Right. Okay. One last time. Let’s do this thing!
We don’t know whether or not The Final Problem will be the, uh, final problem, but the season four closer really felt like an ending. And if it was, Sherlock died (mostly) as it lived- pretentious, overblown, and, despite it all, a little bit compelling.
You know, in some ways, I’m quite disappointing. Because the fact the Netflix’s new Series of Unfortunate Events adaptation is nigh-on perfect, I don’t get to write a gloomy review a la Lemony Snicket’s classic series.
Happy new year! Sherlock was terrible.
Sherlock, as I have articulated a couple of times before, is not my favourite show on TV. In fact, I’d go as far to wager that it’s one of the shittest, most overrated shows of the last ten years. Well, in the last few seasons, at least- what started out as a slick adaptation of the classic Sherlock Holmes stories turned into a teeth-grindingly smug exercise of Martin Freeman yelling “we’re not gay!”. Last year’s Christmas special, The Abominable Bride, was one of the most strikingly misguided episodes of a high-profile, critically acclaimed TV show I’d ever seen- so, in my masochistic mind palace, I found myself looking forward to what unmissably bad delights Sherlock would cook up for us this time around with season four premier The Six Thatchers.
As you’ve probably noticed by now, Netflix recently released a new show to add to it’s enormous roster; The Crown. The most expensive show the streaming service has backed to date, it promised to tell the story of British history from the nineteen-forties onward, all filtered through the eyes of the royal family and, particularly, Queen Elizabeth II. Trailers promised money-shitting lavishness, sweeping drama, quality acting, and more British history than you can shake a stick at. Even if they did cast an American as Winston Churchill. Whatever- the reviews came rolling in, and they were phenomenal, praising the cast, the direction, the writing, every little aspect they could get their grabby little pleb hands on.
So, my apologies for the delay between blog posts- it was my birthday on Sunday, and, despite having very little planned, I ended up doing a lot more and seeing many more people than I had initially intended. Then I was down in London for two days, and then I had to spend quality catch-up time with the cat on my return, etc, etc.
Excuses aside, it’s time to talk about a show that I’ve been aggressively ramming down your throats for the last two years: Vikings. Yes, in case you weren’t already tired of me twatting myself silly over Travis Fimmel’s amazing lead performance as Ragnar or the show’s killer fight scenes or what have you, it’s time to talk about the second-best historical show on TV (yo, what’s up, my fellow Outlander fans?).
Yeah, yeah, so I rag on The Walking Dead a lot. Get over it, fangirl/boy. This is it: my Magnum Opus, the article I’ve had brewing in me (and no doubt written over the course of many drunken rants round at my friend Ellie’s house, sorry Ellie) since halfway through season four of this godforsaken show: why, and how, The Walking Dead became one of the biggest and most disappointing shows on television.
Yes, this question, the very same one I address Twitter after every episode of everyone’s favourite zombie-exterminating TV show, carries a particular relevance after the last episode of season six. And, for no particular reason other than the fact I was reason a hilarious article about what NBC originally wanted The Walking Dead to be, I think it’s time to talk about the cliffhanger that I liked and everyone else wanted to feed to the Governor’s zombie daughter- who Negan killed at the end of season six.
Critics are arseholes. I know, because I am one. We’re impossible to please, even when you think you’ve come up with something infallible. Christ, there’s even been a backlash against the nigh-on flawless Stranger Things. If that isn’t untouchable, we might as well all give up now. Just cancel TV and save us all the trouble.
After season one, I was totally enamoured with UnREAL. It was an odd little show, a meta-drama set behind-the-scenes of a reality dating so that certainly was not The Bachelor, no siree bob, not a chance in hell, and it just…worked. Packed with feminist commentary, phenomenal performances (Constance Zimmer, deservedly, got nominated for her Emmy earlier this year), and some real attempts to depict the racism, sexism, and all-round awfulness that goes into making shows like Not the Bachelor, it was just a solid, engrossing ten episodes of TV. Yeah, it had some missteps, but what first season doesn’t? Their eagerly-awaited second season would surely solidify their good points and do away with their excess baggage.
As I foolishly do once every few months or so, this week, I dug out some old episodes of Scrubs. Now, to be clear, this review will be dealing with “golden age” Scrubs, ie, seasons one through seven, because I either haven’t seen the other two seasons or have actually forgotten everything about them, I legitimately don’t recall.
