Given its ratings success, there’s every indication that Torchwood will be returning for a third season. But writer-producer Chris Chibnall’s superlative “Exit Wounds” is something unexpected: a wholly complete and satisfying episode that could just as easily serve as a series finale as a bridge to the third season.
The events of this episode are relentlessly paced, but it never seems rushed. It just keeps driving towards its inevitable conclusion, thoroughly engaging the viewer. Chibnall is a master manipulator; just when I thought I was thoroughly sick of undead Owen (Burn Gorman) and dithering Toshiko (Naoko Mori), “Fragments” re-humanized them, and “Exit Wounds” made them fully real, noble, and tragic.
We open directly after the closing scene of “Fragments,” with the team bruised but still alive (except for Owen, of course) and mostly all right after the explosion. Everyone’s working their gadgets, and Ianto (Gareth David-Lloyd) determines that Captain John Hart (James Marsters), the author of their current misery, has driven the stolen SUV straight back to the Hub. Tosh detects major Rift activity all over the city. Just then Gwen (Eve Myles) gets a panicked call from her old partner, PC Andy (Tom Price), saying they need her right away at the police station. Andy’s a pretty steady guy, but he seems very upset.
Jack (John Barrowman) quickly assigns the team to various locations: Owen to the hospital, Tosh and Ianto to the central sever building, and Gwen to the station. He’s going back to the Hub himself. In the first of many examples of Chibnall’s excellent use of humor throughout this episode, Rhys (Kai Owen) sputters a bit: “In my car?” It’s not a big car, but they manage. It’s not much, that one line, but with Rhys’s expression, it lightens the mood slightly. Chibnall uses the same technique at various points throughout the episode, but doesn’t allow the humor to derail the plot or the overall mood. As they drive off, we hear Tosh warning, “Jack, these are traps.” Jack knows, but they have to deal with them anyway.
Cardiff’s going to hell in a handbasket, it seems: Weevils attacked the police station and murdered the four most senior officers in what seemed like a targeted attack; Andy is only too happy to have Gwen subdue the restless aliens that the PCs somehow managed to crowd into one cell. Owen easily tranquilizes a large and vociferously hungry alien with his all-species sedative, and Ianto and Tosh easily dispatch three “ghosts” in the server building in a nice homage to the just-shoot-’em scene from Raiders. Aside from the murders, everything seems to be tidying up rather quickly for the team.
Not so with Jack, who finds Hart in the Hub, petulant at having to wait so long for his arrival. There’s a horrid disco anthem blaring, but Jack is too tired and too angry for the banter that Hart wants to share. This is where we learn that it’s not really an accident that the team survived: Hart was just practicing with those devices. (I would argue that Hart never intended anyone to be seriously injured in that explosion; there’s abundant evidence to suggest that he did what he could to mitigate the effects of the devices.) Marsters is fabulous in this episode from start to finish. He’s not easily read, and that makes it all the more delicious for the viewer, trying to figure out whether or not to trust him. Our first thought must be that he’s completely lost it when he pumps Jack full of lead from two machine guns, immediately after declaring, “I really do love you.” He seems most insistent on this point, that Jack understands it, “because this… is gonna get messy.”
Jack revives to find that he is chained, spread-eagle, to the wall in the Hub. Marsters gets to toss off several more quips in this scene, including “Nobody cares until you tie them up.” He lectures Jack about embarrassing him in front of people he barely knows and how can Jack not have time for him when he has all the time in the world. Jack does what any sane person does when confronted by a vindictive ex: interrupt and pray for a change of subject. “Where’s Gray?” he asks.
Hart gradually works his way around to Gray, except he’s withholding some crucial information. When he tells Jack that what happened is beyond his control, Jack rejects that, but we’re not in a position at this point to make such an absolutist judgment. It doesn’t matter anyway, because Hart starts muttering to himself and adjusting controls on the Rift Manipulator, and Jack screams at him to stay away from the machine. Hart turns a dial on his wrist unit and somehow makes Jack’s wrist unit into an electrocution device. Throughout the torture, Jack swears to stop him. Hart really is obnoxious when he says, “I hope you can.” He pauses for a few seconds as if waiting, then says, “OK, let’s get ourselves a good view!”
He comms the other team members and tells them to get to the roofs of their buildings asap, or they’ll miss the “fun.” He questions himself unconvincingly, “Or do I mean carnage?” The team races to the tops of their prospective buildings as Hart narrates how lovely Cardiff is, encouraging them to take a good look. Explosion after explosion rocks the city, and we hear sirens howling in the distance as the team looks on, stunned. Jack is horrified and accuses Hart of destroying the city. Hart does his best crazy-in-love impersonation and says, “Hold me,” but what he’s really doing is abducting Jack. They both phase out.
Gwen recovers from her shock first, and comms the other team members. Tosh reports that fifteen explosions have effectively crippled the city; all services are disrupted, including communications and those that provide power to the nuclear plant’s control systems. Owen is scurrying around a hospital that is completely without power; one of the explosions destroyed the backup generator there. Gwen prioritizes quickly, instructing Tosh and Ianto to keep the nuclear plant from going critical.
Jack awakens on a small plain; the onscreen graphic reads “Cardiff 27 AD.” Hart’s there, and Jack slugs him before he can do anything else. Marsters here has a bit of exposition to wade through, and does a good job of it: he had to jump this far to get away from the “trigger signal,” but what’s he talking about? He explains how he has had a “life generation detonator” molecularly fused to his wrist; he shows Jack the unit, and has him open it. Jack does so and immediately steps back, arms up in the universal gesture of caution: “You’re a walking bomb.” Hart says, “He has me doing anything I’m told,” but before he can say anymore, he sees something past Jack and says quietly, “Just run.” Jack thinks he’s being manipulated again, and scoffs that he won’t fall for the oldest trick in the book, but he turns anyway, and there’s a man there. “Gray?” Jack asks. There’s a man striding easily towards him. He’s smiling, saying, “I never stopped believing. I always knew I’d find you.”
Gray (Lachlan Nieboer) is slightly taller than Jack, but just as handsome. He bears a patch-like scar on his neck, but his face is untouched; his clothes seem like some kind of prison uniform. The casting of Nieboer as Jack’s younger brother is fantastic; the two men even sound alike. (At certain points I wondered if Barrowman actually dubbed in Gray’s dialog.) They embrace, and Jack whispers, “I’m so sorry,” his eyes welling. Gray matter-of-factly pronounces, “Sorry’s not good enough,” and plunges a huge knife into Jack’s chest. Gray watches Jack die, impassively, while Hart stands by, eyes narrowed. “Get a shovel,” Gray tells Hart. (Where do you get a shovel in 27 AD?)
In present-day Cardiff, Gwen has assumed command at the police station, simultaneously delegating and reassuring the constables that they’ll get through this. Both Rhys and Andy are impressed; Andy calls Rhys a lucky sod. This is probably the nicest these two men have ever been to each other. At the central server building, Toshiko and Ianto are struggling to prevent nuclear meltdown; it’s just not working. Ianto says he’ll go to the plant, there must be something he can do on-site. Tosh protests that it could be suicide, but Ianto counters that they have to do something. Tosh agrees, but insists that they both go.
In 27 AD, Jack is standing, shackled hand and foot, in front of an open grave. Jack tells Gray how he searched for him for years. Gray starts what is essentially his Evil Villain Speech, demonstrating just how crazy he is. He blames everything that happened to him on Jack, the years of torture and neglect at the hands of “the creatures” who captured him. Jack finally asks, “What do you want from me?” Gray wants Jack to suffer. He wants his life. Jack will be buried there, where Cardiff will rise, his “blessing of life” a curse as he revives again and again through the millennia, unable to free himself, unable to really die.
Hart’s horrified when he hears the plan, and says he can’t let Gray do this. But Gray pushes Jack into the grave, and commands Hart to fill it. “No way,” says Hart; Gray reminds him of the detonator on his arm. Hart looks long a Jack, who gives him the slightest of nods. Hart takes off a ring, kisses it, and tosses it onto Jack’s chest. “It’s sentimental value,” he tells Gray, and he begins filling the grave. Jack flinches as the shovelfuls of earth cover his face.
Gray phases into Torchwood, in the Vaults. He looks at the Weevils in their cells, planning something.
Rhys finds Gwen, curled up in a corner of the station, alone. There’s no word from Jack, and she’s worried this is how everything falls apart. “I can’t do this!” she sobs. “Rubbish,” he answers her; obviously she can, because she already has. Rhys gives her the reassurance she needs; Gwen, the one who could be the rock for everyone else, needs her own anchor. Even if she didn’t believe in herself, everyone else did, Rhys says. “And I do. You’re a bloody hero. You keep going, ’cause we need you.” Gwen looks up at him and asks, “Will you marry me again?” They both laugh. Just then Tosh calls saying she’s picking up Rift activity from inside the Hub, similar to what they saw when Jack was taken. Tosh can’t check it out; she and Ianto are on their way to the nuclear plant to avert the meltdown. Gwen hesitates, not wanting to leave the station, but Rhys assures her they’ll be OK there.
Gwen arrives at the Hub, gun drawn, and finds not Gray, but Hart. With her gun in his face, she gives him twenty seconds. He says, “I know where Jack is,” and that gets Gwen to listen. Hart tells Gwen the whole story, but she still doesn’t trust him. Hart tells Gwen how he found Gray chained to the ruins of a city in the Bedlam Outlands, the only one left alive amidst a pile of corpses. Hart thought he was a rescuing hero, and didn’t realize how much Gray had learned from his captors, and eventually Gray struck. In the midst of this speech, the molecules “unbond,” and Hart rips the detonator off his arm with a sickeningly juicy sound.
Hart calls Toshiko to trace the signal in the ring he tossed into Jack’s grave, but Tosh can’t find anything like it all. Hart insists that it has to be there, but suddenly an incredible electronic shriek echoes through the Hub, and, apparently, Cardiff. Weevils come out in the open—climbing out of the sewers, swarming everywhere. Hart knows its Gray, on his rampage, destroying Jack’s life from the inside out. Ianto calls in that they’re all over the streets, and he and Tosh won’t be able to reach the plant now. Owen interrupts, “Leave it to me, I can get there.” How? “King of the Weevils, remember?” he says, referring back to the events of “Dead Man Walking.”
Gwen and Hart, in the Hub, are using all the monitors and equipment there to search for Jack’s signal, finding nothing. Suddenly they’re surrounded by Weevils, but Ianto and Tosh arrive just in time. Their bullets put the Weevils out for a while, but they’re not dead, so Ianto, Hart, and Gwen drag the Weevils back down to the Vaults and into their cells; just then, the doors close. Whoops. They’re each trapped with a Weevil, and there’s Gray. “You could’ve gone anywhere, and you came back,” he taunts Hart. Hart replies, “A question of honor.” But Gray has only one focus now: “His life is mine, now.”
Owen arrives at the nuclear plant and manages to convince the nice tech there that he knows what he’s doing so she can get out. He hands her some Weevil repellent and wishes her luck, and then calls Tosh. The news is bad, the Reactor has already gone critical. I particularly enjoyed the dialog here: “Can you fix it?” Tosh thinks for a moment, “Of course I can, I’m brilliant,” she replies, but before she can do anything, Gray shoots her in the stomach. He watches her fall, and kicks her phone away, but he doesn’t kill her. Tosh writhes on the floor, pleading for help, but Gray ignores that, instead ripping the cables out of all the monitors, turning everything off. He’s cold, asking her how she feels, knowing death will come soon. “Are you afraid? Are you sad?” Tosh realizes how insane he is. Before Gray can do anything else, a loud, rhythmic pounding echoes through the Hub, and Gray walks off to investigate its source.
Tosh leaves a trail of blood on the floor, crawling to her phone, which has fallen downstairs into the medical bay.
Gray strides into the Morgue in a gorgeous long shot, and opens the drawer from which both light and the pounding are coming. It’s Jack! “I forgive you,” he says. Gray is dumbfounded. “How did you survive?”
We flashback to Torchwood, 1901, with a slim brunette giggling over the steady signal she’s discovered. The best part is, she gushes, we can even get to it! Her male companion is much less enthused about having to dig down 40 feet to find it, but dig he does. The two are nonplussed to find Jack, who is supposed to be out working on assignment for them. “I’ve crossed my own timeline,” he explains, and instructs them with some urgency to put him in cryo-sleep and set the timer for 107 years in the future. He’s grubby, but he doesn’t look otherwise any worse for the wear for having spent 1900 years buried alive and dying. Wouldn’t that take a psychological toll?
Jack repeats, “I forgive you,” and turns to leave. Gray’s, “Don’t you walk away from me,” is more or less required here. Jack asks for absolution, but Gray can’t give it to him. Gray’s only strength is his hatred for Jack, and he begrudges Jack everything. It’s all Jack’s fault. Jack embraces him, crying, “I know, Gray, I know,” but he’s holding a cloth in his hand, and he holds it over Gray’s face, knocking him out.
In the cells, the Weevils are still out, but Hart’s messing with his wrist unit. “Recall signal,” he says, “time for all the pests to return home.” And with that, the Weevils slither back to their hiding places.
Tosh, on the floor of the medical bay, has found a tray of morphine injections. She somehow manages to get power to the nuclear plant, and calls Owen. He can hear that she’s hurt, but she denies any new injuries, saying it’s just her arm, and she’s “sorting out some more pain killer.” She injects herself with the morphine, and relaxes just a bit. But the situation at the plant is critical now; there’s no way to stop the meltdown, and the only option is to vent internally, into the chamber where Owen is. Tosh explains how they’ll set up a time delay for the venting, “You’ll have to remember to get out.” Owen says that he trusts her, and she manages to smile, “That’s what I’m here for.”
Jack gets the others out of the cells, and everyone piles on him. “Quite a queue for the hugs,” Hart remarks. Jack is happy to see him, too.
Tosh initiates the protocols that will control the venting process, but suddenly a power surge spikes over through the system. The plant’s emergency override system goes into effect, sealing off the chamber immediately. Owen is trapped. He shouts angrily that he doesn’t want to go like this, swearing he’ll rage his way into oblivion. Tosh is devastated, and begs him to stop. When Owen asks why, she barely squeaks out that he’s breaking her heart, and that does it. “It’s my fault,” she weeps, but Owen comforts her, no, she couldn’t have done anything about the power surge. He asks what will happen, and she explains how the chamber will be flooded with radiation. Then they just talk for a minute, waiting for the end, and Owen remembers how Tosh was always covering for him. Tosh reminds him of the time, just two weeks after he’d joined, that she had to pretend to be a medic because he was hung over and hadn’t come in. “We never did get that date,” Owen sighs. “I didn’t know until it was too late. I’m sorry.” “Me, too,” Tosh manages. The venting begins, and the driving, repetitive theme builds as Owen stands. “It’s all right, Tosh, really. Oh, God…” he says, and then dissolves in light.
Jack sees the trail of blood on the floor, and then Tosh in the medical bay. He calls for Gwen. Ianto says, “Owen’s there,” meaning at the plant, and Tosh gasps that she couldn’t save him. She smiles up at Jack, then dies in his arms. Gwen sobs, and the camera pulls up slowly as Jack, Gwen and Ianto realize that they are all that’s left of Torchwood.
Rhys and Gwen are snuggled on their sofa, listening to the television news recap of the day’s events. Back in the Hub, Jack has Gray in a cryofreeze unit, and Hart says that maybe killing him would be the release he really needs. That’s not an option for Jack; Gray is his penance. Hart tries to make Jack understand that what happened to Gray is not his fault, but that’s not something Jack can accept.
Jack looks up at Hart, wondering what’s next on his agenda. “Need help with those Rift predictions?” Jack asks. Hart says there’s a lot of this planet he hasn’t seen, and that since Jack likes it so much, he’ll check it out. He gives Jack a peck on the cheek and says sincerely, “I’m sorry for your losses.”
Jack is boxing up Owen’s effects while Ianto deletes the personnel records from the computer system. The sad piano music doesn’t make this any easier to watch. Gwen is packing up Toshiko’s things, and it’s hard to see her pick up Tosh’s glasses and box them, knowing Tosh doesn’t need them anymore. When Ianto hits the final confirmation on the deletion of Toshiko’s record, a video begins playing. “If you’re seeing this,” Tosh says, “I guess it means I’m dead. It’s OK. It really is.” She thanks Jack for saving her, and tells Owen he “never knew,” but of course he did, that she loved him. She loved all of them, and she hopes she did good. Jack, Ianto, and Gwen are quite overcome.
Jack says they’ll carry on, but Gwen doesn’t see how she can. Jack says she can, they all can. “The end is where we start from.” The strings in the score lift the shot up and away, spinning out over Cardiff.
As a season ender, this is just beautiful. Owen’s sacrifice and Tosh’s murder remind us how dangerous Torchwood’s world really is; so often it seems like just a lark. I appreciated that the writers didn’t take the opportunity of the nuclear meltdown to reset Owen’s physiology back to normal, and that Tosh’s injuries didn’t just turn out to be flesh wounds. Torchwood has a hit-or-miss record with hitting the “reset button”, but Chibnall avoided it here, thankfully. What good does it do to imperil the characters if the viewers always know they’ll be all right in the end? That’s OK for certain programming, but unnecessary here.
This was a remarkably well-constructed episode, with flashbacks from Jack’s memories of losing Gray (“Adam”) integrated seamlessly, avoiding that “clip show” vibe. Bouncing back and forth between different eras in Cardiff’s history was handled cleanly with the onscreen dates, and Cardiff looked gorgeous in every era. We even got another view of my favorite set, the Morgue. A word about the score; sometimes I find the driving theme a bit unfair, the way it repeats and steps up in tone and tempo, we can’t help but respond to it. But it works, and it’s beautiful, as is the choral music, and even the previously mentioned “sad piano.” Here, I felt the score increased the intensity of episode without being intrusive.
The first season of Torchwood was, charitably, a mess; the series didn’t know its own characters and suffered accordingly. This second season has given us much more consistent characterizations, and worked to address several nagging issues. The rehabilitation of Ianto’s character was brilliant, and I found the resolution of the Rhys-Gwen-Jack situation both realistic and sweet. Plus, it’s a relief that the producers didn’t drag that out further, or put Gwen into Jack’s bed just to complicate things.
We can’t care about the characters unless we really know them; sex appeal will only get you so far. So it was terrific that in this season we got so much of Jack’s backstory, and also that he got some closure on the defining moment of his young life. One reason Jack could come out of that grave so well is that he knew he would get another chance with Gray if he just hung on. Nearly 1900 years is plenty of time to figure out how you’re going to deal with your psychotic brother, and it’s a reasonable penance for an immortal to bear, if he considers himself the cause of all his brother’s misfortunes. For all his oddities, Jack has been the most consistent character.
We can’t say the same about the others, but the character explorations of “Adam” and “Fragments” were spectacular. I liked the narrower focus this year; instead of having some huge, humanity-threatening peril descend, the show gave us instead a personal vendetta that threatened Cardiff. It didn’t seem small because of the time and technology involved, and because we cared about the characters.
There’s no word to date on whether or not there will be a third season; Chris Chibnall has moved on to a UK version of CSI, which is sure to be a hit if it mirrors his work here. I’m hoping producer Russell T Davies is willing to spend more time in Cardiff. I’d like to see how Jack rebuilds his team, and a question remains. Was Gray’s attack on Cardiff the twenty-first century threat alluded to in the credits, and the cause of the 1999 suicide-murders that destroyed Jack’s entire team? I don’t know, but I do know that I want to see how “everything changes.”
Review: On Becoming a God in Central Florida Is a Cultish Portrait of Capitalism
The show’s 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 “the alligator widow” after her husband, Travis (Alexander Skarsgård), 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 family’s life savings—including their mortgage and life insurance—into FAM’s coffers, leaving Krystal holding both the bag and their baby. As conceived by Showtime’s 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 scheme’s participants. Fueled by a volatile combo of spite and desperation, Krystal has had all she can stand of Garbeau and true believers like her husband’s “upline” supplier, Cody Bonar (Théodore 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 doesn’t 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. She’s paid two dollars per aerobics attendee, after all, and that’s nothing to sneeze at when she needs to get her home’s utilities turned back on and doesn’t want to sleep in the water park’s 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. It’s filled with weird cult terminology and self-consciously goofy names, from a FAM blasphemer being called a “stinker-thinker” to characters frequently mistaking Bonar for various pronunciations of “boner.” Even Garbeau’s name sounds like “garbage.” The show’s 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 that’s 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 show’s 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 doesn’t 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 “the Garbeau system,” innocently suggest Olive Garden is their idea of fancy, and use “stinker-thinker” with real conviction, the fuzzier the line gets between laughing at the system’s absurdity and just laughing at people we’re 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 “millionaire in waiting.” She and the others under FAM’s thumb aren’t kept down by any dearth of ingenuity so much as their lack of power. At worst, they’re naïve 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 show’s 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 “get ahead,” and how easy it is to get lost in the labyrinth of capitalism.
Cast: Kirsten Dunst, Théodore Pellerin, Mel Rodriguez, Beth Ditto, Ted Levine, Usman Ally, Eric Allan Kramer, Cooper Jack Rubin, Alexander Skarsgård 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 Row’s 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 Amazon’s 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 Pact’s victory, refugees have fled to the Burgue’s capital city, where they’re oppressed and indentured. Now, a series of violent murders are being committed against the city’s non-humans, and while the tribalist all-human constabulary can’t 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. Philo’s sleuthing, while grim, is peppered with the delicious clichés of hard-boiled noir. At one point, the police chief tells Philo that he can’t save all of the non-humans in danger, and Philo slams his fists on the chief’s desk and roars, “Damn it, I can save one!”
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 kobolds—teeny, trollish bipeds—is “deported,” and the event is initially quite poignant. But the histrionics of Imogen, Philo, and others, as well as the show’s 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 Philo’s 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 Vignette’s ability to fly, but also her sense of self. Unfortunately, the show’s writing similarly limits Delevingne, tying her performance down with overwrought dialogue that undercuts the emotional climaxes she’s 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 Philo’s investigation, we get up-close looks at each murder victim’s mangled corpse, and these moments put the weaknesses of the show’s direction on full display. In addition to having the cadavers shoved in our faces, we’re repeatedly smacked in the head with testaments to the violence’s 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 show’s world-building feels haphazard rather than meticulous. We see, in a single episode, a few shots of a religious icon: a Christ-like figure, who’s hanged instead of crucified. Thereafter, dumbfounded characters exclaim “By the martyr!” at every opportunity—but who’s 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 antagonist’s brand of evil, it turns out, is too familiar to inspire cosmic horror.
Not an episode goes by that doesn’t make one wonder what Carnival Row could have been had it not bitten off far more than it can chew. There’s much to like here—mostly the kaleidoscopic genre-mixing—but not enough to overcome the show’s 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
HBO’s Succession, which concluded its first season after media scion Kendall Roy (Jeremy Strong) bungled a coup of his father Logan’s (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 company’s acquisition by absorbing a news competitor called Pierce Media, Succession underlines the moral bankruptcy which flows from the Roys’ 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. He’s self-destructive, addicted to booze and cocaine, and the Jesse Armstrong-created series draws a direct line between Logan’s abusive nature and Kendall’s substance abuse. Strong’s performance emphasizes Kendall’s fear and self-loathing; the character carries himself like a beaten dog throughout most of the season, cowing to his father’s verbal abuse and stoically absorbing various retributions from his family after his failed corporate coup. Kendall’s 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 season’s climax, is a reflection of one-percent privilege. And yet, even as Succession deploys the Roy family’s inconceivable wealth as a get-out-of-jail free card for Kendall, it also portrays the Waystar heir as acknowledging and hating his privilege. He’s the sole character here who seems to know shame, which makes him the show’s most complex figure.
Of course, though it locates the humanity in Kendall’s character, the series has no interest in humanizing anyone else in the Roy clan. It frames their family meetings—which often entail board meetings, corporate retreats, or strategy briefings—as lawless war games. Rarely do any of them speak honestly, unless it’s 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 family’s 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 deal—or 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), Kendall’s 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 (“asshole”) to the poetic (“pusillanimous piece of fucking fool’s gold”) to the tasteless (“cumdump”), 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 season’s most memorable sequence, the Roys have a dinner with the Pierces, the family who own the news company they wish to acquire. It’s a moral vetting, in which the Pierces are discerning just how corrupt their suitors are. For long stretches, the show’s camera bounces around a dinner table, as the Roy family, with all its conflicting agendas and glaring character flaws, implodes. It’s a breathtaking, grotesque sight, which tidily sums up Succession’s ethos: The Roys might be unworthy of their fortune, but that fortune ensures that they’ll 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 machismo—but 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 show’s non-familial conflicts vary in the quality of their execution. Kelvin’s mission to save the soul of a big donor’s teenage daughter—she parties, curses, and has sex—benefits from its short-and-sweet screen time and inclusion of Kelvin’s right-hand man, Keefe Chambers, an ex-Satanist played by Tony Cavalero, who infuses Keefe’s awkward, deadpan drawl with bewitching earnestness. There’s 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), Eli’s 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 show’s 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 other’s throats. After the first episode, which suffers from stilted writing that leaves the Gemstone siblings’ relationships feeling rather inorganic, the series settles into a delightful groove of caustic one-liners and the sort of McBrideisms—from characters’ confoundingly lofty language to their intense, unwarranted self-seriousness—that permeate the writer-actor’s 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, “Music has always soothed my vicious temper,” with McBride delivering the line wonderfully aware of his character’s ridiculousness. The whole cast pulls from McBride’s playbook and demonstrates similar comedic deftness as their characters add to the show’s 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 orbit—or, at least, to feel something closer to sympathy than antipathy: Jesse’s bedtime kisses on his kids’ foreheads; Kelvin’s wholehearted acceptance of Keefe; Judy’s frustration with the family’s sexism; Baby Billy’s wrathful reminder to Eli that he was Aimee-Leigh’s brother before Eli was her husband. These people, the series suggests, might not be charlatans. They seem to believe in what they’re doing, merely practicing their faith, albeit loudly and passionately and opulently. They’re 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 Eli’s grief. If his motivations don’t serve God, it’s 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. She’s talented, like her mother was. Eli looks on, smiling for a moment longer than he usually does. The scene’s use of slow motion allows his joy—as well as Judy’s—to last for ages. It’s a stirring, cathartic image that reveals the Gemstones’ 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, it’s 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, it’s 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 Terror’s prior season, which fictionalized the disappearance of Sir John Franklin’s 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? It’s another “people are the real monsters” 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 how—no matter where they go—they’re 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 “Japanese” like a dirty word. He and others like him are caught in between, rejected by the only place he’s called home under unfounded suspicions of espionage and disconnected from the culture that birthed his ancestors.
For Chester, there’s 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 naïvely 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)—a metaphorical specter of his heritage and a remnant of “the old country”—whose 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 Terror’s 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 what’s 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 People’s third season, characters unfavorably compare life’s banalities to “the third season of a Netflix show.” 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 show’s new season doesn’t 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 identity—consider season one’s calamitous blackface party, or season two’s alt-right campus insurgence—but this time around the cultural and interpersonal obstacles of Winchester’s students seem comparatively low-stakes: Gabe (John Patrick Amedori), the show’s 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 Winchester’s 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 administration—while 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 show’s 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 show’s polemical heat. But for much of Dear White People’s third season, Sam is seen quietly grieving her father’s passing—and this shift in temperament doubles as the show’s self-reflexive acknowledgement of its own evolution. She resists supporting various causes throughout the season, opting against signing a fellow student’s 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 Winchester’s 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 show’s 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 Simeon’s ideals if the heady repartee between students didn’t ensconce even the show’s most trenchant critiques in ebullience and communicate them with clarity. Everyday life for Winchester’s 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 that’s a pointed caricature of Hulu’s adaptation of The Handmaid’s Tale. She’s unable to look away from it, even after agreeing with her roommate, Joelle (Ashley Blaine Featherson), that it’s “tragedy porn…porn,” for the way it both appeals to its audience’s righteousness and appetite for sensationalism. As a sexual assault rumor emerges on campus, the Handmaid’s Tale spoof throws Dear White People’s frank portrayal of college rape into stark relief. And while Troy’s experience at Pastiche and Gabe’s struggles with newfound poverty would appear to have little bearing on the central plot, the series cannily uses both characters’ arcs to explore the myriad ways that institutions preserve a status quo—from Gabe using the results of a DNA test to dubiously help secure grant funding for his thesis, to Troy’s 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 university’s power structure, Sam is effectively put into the position of giving a voice to every assault survivor who’s 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 Sam’s 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 show’s 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 momentum—and 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 story’s size doesn’t inherently improve its telling.1.5
Beyond the requisite weddings and funeral, Hulu’s remake of director Mike Newell’s romantic comedy Four Weddings and a Funeral freely departs from its source. Rather than tracking a man’s 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-fiancée, 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 story’s size for television doesn’t inherently improve its telling.
The 1994 film’s at once limited and expansive scope—multiple weddings across multiple months but with few scenes in between—is its hook as well as its biggest flaw, as the story rarely stops long enough to develop the relationships between its characters. So the series’s 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 they’re 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-won’t-they dramas that mingle with the dregs of the series’s 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 show’s overtures about personal growth, everyone’s 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 doesn’t endear her to future employers, and Kash realizes that putting in his two weeks’ notice to pursue acting when he has no experience is, in fact, a bad idea.
Jettisoning the film’s narrow focus on social gatherings doesn’t 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 Kash’s 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 Craig’s (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 doesn’t 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 Robertson’s 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)—who’s part of an elite team called the Seven and bills himself as the fastest man alive—accidentally 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 “the right thing” and offers him $45,000, as long as he signs a nondisclosure agreement.
Vought’s celebrity superheroes are so rich and powerful, so above it all, that the deaths of normal people don’t 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 team—informally called The Boys—come 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 Ennis’s 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 show’s writers add about as much as they subtract. Amazon’s adaptation certainly maintains the graphic violence, though in the writers’ attempts to excavate Ennis’s 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 company’s vice president Madelyn Stillwell (Elisabeth Shue), who’s 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 show’s 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 “authenticity” as if it’s a cultivated false persona, and festivals featuring organizations named things like “Capes for Christ” book her for speaking engagements. Though The Boys includes hilarious moments like hero The Deep’s (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 comic’s problems with race and women. It’s in the silent, infantilized Asian woman (Karen Fukuhara) who joins The Boys, the Middle-Eastern terrorist clichés, and all the dead women piled around the story’s 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 Ennis’s source material did, the show arrives at an awkward middle ground.
For as much as The Boys’ 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 Vought’s secrets, leaving only Urban’s Billy Butcher to occasionally play the wild card. The Boys’s skewering of superheroism is often clever, but as the series progresses, the more hands-off approach of Butcher’s 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 ‘80s
Season three eschews the notion that there’s a single experience of the ‘80s that should dominate above the others.3
Netflix is awash in nostalgia for the 1980s, and from a certain distance its original programming’s 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 ‘80s-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 Smyth’s “The Warrior.” Taken by itself, this opening sequence suggests a gene splice of Jem and the Holograms and A-ha’s “Take on Me” music video, promising little more than bouncy ‘80s camp.
To series creators Liz Flahive and Carly Mensch, however, the ‘80s are more than fodder for fun visual references. Yes, Debbie’s (Betty Gilpin) hair can get pretty big, and it’s hard not to notice that Ruth (Alison Brie) often wears her jeans tucked into her oversized sweat socks. But such recognizable hallmarks of ‘80s fashion are small details of a concretely realized world, grounded foremost in the show’s 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 identities—or, in Sheila’s (Gayle Rankin) unique case, her she-wolf persona—and their goals—like Debbie’s 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 run—now a producer as well as a performer, Debbie looks to seize more power behind the camera, while Ruth grows anxious about her stalled acting career—the 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. Tammé (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 GLOW’s 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 Bobby’s unofficial integration into the wrestling show’s collective life spurs Arthie and Sheila’s 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 show’s 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 ‘70s auteur (he suggests a poor man’s Brian De Palma, as his films are beloved equally by aesthetes and sleazeballs), a juxtaposition of qualities lent credence by Maron’s 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 show’s 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 Ruth’s 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 aren’t anchored by a strong, centralizing narrative—saving the wrestling show, vanquishing a greedy casino owner, finding true love, or triumphing over sexist management—but, rather, it explores varying aspects of these women’s 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 there’s a single experience of the ‘80s 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 Show’s Campy Flourishes
The series is ultimately content to luxuriate in the well-established tension between its central characters.2.5
Season two of Hulu’s 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 Margaret’s daughter, Charlotte (Jessica Brown Findlay), ascending to the role of “bawd” of the Greek Street brothel. These developments presented the writers with an opportunity to expand the show’s 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 season’s early episodes focus on Charlotte’s budding rivalry with a pimp named Isaac Pincher (Alfie Allen), who’s 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 show’s overarching theme in literal terms. The writers do attempt to imbue their relationship with intricacy by adding a romantic layer, yet as Isaac’s actions toward Greek Street become more violent, Charlotte’s attraction toward him, which is merely unexpected at first, becomes inexplicable.
While these episodes don’t provide the show’s most nuanced character portrayals, they feature enough soapy excitement to hold the audience’s 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 Charlotte’s Greek Street brothel raid Isaac’s 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 show’s campy flourishes, including an upbeat, anachronistic score and intentionally stagey performances. Findlay, Allen, and the rest of the cast loudly betray their characters’ emotions, contributing to both the show’s bubbly soapiness and its sympathetic view of its characters. The harlots aren’t cowed sex workers, driven to secrecy; as ever, they’re brazen and proud. The show’s vivid costume design provides bursts of color, and informs our perception of characters: Consider the transformation in Lydia’s 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 characters’ lives. And because the show’s world remains characterized as much by cheer as danger, its horrifying moments are thrown into stark relief. In particular, the climactic catastrophe in the season’s third episode reminds the audience that no one in Harlots is safe from harm—and 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
Review: Remnant: From the Ashes Mistakes the New for the Noteworthy
Review: On Becoming a God in Central Florida Is a Cultish Portrait of Capitalism
Review: Bon Iver’s i, i Battles Back Against the Dark
Review: Brittany Runs a Marathon Is a Moralizing Buzzkill of a Comedy
Review: Carnival Row Is a Haphazardly Stitched-Together Genre Pastiche
Blu-ray Review: William Friedkin’s Cruising on Arrow Video
Locarno Film Festival 2019: Technoboss, Echo, & A Voluntary Year
Interview: J. Hoberman Talks Make My Day, Ronald Reagan, and ‘80s Movie Culture
Review: Vita & Virginia Leaves the Nuances of a Love Affair to the Imagination
Review: Ready or Not Ribs the One Percent with More Laughs than Horror
- Games3 days ago
Review: Remnant: From the Ashes Mistakes the New for the Noteworthy
- TV6 days ago
Review: On Becoming a God in Central Florida Is a Cultish Portrait of Capitalism
- Music7 days ago
Review: Bon Iver’s i, i Battles Back Against the Dark
- Film4 days ago
Review: Brittany Runs a Marathon Is a Moralizing Buzzkill of a Comedy