrative of painful resonance. It gives form to the fears and hardships of Chester and his acquaintances both through family drama and violent, existential horror where people lose control of themselves, as their identities and actions are subsumed by something else.
Infamy is a story about exclusion and the cultural clashes it fuels, portraying not just conflict between the Japanese-Americans and their captors, but between old ways and new opportunities. Chester is stalked, seemingly no matter where he goes, by a mysterious woman (Kiki Sukezane)âa metaphorical specter of his heritage and a remnant of âthe old countryââwhose presence seems to bring only death. The Japanese-American characters embrace traditions and beliefs they expected to leave behind, like sprinkling rice to purify a household after seeing evidence of a malevolent force. They also reckon with new values, as Chester openly argues with his father, Henry (Shingo Usami, fantastic as a man boiling with feelings of confusion, grief, and anger), about going to college and leaving their small community on Terminal Island. The two have been shaped quite differently by upbringings that manifest contrasting expectations for their lots in life, and you feel the histories that inform their relationships, how the men are constantly pushed into reluctant positions by necessity.
Horror is more of a presence on Infamy than it was on The Terrorâs first season, though to somewhat mixed success. Grisly deaths and general scares tend to arrive suddenly, with only the most basic moody buildup of anticipation. The series is prone to cutting to a character wandering around an empty space for a few moments, all the while leaning on eerie music and jarring sound effects in an attempt to pull atmosphere out of thin air. And such scenes are too clearly delineated from the central drama and character interactions to fuel any dreadful tension of whatâs next; they mostly take place on the periphery, giving the impression that the series is stopping every so often, remembering it has to provide the terror promised by its title. Particularly in later episodes, some scenes are legitimately disturbing, offsetting the impatient pacing with imagery like a gnarled finger slowly unzipping a duffel bag from within. But on the whole, where Infamy excels is in its depiction of more earthly horrors.
Cast: Derek Mio, Kiki Sukezane, Cristina Rodlo, Shingo Usami, Naoko Mori, Miki Ishikawa, George Takei Network: AMC
Review: Dear White People Continues to Fight the Power in Season Three
In its third season, the series weaves social critique into its narrative with a newfound subtlety.3
Twice during the first episode of Dear White Peopleâs third season, characters unfavorably compare lifeâs banalities to âthe third season of a Netflix show.â These self-referential moments suggest a certain cynicism on the part of the series, as if it were preemptively excusing its continued existence, maybe compensating for a dearth of new ideas. But while the showâs new season doesnât assume the pointed, instructional posture of its previous ones, no such throat-clearing is necessary. Dear White People maintains its sardonic wit and insightfulness, and though the series weaves social critique into its narrative with a newfound subtlety, it formulates a damning portrait of Winchester University as an institution concerned primarily with preserving its entrenched power structure.
Dear White People has always focused on the tinder-box tension derived from racial identityâconsider season oneâs calamitous blackface party, or season twoâs alt-right campus insurgenceâbut this time around the cultural and interpersonal obstacles of Winchesterâs students seem comparatively low-stakes: Gabe (John Patrick Amedori), the showâs chief representative of white privilege, faces a financial burden for the first time in his life after his family goes broke; Troy (Brandon P. Bell) confronts his role as a token black voice at Pastiche, a campus humor magazine; and Sam (Logan Browning), throughout the majority of the season, tries to pinpoint a theme for her student film. Having depicted Winchesterâs overt hostility toward its black community in past seasons, the series now draws considerable emotional gravitas and compelling commentary from the quotidian struggles of its characters and the insidious influence of the school administrationâwhile maintaining that, though they may carry less potential for tragedy, such everyday obstacles are nonetheless informed by issues of identity.
Perhaps the biggest divergence from the showâs past incendiary posturing is reflected in the way Sam has been repositioned: While hosting the titular campus talk show on issues of race, the character was often deployed as a literal delivery system for much of the showâs polemical heat. But for much of Dear White Peopleâs third season, Sam is seen quietly grieving her fatherâs passingâand this shift in temperament doubles as the showâs self-reflexive acknowledgement of its own evolution. She resists supporting various causes throughout the season, opting against signing a fellow studentâs petition, and remains averse to even guest-hosting her old radio show. Similarly, Lionel (DeRon Horton), who as a campus reporter was in the past deployed as a handy plot device, spends the season simply searching for love. His attempts to locate his niche within Winchesterâs gay community are portrayed with an earnest warmth, as the series derives sweet humor and intimate character moments from his story.
Although Dear White People reformulates its narrative emphases in season three, the showâs buoyant humor and dynamic visual flair remain consistent. A restless camera follows the students of the Armstrong-Parker House as they move swiftly through campus spaces and lob witticisms at one another, almost as if they were on an Aaron Sorkin show. All of them continue to speak with a voluminous knowledge of pop culture and capacity for barbed quips. Their cleverness and cultural knowledge would be easier to dismiss as aspirational flourishes designed to reflect creator Justin Simeonâs ideals if the heady repartee between students didnât ensconce even the showâs most trenchant critiques in ebullience and communicate them with clarity. Everyday life for Winchesterâs black students, though often marked by adversity, is also characterized by a resilient, intoxicating humor and confidence.
The series most overtly bristles against racism and corruption in peripheral subplots and extended comedic bits this season. In one such bit, Sam watches a fictional prestige drama thatâs a pointed caricature of Huluâs adaptation of The Handmaidâs Tale. Sheâs unable to look away from it, even after agreeing with her roommate, Joelle (Ashley Blaine Featherson), that itâs âtragedy pornâŠporn,â for the way it both appeals to its audienceâs righteousness and appetite for sensationalism. As a sexual assault rumor emerges on campus, the Handmaidâs Tale spoof throws Dear White Peopleâs frank portrayal of college rape into stark relief. And while Troyâs experience at Pastiche and Gabeâs struggles with newfound poverty would appear to have little bearing on the central plot, the series cannily uses both charactersâ arcs to explore the myriad ways that institutions preserve a status quoâfrom Gabe using the results of a DNA test to dubiously help secure grant funding for his thesis, to Troyâs ouster from Pastiche after he attempts to bring to it a uniquely black perspective.
Through ancillary plot threads such as these, Dear White People attempts to parse the most effective means, and the most urgent reasons, to challenge institutional power. For example, after the sexual assault claim is dismissed by the administration for fear of what a serious inquiry might do to the universityâs power structure, Sam is effectively put into the position of giving a voice to every assault survivor whoâs been denied a voice on campus. In this and other subplots, the series is as adept as ever at distilling broad, topical conflicts to their essence, and it maintains its heartening faith in the liberal arts bubble to double as a petri dish for a substantive exchange of ideas and personal growth.
Still, Dear White People feels newly meandering in its third season. Much like the rough cut of Samâs film, which begins as a powerful collection of humanistic vignettes rather than a well-honed documentary, these episodes offer a boggle of slightly underdeveloped narrative arcs. Although they comprise a varying and empathetic portrait of millennial anxiety, season three falls short of the showâs benchmark for narrative tension. The sexual assault arc is left mostly unresolved, while the story of a mysterious order of black elites, which began in season two, is left undeveloped in the background. Despite never attaining its usual insistent thrust, however, Dear White People locates poignancy in characters who, after fighting unwieldy, important battles for two years, confront their own waning momentumâand begin to wonder if personal fulfillment and cultural progress are not, necessarily, correlated.
Cast: Logan Browning, Brandon P Bell, Antoinette Robertson, Marque Richardson, Ashley Blaine Featherson, DeRon Horton, John Patrick Amedori, Giancarlo Esposito, Nia Jervier Network: Netflix
Review: Four Weddings and a Funeral Is a Bloated, Unimaginative Slog
The miniseries is a cautionary tale of how ballooning a storyâs size doesnât inherently improve its telling.1.5
Beyond the requisite weddings and funeral, Huluâs remake of director Mike Newellâs romantic comedy Four Weddings and a Funeral freely departs from its source. Rather than tracking a manâs various relationships almost exclusively through those social gatherings, the miniseries, co-created and co-written by Mindy Kaling, casts a much wider net by following the romances of four American friends in London, as well as a neighbor, an ex-fiancĂ©e, and others, none of whom have exact analogues in the original film. At 10 episodes, the series certainly has more than enough space to explore the depths of these characters, but it fails to put that extra time to effective use, ending up as yet another cautionary tale of how ballooning a storyâs size for television doesnât inherently improve its telling.
The 1994 filmâs at once limited and expansive scopeâmultiple weddings across multiple months but with few scenes in betweenâis its hook as well as its biggest flaw, as the story rarely stops long enough to develop the relationships between its characters. So the seriesâs decision to spend so much time on the spaces between those weddings is an ostensibly savvy one. Not long after Maya (Nathalie Emmanuel) meets cute with restless aspiring actor Kash (Nikesh Patel), the series details her job in politics, her current relationship with her married boss (Tommy Dewey), and the dynamic with her estranged college pals, who all moved to London while she stayed in New York City for her job (and boyfriend). But the series never accumulates enough such details to make its characters feel particularly defined. Flimsy depictions of characters at work and becoming romantically entangled are clearly meant to stand in for any deeper characterization.
To be fair, the most average examples of the romantic comedy tend to function this way; like middle-of-the-road action heroes or interchangeable slasher victims, the star-crossed lovers of a rom-com are often cardboard vehicles on a collision course with their genre-mandated fates over the course of two hours or less. Such characters may be functional enough to hold together a comparatively short film, but theyâre hardly up to the task of anchoring a miniseries of such stupefying length as this one. Rather than dig deeper into their personalities and backstories to accommodate the extra screen time, the series opts to simply add more characters: more pretty people, more couplings, more romantic snags.
Everything quickly devolves into a parodically huge pile-up of distended will-they-or-wonât-they dramas that mingle with the dregs of the seriesâs mugging sitcom cartoonishness and reference-heavy banter. Where the film addresses a peripheral unrequited romance between two friends through a single conversation, the miniseries version of this subplot encompasses multiple episodes. And despite the showâs overtures about personal growth, everyoneâs insipid work-related problems are all so ludicrously self-inflicted that they seem designed to pad the running time: Maya spends an episode learning that having sex with her boss doesnât endear her to future employers, and Kash realizes that putting in his two weeksâ notice to pursue acting when he has no experience is, in fact, a bad idea.
Jettisoning the filmâs narrow focus on social gatherings doesnât free up the series so much as leave it unmoored, a muddled spiderweb of relationships that only occasionally manifests some moving development, as in the sweet, unexpected trajectory of Kashâs arranged marriage through his mosque. There are times when the series manages to balance relatable emotions of longing, devastation, and indecision with inventive comedy, like the bizarre entanglement of Craigâs (Brandon Mychal Smith) love life with a reality TV show. But the most galling thing about this new Four Weddings and a Funeral is how downright unimaginative the rest of it is, as if simply drawing out various predictable conclusions will enrich the eventual catharsis. But when distributed across so many episodes, the lovelorn spark that fuels romantic comedy doesnât get brighter so much as dim until you hardly notice it at all.
Cast: Nathalie Emmanuel, Nikesh Patel, Rebecca Rittenhouse, John Reynolds, Brandon Mychal Smith, Zoe Boyle, Sophia La Porta, Harish Patel, Guz Khan Network: Hulu
Review: The Boys Is a Bleakly Cynical Take on the Superhero Genre
The Amazon series is a little too fond of its antiheroes to really throw them in the muck.2.5
Adapted from writer Garth Ennis and artist Darick Robertsonâs cult comic book series, The Boys is a cynical, bleakly comedic take on the superhero genre. In both the comic and TV show, superheroism has been privatized, with various costumed fighters managed and marketed by companies like Vought International. When, for example, A-Train (Jessie T. Usher)âwhoâs part of an elite team called the Seven and bills himself as the fastest man aliveâaccidentally crashes into a woman on the street, her body explodes into a gory soup of blood and bone, the fingers on her severed hands still intertwined with those of her boyfriend, Hughie (Jack Quaid). A Vought representative assures Hughie the company wants to do âthe right thingâ and offers him $45,000, as long as he signs a nondisclosure agreement.
Voughtâs celebrity superheroes are so rich and powerful, so above it all, that the deaths of normal people donât faze them. Crowds may be good for the adoration that fuels their fame and feeds their images, but on an individual level, a regular person is as significant to them as a scuff on their focus-tested boots. This, a trench-coated, bearded man named Billy Butcher (Karl Urban) tells Hughie, is where he and his teamâinformally called The Boysâcome in, to retaliate against superbeings when they get out of line, by whatever means necessary.
Much was made of the difficulty in adapting something so gleefully profane as Ennisâs Preacher for TV, and his Boys comics arguably go to even greater (and occasionally pointless) extremes. In translating them to a one-hour-per-episode streaming format, the showâs writers add about as much as they subtract. Amazonâs adaptation certainly maintains the graphic violence, though in the writersâ attempts to excavate Ennisâs salient commentary and anarchic ideas, they judiciously cut much of the sexual violence and juvenile shock tactics while turning a more sympathetic eye to the characters. No longer do any of them feel like simple vehicles for cruelty, or targets meant to receive it. A large portion of each episode is even devoted not to The Boys, but to the inner workings of Vought, from the perspective of the largely sociopathic Seven and the companyâs vice president Madelyn Stillwell (Elisabeth Shue), whoâs as practiced at navigating super-egos as she is at coldly crunching the numbers behind smoothed-over corporate acts of representation and empowerment.
Some of the showâs very best moments come from its wicked corporate satire, often seen through fresh-faced hero Starlight (Erin Moriarty), the newest member of the Seven. Her glimpse behind the scenes is hardly what she expects, as her outfit is made more revealing by the marketing team, various characters encourage her âauthenticityâ as if itâs a cultivated false persona, and festivals featuring organizations named things like âCapes for Christâ book her for speaking engagements. Though The Boys includes hilarious moments like hero The Deepâs (Chace Crawford) attempt to rescue a dolphin from his SeaWorld-like sponsor or a proposed reality show about the Seven, the series satirizes our fascination with celebrities, fictional heroes, and capitalism at large without losing its class-conscious edge: There are no real supervillains in this world, only the natural abuse of power by the super-powerful.
Elsewhere, though, the show maintains a few of the comicâs problems with race and women. Itâs in the silent, infantilized Asian woman (Karen Fukuhara) who joins The Boys, the Middle-Eastern terrorist clichĂ©s, and all the dead women piled around the storyâs margins to motivate its chiefly male protagonists. But it also never quite reconciles the pitch-black roots of its principal characters with their more sympathetic TV counterparts. The Boys are no longer a C.I.A.-sanctioned hit squad as they were in the comics so much as everyman vigilantes raging against the machine, and rather than regard their actions and bravado with skepticism as Ennisâs source material did, the show arrives at an awkward middle ground.
For as much as The Boysâ exploits start off with a gruesomely literal bang, the Amazon series pulls back to posit them as more of an investigative crew engaged in some occasional blackmail as they dig through Voughtâs secrets, leaving only Urbanâs Billy Butcher to occasionally play the wild card. The Boysâs skewering of superheroism is often clever, but as the series progresses, the more hands-off approach of Butcherâs crew can leave them with little to do, to the point where the messy, circular plotting of the finale all but leaves them sitting on their hands. Although this adaptation excises the most misanthropic parts of its source material, Ennis did, at least, have a clear thematic vision for that mean, nihilistic story. This show, by contrast, is a little too fond of its antiheroes to really throw them in the muck, to the point where they can feel like guests in their own series.
Cast: Karl Urban, Jack Quaid, Elisabeth Shue, Antony Starr, Erin Moriarty, Dominique McElligott, Jessie T. Usher, Laz Alonso, Chace Crawford, Tomer Capon, Karen Fukuhara, Nathan Mitchell, Jennifer Esposito Network: Amazon
Review: Season Three of GLOW Offers a Multifaceted Vision of the â80s
Season three eschews the notion that thereâs a single experience of the â80s that should dominate above the others.3
Netflix is awash in nostalgia for the 1980s, and from a certain distance its original programmingâs reliance on the visual kitsch of the early MTV era can come off as a bit cheap. The opening credits of GLOW, which is loosely based on the eponymous real-world troupe of women wrestlers, goes all in on â80s-era signifiers: Neon-pink block letters alternate with rotoscoped outlines of women adorning themselves with headbands and tights against a black background, all set to Patty Smythâs âThe Warrior.â Taken by itself, this opening sequence suggests a gene splice of Jem and the Holograms and A-haâs âTake on Meâ music video, promising little more than bouncy â80s camp.
To series creators Liz Flahive and Carly Mensch, however, the â80s are more than fodder for fun visual references. Yes, Debbieâs (Betty Gilpin) hair can get pretty big, and itâs hard not to notice that Ruth (Alison Brie) often wears her jeans tucked into her oversized sweat socks. But such recognizable hallmarks of â80s fashion are small details of a concretely realized world, grounded foremost in the showâs characters rather than in glitzy pastiche. GLOW mines an era of visual overstimulation, corporatized sexuality, and gender politics for stories that remain deeply relevant in a time when most people are keeping their socks under their pant legs.
Whereas the first season of GLOW focused on the schism between struggling actresses and former best friends Ruth and Debbie, season two refocused the narrative attention by spreading it out, supplying full arcs for the better part of its expansive and diverse cast, and season three follows suit. As the season opens, Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling has transitioned from a fledgling local television program to a limited engagement at a Las Vegas casino run by Sandy Devereaux St. Clair (Geena Davis). The city of spectacular excess is neither fetishized nor condemned, but it does have an effect on the L.A. transplants, compelling each of them toward reconsiderations of their sexual desires or identitiesâor, in Sheilaâs (Gayle Rankin) unique case, her she-wolf personaâand their goalsâlike Debbieâs struggle to balance her life as a new mother with her ambitions to become a successful business woman.
While Debbie and Ruth each find themselves at a crossroads as their show extends its Vegas runânow a producer as well as a performer, Debbie looks to seize more power behind the camera, while Ruth grows anxious about her stalled acting careerâthe other women contend with their own issues in the highly gendered space of Vegas variety shows. Cherry (Sydelle Noel) begins to have second thoughts about having a child with her husband, Keith (Bashir Salahuddin), because of the impact it will have on her career as a wrestler and stuntwoman. TammĂ© (Kia Stevens) hides the toll that performing is taking on her spine for fear of losing her only gig. And the meek Arthie (Sunita Mani) must take stock of her own sexuality after a fight with her girlfriend, the much more unapologetically out Yolanda (Shakira Barrera).
And then, of course, there are the men: Bash (Chris Lowell), the founder and bankroller of the wrestling show, remains GLOWâs go-to comic relief, an infantile millionaire susceptible to the flashiest trends in clothing and live showcases. Bash is more than a punchline this season, though, as his recent green-card marriage to British-born wrestler Rhonda (Kate Nash) and his meeting with drag queen Bobby Barnes (Kevin Cahoon) allow a more meaningful exploration of the repressed homosexuality that the earlier seasons merely alluded to, just as Bobbyâs unofficial integration into the wrestling showâs collective life spurs Arthie and Sheilaâs own reconsideration of their identities. Nash stands out this season as Rhonda, the deceptively simple-minded Londoner who consistently outwits the sweet-natured but oblivious Bash, whom she grows to genuinely adore, and his abrasive, elitist mother Birdie (Elizabeth Perkins).
As Sam, the director who orchestrates the wrestling showâs action, comedian Marc Maron continues to surprise. Sam has softened up a bit in season three, but his growing compassion for the women under his watch is still tinged with the barely reformed misogyny of a hip â70s auteur (he suggests a poor manâs Brian De Palma, as his films are beloved equally by aesthetes and sleazeballs), a juxtaposition of qualities lent credence by Maronâs ability to simultaneously project cynical world-weariness and puppy-dog woundedness. Like the much younger Ruth, Sam is increasingly finding the repetitive nature of his showâs live performances unfulfilling. Trapped together in the secluded playground of Vegas, the two begin reconsidering the nature of their relationship, which leads to comically cringe-worthy tension with Ruthâs long-distance beau, Russell (Victor Quinaz).
If the first two seasons of GLOW were about this group of women coming together, season three is implicitly about them growing apart as they seek validation outside of their shared pro-wrestling gig. These episodes arenât anchored by a strong, centralizing narrativeâsaving the wrestling show, vanquishing a greedy casino owner, finding true love, or triumphing over sexist managementâbut, rather, it explores varying aspects of these womenâs lives with each relatively self-contained episode. Even if a couple of these stories end up a tad undercooked, this approach to serial television gives GLOW an admirably democratic vibe, as it eschews the notion that thereâs a single experience of the â80s that should dominate above the others.
Cast: Alison Brie, Betty Gilpin, Marc Maron, Sydelle Noel, Britney Young, Kate Nash, Gayle Rankin, Kia Stevens, Jackie Tohn, Chris Lowell, Bashir Salahuddin, Kevin Cahoon, Sunita Mani, Shakira Barrera, Geena Davis, Ellen Wong, Britt Baron Network: Netflix
Review: Season Three of Harlots Retains the Showâs Campy Flourishes
The series is ultimately content to luxuriate in the well-established tension between its central characters.2.5
Season two of Huluâs period drama Harlots seemed to trace the arcs of its female protagonists to their logical conclusions, with Madame Margaret Wells (Samantha Morton) fleeing London for America, the villainous Madame Lydia Quigley (Lesley Manville) committed to the Bedlam psychiatric hospital, and Margaretâs daughter, Charlotte (Jessica Brown Findlay), ascending to the role of âbawdâ of the Greek Street brothel. These developments presented the writers with an opportunity to expand the showâs world, but while season three introduces new players to its gritty London backdrop, Harlots is ultimately content to luxuriate in the well-established tension between its central characters.
With Margaret and Lydia in exile, the seasonâs early episodes focus on Charlotteâs budding rivalry with a pimp named Isaac Pincher (Alfie Allen), whoâs aggressively claiming territories in London. Perhaps because the slick, unctuous Isaac is so easily detestable, these episodes lack the knotty moral dynamic that the show previously derived from the strife between Margaret and Lydia. The two veteran madams are more nuanced characters than either the sympathetic Charlotte or the plainly villainous Isaac, and when Charlotte, ambitious but ultimately kind-hearted, attempts to outmaneuver Isaac, Harlots assumes a didactic pose.
The series has always focused on women struggling against a patriarchal system, and the conflict between Charlotte and Isaac renders the showâs overarching theme in literal terms. The writers do attempt to imbue their relationship with intricacy by adding a romantic layer, yet as Isaacâs actions toward Greek Street become more violent, Charlotteâs attraction toward him, which is merely unexpected at first, becomes inexplicable.
While these episodes donât provide the showâs most nuanced character portrayals, they feature enough soapy excitement to hold the audienceâs attention until Margaret and Lydia reemerge in London. The cat-and-mouse conflict between Charlotte and Isaac leads to a number of memorable set pieces, including a typically playful and bawdy one in which the women of Charlotteâs Greek Street brothel raid Isaacâs tavern for gold. Each episode is punctuated by a cliffhanger, including a cataclysmic event in episode three which signals an impending paradigm shift for Harlots. As the plot twists accrue, palpable chemistry emerges between Findlay and Allen, with the actors toggling between archness and sincerity to characterize the underdeveloped romance between Charlotte and Isaac.
While the initial episodes suffer some narrative foundering, season three retains the showâs campy flourishes, including an upbeat, anachronistic score and intentionally stagey performances. Findlay, Allen, and the rest of the cast loudly betray their charactersâ emotions, contributing to both the showâs bubbly soapiness and its sympathetic view of its characters. The harlots arenât cowed sex workers, driven to secrecy; as ever, theyâre brazen and proud. The showâs vivid costume design provides bursts of color, and informs our perception of characters: Consider the transformation in Lydiaâs wardrobe as she reenters society, or the way her sad-sack son, Charles (Douggie McMeekin), is draped in drab and subtly frayed jackets.
Certain scenes last mere seconds before the narrative shifts to other characters, and the whirlwind pace contributes to an overall breeziness that makes Harlots, despite its poignant and occasionally disturbing material, so easy to digest. The series cycles through surprising plot twists, ribald humor, and glimpses of cruelty, while maintaining a focus on the precarious state of its charactersâ lives. And because the showâs world remains characterized as much by cheer as danger, its horrifying moments are thrown into stark relief. In particular, the climactic catastrophe in the seasonâs third episode reminds the audience that no one in Harlots is safe from harmâand that old grudges die hard.
Cast: Jessica Brown Findlay, Samantha Morton, Lesley Manville, Eloise Smyth, Kate Fleetwood, Liv Tyler, Holli Dempsey, Danny Sapani, Alfie Allen, Ash Hunter, Douggie McMeekin Network: Hulu
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