Three TV shows of 2025

I will probably have to write another small post soon about three more.

The Studio (2025)

I have never found Seth Rogan especially funny. Loud, yes. Obnoxious, too. Very on the nose. Yet now that I have finally seen all the ten episodes of The Studio, I can report that I haven't laughed this much since the last season of Veep.

The TV show is, of course, about the excess and the madness of Hollywood. The new studio head (played by Rogan himself, who is also a co-writer and co-director) is full of ideas and aspirations - but he gets stuck inside the Hollywood machine. Which is merciless and cruel but also, essentially, a lot of fun. His first assignment, given to him by the studio's CEO Griffin Mill (played, with complete abandon, by Bryan Cranston), is to make a Kool-Aid film. And that is just the beginning.

The guest cast includes everyone from Martin Scorsese to Ice Cube. The Studio is often an uncomfortable watch, but in the best way possible. Matt Remick (Rogan's character) is forever stuck between the desire to make money and remain, somehow, an artist. And that premise is a goldmine if exploited with reason and taste. The Studio succeeds, if only because it is, at its heart, about our love of cinema. 

Bookish (2025)

Bookish, on the other hand, was a major disappointment. Or maybe I shouldn't say "major" as there is nothing major about Bookish. It is a cozy little series from Britain set in post-war London. The writer is Mark Gatiss and he is also its main star, a bookshop owner (hence the title) and a private detective.

I may just tired of all these detective TV shows, but I believe there is more. The whole thing feels so contrived and so artificial it is difficult to care for any of it: the plot, the characters and who the actual culprit is in each episode. I guess if you are a big Mark Gatiss fan, this could work, but I got sick of all the mannerisms very quickly. 

It was nice to see Paul McGann in a minor role, but otherwise I saw no point in this. Bookish is basically Sherlock Holmes buried under a lot of dust and pretence. It is precious and stylish, and also unforgivably grating.

Adolescence (2025)

Interesting how several people I recommended this to got back to me saying how dissatisfied they were with the ending. Interesting, but it is easy to see why this happened: one expects a detective story from this, a mystery. Adolescence is neither, and if you are looking for the answer to the easiest question, it is given to you during the first five minutes.

Famously, all four episodes of Adolescence were made with one shot. This gives the series a real live feeling and grips you and never lets go. The show drags you through the workings of a police station, the insides of a modern-day school (horrifying, frankly), a masterful episode-long interview with a forensic psychologist and an absolutely harrowing meltdown of the finale. You will also learn a lot about the social network shenanigans, and you will probably need subtitles for that. I know I did.

We start with a 13-year old boy dragged out of bed and taken to a police station for committing a gruesome murder. The boy pisses himself out of fear. Again, do not expect a detective story. It may feel that way on occasion but what it is, essentially, is a full-on soul-crushing drama about the relationship between parents and children, masterfully conceived and executed. Also, on the off chance that you haven't heard it yet: the acting of the boy really is phenomenal.

Rewatching VEEP

Once in a while, out of tiredness or sheer frustration, I switch on the first episode of Veep to put things right. It is, of course, absolute perfection, all 29 minutes of it. But then I know, two or three jokes into this thing: I have to watch the whole series yet again. From start to finish, from pilot to finale. All seven seasons of it. 

Which is what I have just done, all the way down to that unforgettable final footage that so beautifully brings the show full circle. Needless to say, I enjoyed it as much as ever (how many times have I done this now - five, six?). Except that this time there was one significant thing that was different. Because in the past, you see, I used to root for Selina Meyer. That's right. All through those five or six times that I had watched Veep previously, I could see what a monster she was becoming and yet through the thick and through the thin - I just wanted her to win. However many fuck-ups and betrayals, however much backstabbing and hypocrisy it took, I just wanted her to pull it off. 

Well, not this time. And it is not even because I have lost all my sense of humour all of a sudden (if anything, this time I chuckled and snickered and guffawed more than ever; that croissant joke is still one of the best things ever). It is because this latest rewatch took that old "hitting too close to home" cliché to a whole new level. I can probably even pinpoint the exact moment that it happened: when during her campaign Selina Meyer sits in her office and decides who she holds the biggest grudge against and who will fall first the moment she becomes president. And all of a sudden, I could no longer get the image of that revengeful little clown who is currently running the US out of my head.

But so much has changed. A few days ago I watched the interview with the Veep cast that was recorded during Trump's first term, and at the start of the talk all of the actors and creators of the series could not stop talking about how much they despised him. Again, that was a different time. In fact, not voicing your contempt back in 2019 or so would have appeared embarrassing. These days, most people just refuse to say anything. Interviewers don't ask the questions, artists do not give the answers. Few are willing to run the risk of alienating a huge portion of the audience. Bruce Springsteen has recently expressed his disdain for the orange cookie monster and see what fucking happened: his concert was cancelled due to the outrage of some of his supporters. Many of whom, obviously, do not go out without their red caps.

This is all too easy to explain, of course. In these times when the levels of human intelligence are falling and populism is on the rise, Trump has his support. That the guy's vocabulary is maybe a hundred words and he has no idea what he is talking about half the time, is irrelevant. He has charisma (of the lowest kind), he has the appeal. In the current climate, if the cast of the Veep gave an interview like that, we would not get such unanimity. In fact, we might just get nothing (which, admittedly, is better than the disingenuous mental gymnastics currently practiced by the likes of Douglas Murray, Ben Shapiro, Jordan Peterson et al). 

So coming back to where we started... I love Veep as much as ever (still in my top 5 favourite TV shows of all time). It is so good, in fact, that the monster it created has started to mess up with the reality a little too much. 

Three TV shows: Ripley, The Dry, Fallout

Ripley, mini-series (2024)

The genius of Patricia Highsmith's original idea is so inescapable that it is no surprise the first book has spawned no less than three screen adaptations. Purple Noon (1960) with Alain Delon, The Talented Mr Ripley (1999) with Matt Damon and now the mini-series Ripley with Andrew Scott. With the first two adaptations being so iconic, did we really need a new one? 

Strangely, we did. With its discomforting black-and-white aesthetics (at times, Ripley feels like Tarkovsky filming Kafka), the TV series sucks you in from the very beginning. And when the squalor of a tiny New York apartment gives way to the splendour of Italy, the magic hypnotism is complete. Ripley goes on for eight hour-long episodes, which allows the director Steven Zaillian to really delve into the details (the boat scene in particular is truly mortifying, and takes a full episode).  

Andrew Scott is brilliant, and so is Dakota Fanning as Marge Sherwood. Lacking that sinister spark, Matt Damon never really worked for me, and neither did Gwyneth Paltrow who looked plain and depthless in the 1999 adaptation. With the young Greenleaf, it is a little bit trickier as Jude Law was the perfect Dickie (for all my love for Johnny Flynn, he never stood a chance). Finally, while Eliot Sumner (Sting's child, incidentally) does an intriguing turn as Dickie's friend Freddie Miles, it is quite impossible to improve on Philip Seymour Hoffman. 

Getting back to Andrew Scott, neither Delon nor Damon went this deep into the harrowing psyche of Tom Ripley, one of literature's greatest con-men, but also someone who disgusts and fascinates in equal measure. "I offered you my friendship and asked for nothing in return". 

The Dry, Season 2 (2024)

The Dry is an Irish TV show, half-comedy and half-drama, which is set in modern-day Dublin and deals with a young woman named Shiv Sheridan and one truly dysfunctional family. Alcohol, Dublin, a little bit of art. In other words, what is not to like?

The whole thing is somewhat predictable but also great fun. In Season 1, a young artist (played by Roisin Gallagher) comes back from London to deal with her issues (mostly alcohol addiction and proclivity for bad romance). Instead, the issues become ever more evident as she returns, essentially, to the very place that caused all those problems in the first place. In her broken, largely unsupportive family, however, no one gets spared. This second season, out this year, is more of the same: awkward relationships, wine hidden in the toilet bowl, old flames and quite a bit of black humour.

One thing I have to add: I really do not like these Fleabag comparisons. Whereas Fleabag tried too hard and felt contrived, The Dry seems effortless and quite charming. A real joy to watch.

Fallout, Season 1 (2024)

Fallout is without a doubt this year's most acclaimed TV show. I felt a little apprehensive going into this as I have no concept of the computer game this is based on. All I knew, and this you could easily get from the title, is that Fallout is about the state of the world following some major nuclear disaster. 

I was rather annoyed at first. This whole aesthetic of combining brutal violence (and it is quite brutal, almost comically so) with the charming innocence of the Ink Spots and Billie Holiday grew stale in no time at all. I mean, how long can you look at chunks of human flesh flying around to the music of Bob Crosby?.. And yet the makers of Fallout stuck with it, up to that very point where you just had to accept the sheer grotesqueness of the whole thing (through gritted teeth, in my case). 

And now, having watched the full season, I will say that the most fascinating aspect of Fallout is how it manages to straddle that fine line between the silliness and the gore. For that is exactly what they do here. And, in a way, it becomes quite absorbing. I never cared for the characters, Fallout does not really pull you in emotionally, but the sheer stretch of the imagination is overwhelming. Plus, all the narrative hooks are carefully placed and you are ever looking forward to whatever comes next. 

Fallout succeeds in creating its own world, a world which is deranged and quite unique at the same time. And this, come to think of it, is the sought-after apex in all of art. So that when the second season is released (as inevitably it will be), I'm going back into this. Who knows, there may be humans in there after all. 

Three TV series. Succession, Black Mirror, Mrs. Maisel.

Truth be told, I have only watched three this year.

Succession (season 4)

Judging by the incessant coverage, there was a point in April when Succession became more than just a TV show. It became a phenomenon, and in a perverted way it was interesting to be part of that craze. Because I have been there from the start, and I do not believe there has been a moment when I did not think that Succession was one of the very best. Or else that there is a better TV writer than Jesse Armstrong.

After all, think of another writer has has been responsible for two different TV shows of such immense quality. David Lynch has one. Matthew Weiner has one. Most have none. Jesse Armstrong has Peep Show and Succession. 

The final season of Succession was, of course, immaculate, nail-biting, viciously well-written. I watched it religiously, every Monday night, and then I rewatched it the next day so as not miss anything in this family saga of the super-rich and the super-entitled. I wanted them all to fail and, bizarrely, I wanted some of them to succeed. You laughed, but the laughter became much more nervous, and uncomfortable, towards the end. And it ended the only way it could, really - even if your had thought it would end differently. Even if you wanted it to end differently... That final shot, now famous and soon legendary, was inevitable. Which is a testament to the greatness of Succession.

Black Mirror (season 6)

Received wisdom has had it for a while that Black Mirror lost its way years ago. For me, the biggest cracks started to appear during season 4 which mixed the good, the bad, and the ugly (last three episodes of that season are precisely that). And still I kept watching, because of Charlie Brooker's insane imagination that could still produce a stellar episode. 

I believe the problem is that Black Mirror used to have that seemingly effortless ability to shock. The pig shocked you. The metal bees shocked you. Even the social ratings shocked you. However, in a world as blasé and desensitised as ours, there is precious little to get shocked about. Not even Charlie Brooker's imagination can make us close our eyes in trepidation or disgust.

Which is not the end of the world, really, and the new season works quite well when Black Mirror does not try to go over the top. When it does (the second part of "Joan Is Awful", the entirety of "Mazey Day"), it just appears silly and crude. Oddly, my favourite episode is the rather straightforward countryside horror "Loch Henry" whose links to technology (the main focus of Black Mirror lest we forget) are tenuous at best yet whose plot is well-conceived and whose resolution is gruesomely satisfying. Overall, the season was deeply flawed, and I am afraid I would not mind if this was the end. 

The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel (season 5)

As I have said previously, The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel more or less jumped the shark with season 4 (uninspired jokes, meandering story-telling) and I thought I would never get back to it. However, on learning that this year's season would be the final one, I thought I had to do it - if only to pay tribute to the great beginnings. 

Clearly the creators of the show chose to go with a bang, and season 5 turned out to be so much more than just a tired showcase for pretty 50s-styled dresses, Jewish humour and feminist tropes. It is all in there, of course, but on top of that you get plot development, interesting foreshadowing and stand-up jokes that are actually good (the climactic sequence was wonderfully executed). 

This was a truly feel-good finale, and I found myself once again falling in love with the period and these people who are silly, inconsequential but totally charming. I admit to being a little upset at what they did to Lenny Bruce, but the final flashback scene with him was so brilliant that everything was forgiven. Everything - including that blasted fourth season that almost deprived me of Susie Myerson's scintillating chemistry with producer Mike Carr ("You are a sick fuck, Mike"). 

Three TV series. Irma Vep, Mrs. Maisel, Stranger Things.

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. 

***

The Queen's Gambit

Each time I read about The Queen's Gambit, I read about how it made chess attractive. And, indeed, as I was watching the TV show, I found myself leaning towards the same sensation that I had while reading The Defense by Nabokov: the strong desire to do something I could never quite master. To play chess. That alone makes The Queen's Gambit a successful endeavor. Because it is one thing to sell maniacs and serial killers, and quite another to sell chess.

I read about the work they put into making each game of chess a real work of art and not just a random combination of moves and pieces that would fail the most perfunctory eye test. In actual fact, the games in The Queen's Gambit are all pieces of chess history. An amazing feat, one that can only be explained by the involvement of Garry Kasparov as a consultant. But an amazing feat nonetheless. God knows, I am not able to appreciate the process - but I admire the fact.

I read about the acting and the plot which are spectacular. The stare of Anya-Taylor Joy (Beth Harmon; Bobby Fischer, roughly) is not quite the Kubrick stare, but the smug defiance is evocative and quite priceless. Marcin Dorociński (Russian grandmaster Vasily Borgov) is part boring genius part inscrutable evil. Moses Ingram (Jolene) is a world unto herself. The script is well-written and flawlessly executed to the point where I would appreciate a whole new TV series exploring Beth's childhood, trip to New York, Mr Shaibel, Jolene.

I read about the costume designs and the interiors which are, indeed, striking. Looking at The Queen's Gambit is pure undiluted joy. It is a world you want to be part of, from the wonderful music to the stylish hotel rooms that look perfect - too perfect perhaps. 

However, I rarely read about the elephant in the room. Which is that the ending is so bad that it almost single-handedly ruins the whole experience. Beth flushing her pills down the toilet is nothing more than a weak cop-out that totally destroys the great story that came before. In fact, the whole Moscow sequence is so far-fetched and embarrassing that you almost have to laugh at the sheer farce of it all. And then, of course, the farce becomes unbearable when we get to the final five minutes of cheap Hollywood of the most mawkish and saccharine variety. And it is not just a bad move. In chess terms, it is like squandering a winning position for the sake of castling your king. 

Documentary Review: The Last Dance

Reggie Miller was my absolute hero. I was smitten with the three-point shot that swished the net without ever touching the rim. In fact, I would often dream about it, and see myself behind the three point line making that all-important shot as the clock came to nothing. This was in late 90s, back when I was an NBA fanatic (as you would be, in the 90s), back when we played basketball until the hoop was barely visible in the dusk and the parents started to get worried. Michael Jordan was of course a genius and we must have been awe-struck by the famous jump from the free point line, but somehow I always needed a less obvious favourite (something I would carry into my future obsessions). Which was why I was rooting for Reggie Miller and the Indiana Pacers. Specifically, I have strong memories of season 1997/1998 when my hopes were crushed (quite inevitably, I should say) and Chicago Bulls beat them in the hard-fought series that was destined to come to the wire.

The Last Dance, last year's documentary on that singular season as well as on Michael Jordan's career overall, was a huge memory trip for me. More importantly, though, it was a revelation. As I was watching the summary of the legendary Eastern Conference final (which gave me quite a few sleepless nights back in 1998), I found myself somewhat bewildered by the idea that I could possibly support Indiana. Reggie Miller? Great player, a hall of famer, but in the grand scheme of things - little more than a footnote to the story of Michael Jordan. 

This, I believe, is not just a testimony to the fickle infatuations of childhood but also, and most importantly, the evidence of the power of filmmaking. Before we get to that game seven of 1998, there is a great story of Michael Jordan's road to five rings. You get to see the almost pathological competitiveness of the great man, the motivational bullying that he inflicted on his teammates, the brutal Detroit Pistons rivalry that lives on, the super stardom that was bitter as much as it was sweet. It is a fascinating story, something you binge-watch over a couple of days (I believe it is not even especially relevant if you were an NBA fan back when these things happened), and so when you arrive at the 1998 series, you arrive bruised and beaten, and oddly disturbed by the words of Reggie Miller that the Indiana Pacers had a stronger team that year. And so it is like you get there, into that moment in late 90s, and you are rooting for Chicago Bulls and you are hoping that the Last Dance will end the way it is supposed to. 

Because it is such a beautiful career arc, so beautifully conveyed. The focal point is of course season 1997/1998. The season was dubbed the Last Dance by Phil Jackson before it even started, and it is such a perfect narrative hook: the team knew that they would never again play together (the reason is explained in the documentary in great detail), and they went for the final push. A film crew was allowed to shoot them off the court throughout the whole season, so we get to see quite a lot of priceless footage of the tensions and the more relaxed moments in-between the games. Michael Jordan's cruel antics during training sessions, Dennis Rodman's dysfunctionality, Scottie Pippen's mental and physical struggles. The story of the Last Dance is not just one year though. It is decades, and features flashbacks coming all the way back to Jordan's childhood and the brutal beatdowns at the hands of Larry Bird. It is breathless stuff. 

It is not all Michael Jordan, though, and there are stories of Rodman, and Pippen, and Toni Kukoč, and Steve Kerr (a lot of focus is on that shot, of course). I know Pippen was not happy about the way he was portrayed, and I know Rodman was more interested in talking about Kim Jong-un than basketball, and I know Jerry Reinsdorf was not entirely genuine, but if anything - it only adds colour to the great story contained in this documentary. It is a story set in the pre-Internet days and, quite inevitably, there is still a lot of mystery to the whole thing, and that is something that a younger audience should try to appreciate: there is always a certain mystique to the heroes of the past, something you will not find these days. When Michael Jordan was on the court, it was a poem and a thriller and you were gripped not just by the shots but also by the sheer charisma of what you witnessed. It is intangible, it is beyond statistics. How shall I explain this... Well, Michael Jordan would never have worn number 23 if say, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar had worn it. Hang on to that thought. 

These ten episodes are some of the greatest television I have ever seen. The Last Dance is an affecting story, and a deeply profound one. "To have fear", says one of the talking heads, "is to project the past onto the future". "How can you fear a shot you have not yet taken?" the words that encapsulate the essence of Michael Jordan so well. That sentence may well be among the most profound things I have ever heard, and it does take me to those hot summers of late 90s when you shot it from all over the court, and you hit them and you missed them. And then you grew up and you thought better and you stopped. 

My Cultural Lowlights: FLEABAG

Sometimes I think it is all about the sense of humour. Really. The whole shebang. You can fake it through a decent relationship with different tastes in movies and different political views. Different gender, too, is still acceptable. It is the disparity in what makes you laugh that will be your downfall. Equally, a comedy that does not make me smile once reveals a certain incompatibility. Also, it brings up the following dilemma: either it is me who is humourless or the world. And, being the reasonable person that I am, I strongly believe it is the latter.  

Still, fifteen minutes spent in the culture sections of most newspapers will tell you the inevitable: Fleabag season 2 is the greatest thing ever and Fleabag season 1 is the second greatest thing ever. The TV show is a triumph and Phoebe Waller-Bridge is a national treasure. The hype is nauseating. I try again and yet again I fail. Twenty minutes in, I raise my eyes to the fucking ceiling: where are the jokes? Surely it cannot be my inability to grasp British humour that won't allow me to enjoy this. Peep Show, The Thick Of It and Black Books have me in fits pretty much all of the time. Fleabag has me bored as a comedy and completely unmoved as a drama.

Perhaps the worst thing about Fleabag is that it desperately tries to shock you (it does seem like a conscious attempt, I am afraid to say) and the result is horribly flat. It is childish and crass but never shocking. All you see is a middle-class character of Waller-Bridge wandering around middle-class London trying to solve her middle-class issues that you do not really give a damn about. And then there are all these excruciatingly 'clever' asides where she just looks into the camera and says something cynical or vulgar or heartbreaking. Something that should make you laugh. Or cry. Or whatever. 

My Cultural Highlights: VEEP

In these days of Netflix-induced coma, my single greatest achievement is never giving a damn about either Breaking Bad or Game of Thrones. Veep, however, is where I have never been strong enough. And now that it is over, after last week's brilliant finale, there is an awful sense of loss I last felt when Don Draper was conjuring up a Coca-Cola commercial in that field in America.

So just to put things into perspective:

1. Twin Peaks
2. Mad Men
3. Peep Show
4. The Wire
5. Veep

I guess I always had a thing for Armando Iannucci's humour, and while I do not necessarily believe that Veep was better than The Thick of It (Iannucci's original British series), it was still outrageously good. The sort of show where you have to see each episode a number of times to fully appreciate the script and get every little joke and reference. And you would still miss a lot - Veep was that well-written.

My love for Veep stems from the great sense of humour that was always able to walk the fine line between foul-mouthed and profane. This is all part of Iannucci's well-established aesthetics you could witness right from the very first episode on Armando Iannucci's Show (which is titled "Twats", obviously) and down to the brilliant Death of Stalin (which got approval from Stephen Kotkin, no less). Besides, I have always loved Iannucci's directing style that basically involves actors inhabiting this semi-documentary environment, living their lines rather than acting them.

However, it would never have worked over seven seasons had it not been for the wonderful characters that included all kinds of mad fuckers and adorable freaks. God knows I loved them all, from neurotically revengeful Amy to charmingly hapless Mike to spinelessly selfless Gary and all the way to 'autistic Barbie doll' Minna. It was good, too, to see the   characters develop - subtly, bit by bit, with Selena Meyer making that unmistakable transition from positively inept to negatively vile.

And you will not hear me complain about the final episode (these entitled Game of Thrones people do make me laugh though). Every fan of a long-running TV show believes he's got a perfect ending in their pretty little head and when it does not happen (inevitably), there is this overwhelming hysteria that leads to people acting like overgrown children. With its beautiful allusions to the very first episode, with scenes that made you laugh and cry in equal measure, Veep folded the only way it was supposed to fold. The ending was neither happy nor sad. It was just right - even if some of those scenes with Gary seemed a little too heartbreaking for this particular viewer.

Favourite episode? Pilot. Favourite scene? Roger Furlong dinner. Favourite character? Jonah. Duh. 

Stranger Things

There is a short scene in Stranger Things that explains the sheer brilliance of the show.

Having just come up with a bizarre plan (they certainly have those), Charlie and Nancy are at an improvised shooting range. Naturally, Charlie is hopeless at hitting the can, and now the turn comes to Nancy. A girl who has never held a gun in her hands, let alone fired it. But seconds later she fires the gun - and... lo and behold... she bloody hits it.

Well, of course she does. But there's a catch. It's a well-trodden cinematic cliche that suddenly looks like magic, and that's because in this age of cynical filmmaking very few people have the heart and the guts to enchant you with something as simple as that. 

Black Mirror

The prime minister had a choice. The guy in "The Waldo Moment" had done his share. Surely you can't sympathise with the "Nosedive" girl. For all the mindless hate in "White Bear", the woman was guilty. In "Shut Up and Dance", your heart stops bleeding for the boy the moment the final twist comes.  

Interestingly, the only innocent soul whose punishment is totally uncalled for is the girl from "Fifteen Million Merits" as the choice she makes is not really a choice. And it leads to an ironic observation regarding this never-ending technological freak show. The universe it has spawned is a universe of corrupted victims.


*Mind, please, that this was written before the "Crocodile" episode. 

After that scream?

Imagine being a journalist. Imagine having to write about the Twin Peaks finale and trying to talk yourself into a new TV show that will - oh yes it will - come soon. With a new world crashing into your doorstep. With a new name. With new twists, characters, plot devices. You are so good at talking yourself into things.

Imagine living in a modern world. Switching onto something new every two seconds. Leaving everything behind. Always remembering, always forgetting. Making selfies instead of memories. Preferring orgasm to sex. Clicking every time you are bored. And then, suddenly hijacked into the world of Twin Peaks, imagine hearing that scream.

There must have been something about that time twenty-five years ago that made it possible - to show Twin Peaks populated by giants and dwarves and dancing Audreys. To show Twin Peaks without episode 18. The devastating part is that even David Lynch cannot pull it off, in 2017, a world undisturbed by gruesome reality and that scream. 

And after that scream? 

God knows. Probably nothing. 

The Return

Back when I first watched Twin Peaks, about ten years ago, I got the sense that the world Lynch created was absurd, zany, slightly demented. That was the world of Twin Peaks. The world of log ladies and countless doughnuts.

The sense that I'm getting now is that the world outside Twin Peaks is totally insane. And Twin Peaks is okay. It has survived. Twin Peaks appears to be an island of comfortable illusion that is the one place in the world where you want to find yourself. Never mind Good Coop.

Things have changed, apparently.

Crazy Clown Time

Strange is not science. Or if it is, it would take more time to handle than the Tower of Hanoi that some tireless priest is still trying to solve. 

It takes finesse. And when it's fake, you know it's fake. Sometimes it comes with blood and robots and bells and whistles, but it's shallow and has to be explained. Westworld wouldn't work if it didn't have to be explained. 

Strange is disappearing because no one wants to be unsettled anymore. Strange has to be based on artistic vision, it has to be compelling, it has to come from deep down and what do you have to offer if deep down you simply do not have it?.. You can't just do it and hope for the best.

Lynch understands what most people (who would probably never get lost in a film like Inland Empire without a wish to get out) cannot allow themselves to understand: if you go strange, you have to go beyond strange. That way, you would at least get a glimpse.

It's crazy clown time, again, one where the clown is also one hell of an artist. I would give a lot for a whole new season of that. It's a miracle I didn't have to. 

Peep Show

This week has seen the release of the most anticipated film of the year. The final episode of Peep Show. It will be a miserable world without it. I guess TV is now well and truly fucked.

Hotel Room

Away from a David Lynch film for a year or two, you start getting corrupt ideas about what art is supposed to be. Then a hidden gem like the first episode of the long-forgotten Hotel Room comes up and you see the difference. 

All these directors trying to tell you something. Through words, through visuals, they actually try. David Lynch never does. His impact is pure instinct. When the first episode of Hotel Room ends, your heart erupts with delight. You can’t formulate it, but you are too sick of literal and semi-literal art to actually care.

Six Feet Under

Black humour done with subtlety will get you every time. It’s so easy to be cheap and so easy to be tastelessly brutal, but Six Feet Under is like that odd waltz you heard at a family party that seemed too blurry even at the time. And your aunt said that you can dance a slow dance to it. Or, alternatively, you can dance a fast dance. To the same piece of music. Six Feet Under is like that.

Fourth season

There’s something to the idea that the 4^th season of The Wire is the best that television can get (something, not a lot; first season of Twin Peaks is untouchable). Nothing wrong about what came before or even after, but in season four everything adds up in a perfect way.

And you don’t even see McNulty all that much. You get to see him in the priceless recurrent pub scene featuring The Pogues’ “The Body Of An American”, but he is pushed to the fringes. This is about other characters. And mostly it’s about the writing. 

And maybe about education, too. Perfect subject matter for the series and, in a way, for the subversive, dysfunctional streets of Baltimore.

Mad Men (finale)

This feels like an end of an era.

And we do get to hear Jim Morrison singing “The End”, a moment as obligatory as Don Draper sleeping with another woman. Still, when something dies, something as good as this, you would rather see it dead than wounded. Even if – oh God yes – you are left with the sore feeling that you just won’t find it again. For me, the best thing on TV since Twin Peaks (don’t fucking do it, Lynch).  

Final episode can never be satisfying, especially one happening after seven seasons of exquisitely plotted, intense drama. But in that world he created, world where everything comes at a price but the best things in life are free, Matthew Weiner could do no wrong. And while initially you may have shuddered at the shot of Don meditating among the hippies, the cynical smile followed by the Coke commercial was an ending as perfect as it was inevitable. Don had just seen Dick Whitman, in a scene you should be a stone to resist, and Dick Whitman was not what he wanted to be. Not at all.

Elsewhere, everyone gets what he/she deserves, more or less, and – mercifully – we survive the finale without a single death or a sudden tragedy. No cheap tricks, it’s all done with as much style as that first scene, season one episode one, in which Don is talking to a waiter. From Lucky Strike to Coca-Cola, this was a fascinating journey either too long or too short.

“One day they will be us”, Marie says to Roger, in a café, with a group of young people sitting around. 

“Tomorrow”, replies Roger.  

Mad Men: Severance

Season 7. Episode 8. 

Song of the episode: Peggy Lee – “Is That All There Is?”

Something sad and sweet for people who don’t have the guts to live their dream.

After such a long wait, this was over too quickly. From a girl in a fur coat to the final shot in a café, this was Mad Men balancing between surreal and compelling.

Surreal – because I’ve been here for so long, I also wanted to ask the Dos Passos-reading waitress why on Earth do I remember her.

Surreal – because Rachel gets back, and you had long thought she was but a ghost from the past. Which is what she ends up being. You are sentimental, but you understand.

Surreal – because Roger has a moustache now. And what a moustache that is.

Compelling – because… of everything else really. As ever, the amount of thought involved is incredible. Each scene a work of art that is not mere execution. It is also poetry. This is an episode that despite all the corporate cynicism (just business) has time to remember that Ken used to write, and what if he gets back to that one unrealized ambition. This is poetry, even if the poem turns out to be so bitter and so ugly.

And Don’s face, of course, getting from smug to hurt and devastated in a matter of one scene. From ‘show me how smooth your skin is’ to dour, desperate loneliness.

All set for a bittersweet final season that might, just might, avoid some horrible train crash.