I do not like subscriptions. Subscriptions ruin lives. I know a wealthy person who is subscribed to Netflix and tells me he watches TV series every single day because he has a subscription and he has to use it. HBO, Netflix, Amazon Prime... I simply do not care. Not that you should be listening to me. I am someone who never cared for Breaking Bad.
As a rule, I watch three or four TV shows a year and get out. Last year, it was Mare of Easttown (brilliant), Succession (utterly brilliant) and The Queen's Gambit (okay). This year, it is the following three:
Irma Vep (miniseries)
Irma Vep is such a glorious mess. How do I even describe it? Olivier Assayas (whose Personal Shopper is a masterpiece, and I will never get tired of saying that) is making a miniseries based on a film he made in 1996 which was itself based on a French silent film from 1915. In this film (or a miniseries, whichever you prefer), a French arthouse director named René Vidal is reshooting the 1915 version and is at the same time haunted by his 1996 creation. Huh?
Alicia Vikander is playing Irma Vep, the notorious muse of a criminal vampire sect, who also appears to be the muse of René Vidal (who is both Louis Feuillade and Olivier Assayas). Ah fuck it.
The fact of the matter is, Irma Vep is a hoot. Alicia Vikander is having the time of her life playing an actress who finally wants to do something meaningful in her acting career. René Vidal is a fucked up director, but then so is the character of Alicia Vikander. They form this perfect combination, and you get caught up in all the madness that includes the wild charm of Paris, the music of Thurtson Moore, the theme song of Mdou Moctar and a glamorous German actor engaged in the habit of erotic asphyxiation. It is smart, too, and there are clever shots at the PC culture and the world of Netflix all around.
Irma Vep is hilarious and heartbreaking. Truly, you cannot look away. And while it may on occasion be testing your patience with all those meta-references, this is a TV show as an art form. In fact, if ever there was a film which could explain to you the true magic of cinema, or at the very least give it a good try, this is it.
The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel (season 4)
Why am I here, exactly?
My story begins with a slim and rather obscure book called Kafka Was All The Rage written by Anatole Broyard. I bought this book in Manhattan a few years ago, and I had no idea what it was. It turned out to be a Greenwhich Village Memoir set in New York in those post-war years which, according to Broyard, were the greatest convergence of time and place known to humanity. It certainly read that way. I am infatuated with New York in the 50s and early 60s. Mad Men is a great TV show, one of the best ever, and yet it would not have meant as much had it been set in Seattle or Philadelphia. Which is how I ended up here, in the comic world of Mrs. Maisel - by turns amusing, awkward and oddly attractive.
It is a story of a housewife who discovers her talent as a crude stand-up comedian on a male-dominant New York scene. It is good fun, and I appreciate the 50s/60s soundtrack that goes well with this brand of New York that looks both twee and irresistible. Besides, Tony Shalhoub is an absolute thrill as a grumpy Jewish father. However, the show has been teetering on edge lately, and I am afraid it has finally jumped the shark with season 4.
For starters, it has lost much of its humour. Watch the pilot episode again - Maisel's stand-up act was actually funny. These days, it is a drag and I do not think these jokes can even raise a smile. They are coarse, but that is the extent of it. There are people who will tell you that Miriam Maisel is in a creative slump and she was supposed to be under par this season. However, this is like saying Ringo Starr's "Don't Pass Me By" is not a very good song because it was not meant to be. Excuse me, but I still have to listen to it.
Still, a number of great scenes (the funeral speech, the on-stage hypnotism, the Lenny Bruce performance), and the whole thing looks as gorgeous as ever. It is just this emptiness inside, and an uncomfortable feeling that we are now running entirely on fumes.
Stranger Things (season 4)
There are those who will say that the Soviet angle is a farce. There are those who will say the boys look grown-up now and the haircuts are ludicrous. There are those who will say they predictably kill every new major character. There are those who will say the Eleven / Papa line has been milked to death. There are those who will say the Vecna story has too much Tom Riddle to it. There are those who will say that this has become too overblown and self-indulgent.
And it is all true. All of it. The fact of the matter is, I do not mind one bit. This has always been a nostalgic paean to the 80s, silly and unpretentious. And it is still exactly that. I mean, there is a guy playing fucking Metallica on the roof of some goddamned shack. How silly and unpretentious can you get?
If you have been on this journey from the start, there is no reason why you would not love this fourth season. It is pure joy. The chemistry between Dustin and Steve (my favourite character, easily) is still the best thing about the show, and the Kate Bush episode is about as good as TV gets. And as for the Soviet side of it, well, as long as you do not take yourself too seriously... The success of Stranger Things is based on the fact that none of its actors and creators do.
