TIME Television

Review: In The Casual Vacancy, All Politics Is Local

Steffan Hill/HBO Lawrie, in her screen debut in The Casual Vacancy.

A few strong performances, but little magic, in an adaption of J.K. Rowling's novel.

It’s quickly obvious that The Casual Vacancy (April 29 and 30), despite being based on a J.K. Rowling novel, has little to do with the world of Harry Potter. But HBO makes plain that this acidic story of English small-town politics is not exactly like the novel, either; in order to cut down Rowling’s 500 pages into three hours of TV, the network says, writer Sarah Phelps “was given free rein to reshape the story,” whittling down some storylines, expanding others. Readers of the original (disclosure: I’m not one of them) should expect to find vacancies themselves.

What makes it to screen here is a grim-minded, class-conscious story of greed and self-interest amid a real-estate gold rush. In town of Pagford–the kind of bucolic hamlet whose green fields are biologically engineered to hide hypocrisy and decay–the local parish council is riven with controversy over a proposal to convert Sweetlove, a community center for the poor, into a swanky spa. Proponents Howard and Shirley Mollison (Michael Gambon and Julie McKenzie) argue the development will benefit the whole town; the council’s progressive wing, led by weary-but-dedicated Barry Fairbrother (Rory Kinnear), sees a move to cash in and segregate the poor.

But Barry suddenly dies, the first sounding of the series’ hammering theme that, in a get-rich era, the worst are full of passionate intensity and the best are S.O.L. His passing leaves a “casual vacancy” for the council’s swing vote on Sweetlove. In the ensuing election, the Mollisons put up their timid son Miles (Rufus Jones) while the anti-development crowd pushes forward nervous headmaster Colin (Simon McBurney), and the two reluctant candidates become the attack cushions in a parochial pillow fight. Meanwhile, Barry’s brutish half-brother Simon (Richard Glover) seeks to use the chaos for his own enrichment.

Director Jonny Campbell sets a suitably English-nostalgic tone for this story of a changing era. (Though Vacancy is set around the present, the ambient soundtrack is full of Thatcher-era New Wave: ABC, Captain Sensible, Kim Wilde.) This version of Vacancy means well, but its well-meaning turns subtle-as-a-bludger, hammering on the death of empathy and charity in a world of venality and new money. The Fair Brother is gone, and Sweet Love is in danger! Worst of all is the misuse of Gambon and McKenzie, left to play cartoon grotesques of posh, piggy villainy.

The strength of The Casual Vacancy comes in the stories spinning around the political one, especially that of Krystal (Abigail Lawrie), the troubled teen daughter of a meth-addicted single mother. It’s Lawrie’s first role ever, but you wouldn’t believe it; she’s arresting, commanding the screen, her face prematurely guarded and pinched but betraying a secret lively mind.

The decision to build out Krystal’s story is one of the best choices of this adaption, giving depth and shading to a story that more often swings from sourness to melodrama. The Casual Vacancy has deeply felt things to say about a society whose human ties have been corroded by greed on the one hand, ineffectuality on the other and a whole lot of apathy in the middle. But the cure for apathy is giving people reasons to care, and that’s where this miniseries, like the local pols at its center, falls short.

TIME Television

Recap: Game of Thrones Watch: The Royal Housewives of King’s Landing

HELEN SLOAN/HBO

This article contains spoilers. Click here to reveal them.

Spoilers for “The High Sparrow” follow:

Politics, it’s been said, is war conducted by other means. In Game of Thrones, so is sex, so is marriage, so is religion: all of them are instruments of politics and therefore weapons of war. The war is over in Westeros–or at least in King’s Landing, still far out of reach of Stannis’ army in the far north. And that means that for the victorious Lannisters and Tyrells in the capital, the real war can now begin.

In “High Sparrow,” Margaery fires the first shot, so to speak, in wedding and bedding her betrothed Tommen, who responds as if she’d just gifted him a flying unicorn. And almost immediately, the undermining begins: Cersei, Margaery coos, is such a devoted mother, which of course means she’ll always see him as “her little boy.” This immediately sets Tommen on edge, so happy is he to be exercising his manhood, and he’s soon suggesting that his mother might be happier at Casterly Rock, really you would, you can come and visit us anytime, don’t feel you have to visit too often.

It’s a daring move, but a transparent one that inevitably inspires a visit from Cersei to her daughter-in-law for a heart-to-heart befitting the finest of Bravo’s reality shows, which I can roughly translate:

MARGAERY: Good morning, Mother! Nearly noon and not drunk yet? Must be a special occasion!

CERSEI: No need to offer me anything. I’ve already eaten three arrogant little snots like you for breakfast.

MARGAERY: What a coincidence–I had your son thrice this morning! He hardly remembers who you are! Anyway, delightful to see you, be sure not to break a hip walking to the grave.

CERSEI: Prostitution whore! [Overturns table.]

Chess metaphors are cheap, but until someone breaks out the cyvasse board on Game of Thrones, they’re what we have. There are two queens, and a king who’s a pawn. So Cersei goes off in search of a bishop–or, in this case, a Sparrow.

There’s a religious fundamentalist movement afoot in Westeros, as is unsurprising in a land whose everyday commoners have been ruined by war. (In season 3, we saw many images of and references to the land that’s been despoiled by fighting, even if we spend most of our time among the nobles whom the wars are fought for.) The High Sparrow (Jonathan Pryce) has appeared in the capital, where he’s working with the poor and where his followers attac the current High Septon in mid-debauch at Littlefinger’s old brothel. (With Tyrion’s abduction at the end of the episode, that’s two men in the wrong whorehouse at the wrong time here.)

You would not think he’s the sort of person that Cersei–not big on altruism and the little people–would try to cultivate an alliance with. But she doesn’t have her son, she’s losing power in the Small Council, and Cersei didn’t get where she is by not using what’s available to her. The High Septon, it seems, is part of the Old Guard network–hypocritical but powerful, devoted to protecting the status quo. (Pycelle, no stranger to brothels, believes “a man’s private affairs should stay private.”) But now that the Old Guard powers would just as soon relegate her to dowager-queen irrelevancy, Cersei sees her hope in allying with the disruptors–upstarts like the High Sparrow, and Qyburn the brilliant-but-disgraced maester.

In the North, meanwhile, there’s a quite different effort to build power through marriage, and it’s a shocker: Littlefinger has it in mind to marry off Sansa to the sadistic Ramsay Bolton, whom we’ve just seen turn some recalcitrant lords into prosciutto. (And whose past hobbies include hunting women with arrows.) If this strikes you as an outrageous idea (my notes from this scene literally read “NOOOOO!”), you’re not alone; Sansa says she’d rather die. But she happens to be in the company of the one person in Westeros who knows that living powerfully–if not well–is the best revenge, and probably the only one. “There’s no justice in the world,” he tells her. “Not unless we make it.”

It’s a powerful scene. Among other things, it shows how Sophie Turner has convincingly brought Sansa from the dreamy teen she was at the series’ beginning to find inner resources of strength that surprise even her.

As for Littlefinger’s motivations, I’m perplexed and intrigued. I genuinely believe that he has Sansa’s welfare in mind; what seemed like a creeper’s interest in the daughter of the love he couldn’t have has turned into an affectionate alliance. (Of course, he may just have me fooled.) But I also have a hard time that a man who seems to have the scouting report on his every enemy and ally does not have some idea of what a (literal and figurative) bastard Ramsay is, and what kind of danger he’s bringing Sansa into.

In the end, it may just be that Littlefinger is not so different from Cersei. Each of them knows that you don’t always get to choose the perfect ally. Sometimes you need to attach yourself to unsavory folks, be it a tyrant who likes to make charcuterie of his enemies, or a creepy maester like Cersei’s Qyburn, down in his lab, assembling whatever creature is twitching under that bedsheet[!].

That Frankensteinian image may be the best metaphor for the acquisition of power in “High Sparrow.” Sometimes, you just have to use whatever human parts you have at hand.

Now for the hail of arrows:

* As always, I’m not aiming to cover every storyline and scene in the episode; anything else you want to discuss, that’s what the comments are for. That said–though there’s lot of plot to cram in at this point, it’s good to see the episode spending time on conversations that serve a purpose other than sheerly advancing story: in particular, Brienne’s heart-to-heart with Podrick, remembering the humiliation that Renly saved her from. The scene helps establish her motivation (her loyalty to Renly is not simply infatuation–“He liked men, I’m not an idiot”) and showcases the Gwendolyn Christie contributes talents to this show besides looking spectacular in a high-speed horse chase.

* Several departures from the source books, which I’ll blur for anyone who wants to avoid discussing book-spoilers (click at the top of this article to reveal them):

First, of course: Sansa! On the one hand, I’m horrified. On the other hand, this makes a lot of narrative sense. First, because as we discused last week, we’d essentially run out of book for Littlefinger and Sansa to begin with. Second, because it’s both more economical–and a lot easier to emotionally invest in–than the book’s disguising of Jeyne Poole as “Arya Stark.” (Not because Jeyne’s story isn’t itself awful, but we hardly need more characters introduced given ten hours of airtime a season.)

Second, it’s looking like a different storyline with the High Sparrow and King’s Landing. Rather than have the High Septon smothered by Osney Kettleblack, he’s jailed. I also wonder if his being stripped in the streets and shamed by the Sparrows is a setup for Cersei’s eventual treatment (which, in the book, is portrayed like an expression of misogyny in the High Sparrow and/or the Faith of the Seven generally, since we don’t see men come in for that slut-shaming in the books). I’m especially curious what it means that Cersei’s cultivating the High Sparrow–though, as reports from the set suggest, it doesn’t turn out any more happily for her. (Though Pryce portrays a more kindly High Sparrow–at least for now–than the pinch-faced moralist I imagined in the books.)

Finally–and I’m sure there are other changes I’m skipping–it looks like Tyrion is coming to Dany by much different and faster means than his journey by barge and mercenary company. (We do, however, get snippets of things he witnessed in A Dance With Dragons, like word of Dany’s liberation of Meereen spreading throughout Essos.) Though I doubt Jorah will be a witty a conversational companion as Varys.

* Farewell, Janos Slynt! This isn’t the first time we’ve seen someone lose his head on a frosty chopping block–that was, after all, how we met Ned Stark–but note the look Jon exchanged with Stannis, who seems grimly proud that Jon refuses mercy and enforces the law. If Jon refused to be made a Stark by law, he seems to have a different sort of father figure to please now.

* Farewell (for now), Needle! Yes, I cried over a sword. Don’t you judge me.

* “I heard it was best to keep your enemies close.” “Whoever said that didn’t have many enemies.” Who says Stannis Baratheon isn’t funny?

Read next: Here’s How Fans Reacted to the Sansa Plot on Game of Thrones

Listen to the most important stories of the day.

TIME Television

Review: Happyish Suffers from First-World Problems

Steve Coogan as Thom in Happyish (Season 1, Episode 1). - Photo:  Mark Schafer/SHOWTIME - happyish_101_09094.R
Mark Schafer/Showtime

Smarts and strong casting don't hide that there are old whines in this new bottle.

Meet Thom Payne (Steve Coogan). He’s just turned 44. He feels old. He has a wife, Lee (Kathryn Hahn), and a kid, Julius (Sawyer Shipman), and a suburban house and the pressure of keeping them all afloat. He hates his job, and he fears for it. He wonders if this is all there is. He–

Oh, you’ve already met? Sure; you’ve met one version of him or another–middle-aged, ennui-ridden, losing a step to the advancing hordes of The Youngs–in numerous cable dramas and comedies and dramedies. Sometimes he sells crystal meth, sometimes he does standup. In Showtime’s Happyish (premieres April 26), he works for an advertising agency–no, not that one–and his first campaign is to sell you on the urgency of his particular set of First World problems.

Thom knows he has it good by present-day standards: he pulls in a big income, takes a morning train from the affluent suburb of Woodstock, N.Y. It doesn’t feel enough, though; he lives in a society where the goal, created in part by his own profession is “happiness,” something more than mere contentment. He doesn’t know what that is, but he’s pretty sure he’s not feeling it.

In the mid-20th-century, Don Draper’s day, Thom would at least have the rest of his working life to stew in comfortable angst. But Thom lives in the post-security era. His agency has been taken over by two young Swedes, spouting clichés about youth and disruption and change. They want, for instance, to establish a social-media presence for their clients, Keebler. Unable to contain himself, Thom asks why you need that kind of intimacy for every cookie or digestive-aid product: “Who the f— wants to follow Pepto-Bismol on Twitter?” It’s a clever outburst, but, Thom is learning, clever’s stock is dropping, and his along with it.

Happyish is created by novelist and memoirist Shalom Auslander, and a little like FX’s Man Seeking Woman (born of short stories by Simon Rich), it often seems like it might work better on the page than the screen. It’s not badly written at all; there are tour de force bursts of monologue and magma blasts of white-collar rage. But it is very written, very writerly; the only thing organic in this high-end suburb is the Whole Foods. Over and over, characters dispense perfectly crafted aphorisms to ensure you never forget precisely what the show is about.

“It’s Lord of the Flies out there, and everyone over 18 is Piggy,” Thom tells us. Says his corporate-headhunter pal Dani (Ellen Barkin), “It doesn’t matter how many cars you have, how big your house is, or how much pussy you get–you hit your joy ceiling and you’re done.” (Did I mention the show is called Happyish?) Thom’s boss Jonathan (Bradley Whitford) is practically a Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations of middle-aged-male gloom: These days, he laments, “thinking’s not as important as tweeting.” And: “God’s a brand, and the brand’s in trouble.” And: “We’ve reached Peak America. We’re sitting in a puddle of was.” But we’re still the world’s leading exporter of midlife crises!

Happyish has a dark backstory of its own; it was meant to star the late Philip Seymour Hoffman and shot a pilot with him before his untimely death. The new version makes a nod to its British star–there’s an allusion to his “adopted” country in his opening rant on “the pursuit of happiness”–but it doesn’t give the acerbic Mancunian actor more of an outsider’s perspective on the American pop culture he toils in. Coogan tears beautifully into Thom’s twitchy, angry sarcasm, and he can do melancholy (see The Trip), but I have to wonder if Hoffman would have brought Thom a needed soulfulness.

Performances aren’t the show’s problem, though. It’s that we’ve seen so much of this before, like the manic reliance on voiceover and fantasy sequences. The most remarkable thing about the latter is that many use characters from actual ad campaigns to R-rated effect. They range from amusing to excruciating–you will never see the Keebler hollow tree again after the pilot–but it leaves the dispiriting feeling that this subversion is just another form of marketing.

At one point, Happyish acknowledges that it’s walking in past TV series’ loafers; “F— Mad Men,” Thom says, “Nothing about advertising is cool.” It’s an unfortunate contrast that Happyish premieres a week after a Mad Men episode, “The Forecast,” that more richly explored themes of youth vs. age and contentment vs. fulfillment (and even used a cookie advertising campaign to do it). There are signs of promise, as in the second episode, when Lee works through unresolved issue with her mother via a Jewish-guilt fantasy version of Dora the Explorer. But it squanders them with “We care why?” moments such as Thom imagining himself as Samuel Beckett, never writing his great works because of the pressures of paying the monthly nut on his suburban lifestyle.

Ultimately, Happyish shares Thom’s problem: it’s smart, it’s well-read and shows talent, and once that would have been enough, in an earlier age when the market allowed in less competition. Now it’s a buyer’s market for the anomie Happyish is selling; there are too many other diverse competing voices out there for a series to grab you simply by pointing out that a middle-aged professional with ample assets and options might kinda wish he were writing a novel instead.

It is, maybe, not fair to judge a series by its themes and its characters’ demographics. As Roger Ebert said, “It’s not what a movie is about, it’s how it is about it.” But for all its rhetorical flourishes, Happyish isn’t about its well-covered themes in any interesting way. Thom, in the end, is one more guy who’s mistaken his wants for needs–which in the end, is your best proof that advertising really does work.

TIME Television

The Americans Watch: The Evil Empire Strikes Home

THE AMERICANS -- "March 8, 1983" Episode 313 (Airs Wednesday, April 22, 10:00 PM e/p) Pictured: (l-r) Holly Taylor as Paige Jennings, Keri Russell as Elizabeth Jennings. CR: Patrick Harbon/FX
Patrick Harbon/FX

The end to a spectacular season sets up more dilemmas than it resolves.

Given the title of The Americans’ season three finale, “March 8, 1983,” it was not a spoiler to anyone with Google that the episode would involve Ronald Reagan’s famous “Evil Empire” speech about the Soviet Union. That this series would use that signal moment in the Cold War isn’t surprising. How it used the speech was more so.

Reagan’s speech was not only a saber-rattling declaration. It was an ethical argument that his audience must choose a side–it cast the Cold War as a moral battle not just between the U.S. and the U.S.S.R. but one within the West. Reagan gave the speech not to Congress or some think tank, but–befitting Paige’s spiritual crisis and turn to activist Pastor Tim–to the National Association of Evangelicals. As The Americans has showed, there was a strong pull toward the nuclear-freeze movement among some faithful, who heard a Biblical call for nonviolence and disarmament. Speaking to a more friendly religious group, Reagan made a counterargument:

So, in your discussions of the nuclear freeze proposals, I urge you to beware the temptation of pride—the temptation of blithely declaring yourselves above it all and label both sides equally at fault, to ignore the facts of history and the aggressive impulses of an evil empire, to simply call the arms race a giant misunderstanding and thereby remove yourself from the struggle between right and wrong and good and evil.

I don’t think The Americans is using Reagan’s words to say that he was right or wrong about the arms race. The show has never been very interested in relitigating the ideology of the Cold War, and it’s deeply empathetic with its killer Soviet protagonists (which does not mean it’s sympathetic to their goals or tactics).

But the show uses the speech to underline a more philosophical argument: that every person, weak or powerful, has moral agency and thus moral obligation. It can be tempting to believe otherwise. It’s such a cliché that Philip writes it into the suicide note he dashes off for poor, collateral-damage Gene: “I HAD NO CHOICE… I’M SORRY.”

An overarching theme of “March 8” was: you do have a choice. Maybe not a good one, maybe not an easy one, but a choice. A dependent, frightened teen like Paige has a choice–if maybe a disastrous one–to decide that living a lie is not in her character and to call Pastor Tim. Even prisoners in the gulag have choices within their limited range, as Anton tells Nina when she realizes she’s no longer willing to “keep buying back [her] life”: Turn down the comforts they offer, however hard it may be, and they have no power over you.

It’s not always easy to acknowledge, though. More efficient to get through life saying you’re trapped, or you’ve already made your decisions, or you have a duty. In her last words to her daughter, Elizabeth’s mother reckons with her choice: “I had to let you go. Everything was at stake.” Talking to Paige about her mother’s decision–with the implication hanging over it of possibly recruiting Paige as a spy herself–even Elizabeth, not one to blink at harsh reality, can’t bring herself to confront the choice head-on.

Paige gives her an opening to do it: “Would you let me do that?” But Elizabeth, whether for her sake or Paige’s, won’t accept the premise: “You would never have to do anything like that. OK?” (Not really an answer, Mom!) There is, maybe, an element of Elizabeth believing what she wants to believe about her daughter, as later when she tells Philip that Paige was “really good” on their trip when she’s plainly not doing well at all with carrying the family secret.

But then again, Elizabeth has a job to do, and she has the constant contrast of Philip, who always hopes for a choice–a way to satisfy both his patriotic duty and his conscience–and is tortured by the thought of making the wrong one. Sometimes it leads him to lash out, in a way that Gabriel likens to the rebellion of a petulant teenager: “Grow up.” Sometimes it leads him to turn inward, as when he returns to EST, maybe consoled by its quasi-Colbert emphasis on not overthinking things: “These feelings in your gut are just as important–more important–than all the shit in your head.”

Occasionally, his struggling works, as when he found a way out of committing statutory rape with the babysitter. Mostly, it leaves him morose, making greater-good arguments that don’t even persuade himself. “Yousaf, I feel like shit all the time,” he says, a stunningly simple and accurate summation of his character. By finale’s end, he’s unloading himself to Elizabeth, saying that he needs to start doing the job differently, but he can’t even articulate how–”From now on, I need to be know what I’m doing better so I…”–before he’s interrupted by the Great Communicator, for whom the answers, the right and wrong, seem to come so easily and without self-doubt.

And that’s pretty much it. Very little is final about this finale, by the standards of The Americans or of other dramas. Unlike in seasons one and two, there is no climactic mission, no violent resolution or reveal. (Who else had “Someone gets stranded in Russia” in their betting pool?) Nina started the season in prison–and she’s still there. Various of Philip and Elizabeth’s operations are still hanging out there. Is Martha dead, or a convert? Neither! She’s still processing Philip’s wig-off confessional (the details of which we never get). Stan’s defector sting is settled but only leaves more questions. And what of the mail robot?

After three seasons, The Americans is fully committed to being serial, to telling its story over however many seasons it gets, to build and build tension without releasing it. Its game is long, its pace controlled. The finale set up more business than it settled. (What’s this connection between Philip and Sandra Beeman? Is the FBI pushing Stan’s loyalty too far by sacrificing Nina?)

That’s had great benefits: it has never tipped over into Homeland-style absurdity in an effort to constantly keep things moving. (After season one, for instance, it had the good sense to dial back the cat-and-mouse game with Stan, which would have either become unbelievable or made him seem incompetent had he constantly been one step away from catching them.) It’s allowed the show to treat the characters, however outlandish the premise, with deep emotional realism. But that may alienate viewers who find the resulting slow burn frustrating, cold and without payoff.

But if you love The Americans like I do, it’s because the investment, the building of dread and its effects on the characters, is the payoff. Overall, season three was an improvement even on season two, which Transparent beat out for first place on my Best of 2014 list last year only by a wig-hair. Confident, soulful, rich: it will be quite a mission to dislodge this as best drama of 2015.

And while I say there was little climax or closure, there was a return to a pattern. Every Americans season finale has ended with Paige: alone in the laundry room in season one with her just-blooming doubts; targeted as an agent by the Centre at the end of season two; calling Pastor Tim here. (While young actors are often in a tough spot in very adult dramas like this–again, see Homeland–Holly Taylor makes Paige’s desperation achingly real.) Last year’s finale showed us the Jennings family in tableau, together, but alone in their thoughts. The finale ends strikingly with them each in a series of fade-ins: Henry (the most truly isolated, even if he doesn’t know it) with Stan, Paige huddled on her bedroom floor, Philip hanging his head, Elizabeth watching Reagan with a hawk’s sentinel intensity.

A war has begun. Little do Philip and Elizabeth know it happened right down their own hallway.

TIME Television

Netflix, Full House, and the Temptations of Nostalgia

DAVE COULIER;JODIE SWEETIN;MARY-KATE/ASHLEY OLSEN;BOB SAGET;CANDACE CAMERON;JOHN STAMOS
ABC/Getty Images Full House—Cast Gallery—August 8, 1989.

Remaking something people liked is not the way to make something people will love.

If the folks at Netflix watch Netflix, last December they might have seen a chilling episode of the British sci-fi series Black Mirror, titled “Be Right Back,” a kind of high-tech version of the short story “The Monkey’s Paw.” After her significant other is killed in an accident, a young woman hears about a tech startup that promises to bring him back–an artificially intelligent simulacrum, anyway–first as a smartphone app, then as a clone. The imitation is perfect, practically perfect, almost perfect–so tantalizingly close to perfect that it’s maddening, because in the end, she can never get past the fact that it’s not him.

Maybe the higher-ups at Netflix skipped that episode, or didn’t really take it to heart, because we’ve just got the official announcement that it is bringing back the sitcom Full House for a full season. John Stamos will be back as Uncle Jesse. D.J. will be a pregnant new widow. You will be young again, safe and loved.

During the long, rich life that Full House lived on ABC, it was not a good show. But it was a well-loved show, and that was enough to bring it back, because that’s what we do now. We’re getting a new X-Files. We have a new Odd Couple. We may be getting more Arrested Development, and possibly another Twin Peaks, depending how things shake out after David Lynch’s departure. Networks are trying to revive The Muppet Show, Coach, Uncle Buck, and Duck Tales.

Everything you loved once is coming back! Did you have a beloved dog who died when you were a kid? Expect to hear a scratching noise at your back door soon.

Over at HitFix, Dan Fienberg says that if there’s a mania for reboots now, it’s because networks, and their new non-reboots, are failing us: “something is missing in today’s TV landscape that causes a certain probably large group of viewers to yearn only for the pablum of their youth and I blame TV networks, not those viewers.”

I think he has part of a point. A good, original family sitcom might appeal to what Full House fans are missing, and it might recapture some of them. But there’s one thing it will never have that Full House did: you, in your Ninja Turtles pajamas, happy and laughing with your whole life ahead of you.

That’s nostalgia. That’s nothing new. What’s new is having the outlets and the resources to enable it. The reboot craze is a new iteration of the old impulse to program what focus groups say they want to see. And increasingly, as more past TV is available on streaming, what they want to see is their own past.

I don’t want to pick on Netflix alone here, because it’s also the TV networks doing this. But Netflix has a particular ability to weaponize this nostalgic impulse. With the granular data it has on who watches exactly what, and how much, it can microtarget shows that are ripe for revival, becoming a kind of TV Lourdes where the dead are brought back to life, if you vote for it with your eyeballs.

And hey, why shouldn’t people get what they want? Why be a hater? It may seem sad to me, but I don’t have to watch. (Though I will in fact totally watch a new X-Files.) I don’t know if any given reboot will be good or not; even if it’s terrible, that will make the original no better or worse in retrospect.

The problem is the millions of dollars, the creative energy, the airtime that’s not spent on something else, something new. Great TV shows–including Twin Peaks and The Muppet Show–were not devised by algorithm. The danger of all this revivalism is that the shows could work, just well enough. Making a reboot could be the most foolproof way of putting on a show with a built-in audience, but one whose highest upside will always be less than the original.

That’s the problem with making TV shows based on what you already know your viewers once liked. You guarantee you will never make the next thing that they’ll love.

Read next: Do We Really Need a Full House Reboot?

Listen to the most important stories of the day.

TIME Television

Review: Inside Amy Schumer Makes the Personal Parodic

Comedy Central Amber Rose and Schumer on the season premiere.

Schumer's sketch show is a war comedy, and she's the battlefield.

I could tell you exactly how funny the season 3 premiere of Inside Amy Schumer is (Tues., April 21), but then I’d have to kill it. Explanations are deadly to comedy, not to mention giving away punchlines. And while Schumer’s already released the opening sketch–“Milk Milk Lemonade,” a parody of booty videos guest starring Amber Rose–the episode’s other highlights depend so much on surprise, twists and casting that if I told you–well, then you’d have to kill me.

I will say, though, that the episode’s title is “Last F—able Day,” a play on the idea that every woman in Hollywood has an expiration date, the moment directors fear “your vagina is going to turn into a hermit crab.” (See also Tina Fey’s rule, in Bossypants, that “the definition of ‘crazy’ in show business is a woman who keeps talking even after no one wants to f— her anymore.”) That kind of awareness–knowing how women are judged, rejecting it, enabling it, toying with it–is the nugget of nuclear fuel that powers Schumer’s feminist sketch machine.

At its best–and the first three episodes of the season among the show’s best–Amy Schumer’s comedy is often intensely about herself. Not in the sense that it’s autobiographical or introspective: it’s about her person, her body, how the world sees it, how she sees it, who feels they have the right to it.

Schumer jokes about being on the cusp between the kind of women pop culture objectifies and the kind it rejects; see the season 2 sketch where she played two opposing tennis players, one hot and girly (and fawned over by the announcers), one lumbering and athletic (and vilified by them). Finding comedy in the mirror isn’t unique to her or even to women comics–Louis CK bases plenty of comedy on his appearance–but the way Schumer does it, not with Phyllis Diller-style self-deprecation but playing in the gray zones of social judgment, is fruitfully uncomfortable.

That sensibility is still there in season three, but it’s honed, assertive and blisteringly satirical, as in a birth-control ad where the boilerplate “Ask your doctor if birth control is right for you” morphs into demands that you also ask your boss, your boss’ priest, and random strangers. Inside Amy Schumer is really a war comedy; this battle is going on inside women, and it’s about who has the right to control them.

Some sketches seem to revisit territory from the first two seasons, like one about a woman enthusiastically going to a strip club with her male coworkers, a sort-of reprise of last season’s “Chick Who Can Hang” sketch. But others take the same themes into an entirely new dimension, like the audacious third episode, “Twleve Angry Men Inside Amy Schumer.”

In the full-episode sketch, a parody of the Henry Fonda jury movie, a dozen men (including Jeff Goldblum, Paul Giamatti and Vincent Kartheiser) are sequestered to judge Schumer physically. At first it’s like a remake of last season’s “You Would Bang Her?”–but it pushes the conceit into absurdity into a faux-melodrama about the male gaze arguing against itself. (“Am I the only one thinking with my dick here!” one furious juror demands.) It’s a satire of how women are assessed, and of how men are socialized to assess them, and of how pop culture presses a standardized, and thus boring, idea of sexiness on everyone. At the same time, it’s both a pitch-perfect satire of Sidney Lumet-style social-issues movies and an effective piece of social issues comedy.

Schumer barely appears in the half-hour-long sketch. And yet her presence, her sensibility, is everywhere here. Like all of Inside Amy Schumer at its best, it’s hot because it’s funny.

TIME Television

Game of Thrones Watch: Making a List, Checking It Twice

HBO

Revenge may be a dish best served cold, but in Westeros it is a multicourse banquet.

This article contains spoilers. Click here to reveal them.

The following review discusses Game of Thrones, “The House of Black and White,” in detail:

“Cersei. Walder Frey. The Mountain. Meryn Trant…”

Arya Stark’s long list is getting shorter. (So long, Joffrey! Hasta la Vista, Tywin! See you in the Seven Hells, Hound?) But it is only a partial one, the opening bars to a long, long tune of vengeance awaited in Westeros. You want payback? Get in line, behind the slaves of Meereen, the Martells of Dorne, pretty much anyone who ever crossed a Lannister (especially other Lannisters). Revenge may be a dish best served cold, but in Westeros, it is a multicourse banquet.

Vengeance is a big theme in “The House of Black and White,” an ironic title since the moral question here is anything but. Westeros’ history, like most any other continent’s, is a chain of they-did-it-to-us-first stretching back to the mists of creation. Hardly a character on screen lacks just cause for revenge on someone. But while the quest may be thrilling, it’s never simple. Vengeance is sweet. But is it just? Is it right? Is it smart?

The episode starts its investigation with Arya, whom we’d follow to the ends of the Earth–and now we have, almost anyway, on a ship sailing underneath the dangly bits of the Titan of Braavos. Our first sight is her fixed, intent stare. Her anger and bitterness have honed her sharper than Needle, and she’s come in hopes of weaponizing herself, clutching her worried coin, seeking J’aqen Haghar. She’s rowed in, past the homey scenes of a beautiful harbor, hanging melons, frying fish, but the only tourist site she’s interested in is the massive building built entirely of cold rock and Manichean symbolism.

Her plan may be drawn from the Underpants Gnome school of retribution. (“1. House of Black and White. 2. ??? 3. Vengeance!”) But this is all she has left: a coin, a badass fighting stance and the name of a guy. Because there’s no good sensei story without a challenge, she’s met be a strange elderly man who turns her away. Later, he reveals himself as the face-shifting J’aqen, though he denies that name. He’s no one–he has many faces, but no identity–and if she enters the building that’s who she will have to become too.

Message: when you make a list of names for revenge, save a line at the bottom for your own.

If that’s some kind of cautionary parable, though, no one’s listening. Certainly not Cersei, who has issued a bounty that is reaping her dwarfheads by the bagful from opportunistic bounty hunters. Not Brienne, driven across the countryside by duty and unquenched fury of Renly’s murder. Not Stannis, of the inflexible code of justice, who tells Jon Snow that if you want to be followed, you need to be feared.

And it’s not long before we’re in our first new location, Dorne, which is beautiful and angry. Someone has FedExed Cersei a gorgeous hexagonal box with a snake–symbol of Dorne–and the necklace of her daughter Myrcella, living as a ward/hostage in the land whose prince, Oberyn, her champion the Mountain recently made into head-jelly.

It’s a threat, but not a certain one: back at the Water Gardens, Ellaria Sand is arguing with Prince Doran whether to punish Myrcella–an eye for Oberyn’s literal eyes. “We do not mutilate little girls for vengeance,” he answers. “Not here. Not while I rule.”

From the looks of things, the argument is not over. But he has powerful recent history on his side. The reason Oberyn came to King’s Landing at all, and accepted the battle with the Mountain so gladly, was vengeance for his own sister, brutally raped and murdered in the sack of King’s Landing. Does it do anyone any good to launch another round, paying it forward to another innocent and ensuring yet another reprisal, when the view of the gardens is so lovely?

It may be a moral question–turn the other cheek and all that–but because Game of Thrones is very much a political story too, it’s also a practical one. On the one hand, maybe you can reign more peacefully and prosperously if you’re willing to risk weakness and break the cycle. On the other hand, how do you do that without rewarding the very worst?

These are the irreconcilable questions facing Dany, in a conquered Meereen where everyone is keeping a list. The Sons of the Harpy are waging urban guerilla warfare in payback for the slave rebellion, and former slaves are paying back the payback. Ser Barristan counsels her that her father, the Mad King, acted out of a sense of cruel, deserved justice and it was his downfall. Her Meereen aides argue that the slave masters–the same ones who crucified children on the road–only understand cruelty. (Complicating everything is that the Harpy murderers aren’t the slavemasters themselves, but poor freedmen paid to do their dirty work. Vengeance, as so often in real life, really means taking the low-hanging fruit.)

They’re all right, and thus all wrong. And when Daenerys tries to balance the scales by using due process, that goes wrong too: the prisoner is murderered in custody, which finally pushes Dany to lose the moral high ground–and at least some of her subjects’ affection–by having him summarily executed.

So justice has been done. Payment has been exacted. The scales have been balanced. And everybody is better off–not least Dany, who alienated her “children” in Meereen, and ends the episode looking out on the landscape as her dragon-child Drogon flies off over the dusky horizon.

It’s as if she’s looking into the future, one in which all debts are paid, all grievances settled, a land where justice is so thorough and complete that there’s no one left to live in it.

Now for the hail of arrows:

* “But you forgot about…!” There’s a hell of a lot of story in Game of Thrones, and as in my reviews of past seasons, I can think of nothing more useless than trying to mention every last thing that happened in every episode. Each week, I’ll write about the stuff that interests me most. Feel free to take it from there in the comments!

* We got a whopping new diversion from the source books this week, which I’ll spoiler-blur for those of you who don’t want to know how things go down in the original:

Brienne finds Sansa! I didn’t have this one in my Game of Thrones betting pool, but not only does it make for the action sequence of the week–as Brienne is slyly rebuffed by Littlefinger, then goes berserker on his knights in her getaway–it also solves a couple of narrative problems from A Feast for Crows. First, we no longer need follow Brienne trudging, and trudging, and trudging, through the countryside before finally getting strung up by the (no longer on the scene) Lady Stoneheart. Second, we had just about exhausted the existing from-the-books Littlefinger and Sansa story by this point. Like other changes, this one is driven by efficiency: don’t keep people sidelined, don’t introduce new characters where existing ones will do. The result may be better or worse, but the storyline is riding fast into unknown woods, and I like it.

* So how cornball are the House of Black and White sequences? We’re treading perilously close to Yoda/Miyagi territory with the mystic Eastern music and a-girl-must-become-nothing-isms. (And though I’m being that guy, it’s a shame that when a show that’s created a very white Westeros casts an older black man, his face is literally wiped after two scenes.) On the other hand, I loved how Thrones physically represented J’aqen’s transformation, with the camera passing behind Arya’s head just in time to catch the barest glimpse of a skin being pulled to the side of J’aqen’s cowl. And who am I kidding? I’m a sucker for cornball sensei-learner sequences; there’s a good reason we see them so often.

* “We’ve already got a ruler. Everywhere has got a ruler. Every pile of shit by the side of every road has someone’s banner hanging from it.” I will happily take a full hour of the Varys and Drunk Tyrion show every week.

* I suppose I should mention that Jon got himself elected Lord Commander (albeit turned down becoming Lord of Winterfell), which I assume means that he just bought a bigger load of problems. Still the election was satisfying, if nothing else for Sam sending Janos Slynt straight to the burn unit for cowering in the larder during the battle with the Wildlings. And in scenes like this–the divided cliques, Maester Aemon slyly casting the deciding vote–The Wall reminds me of a really dark version of Hogwarts.

* “Jaime fookin’ Lannister!” Ah, I fookin’ missed you too, Bronn.

TIME Television

“I’m On Television”: Britt McHenry’s Classist, Classless Mistake

As more meltdowns go viral, will people's behavior change, or will our standards for it?

Why was it fair for ESPN to suspend reporter Britt McHenry after she went Dennis Quaid on a towing-company clerk on viral video? She gave the reason herself: “I’m on television.”

McHenry’s sole job, at its root, is to make people want to watch her on TV. To the extent that she followed “I’m on television” with “and you’re in a f*cking trailer” along with a string of other untelegenic, education- and body-shaming insults, she has herself to blame. As with Phil Robertson and many other instances of TV stars getting penalized for popping off, this isn’t a free speech issue. No one has a constitutional right to a TV job.

But also as in those other cases, it’s worth asking what exactly McHenry’s being punished for. For abusing a poorer, less famous employee? For doing it in such a way that we found out about it? Or for doing it on camera?

As someone raised by two hard-working parents, neither of whom went to college, McHenry’s “That’s why I have a degree and you don’t” classist attitude disgusts me. And I also know there’s plenty more of it in the world, not caught on camera. The more cameras are out there–in business, in our pockets, on elevators–the more bad celebrity behavior we’re eventually going to witness.

What less certain is whether the awareness that someone might be watching will make people behave better, or whether the frequency of meltdown videos will numb us to it. Let’s say you believe that anyone, like McHenry, who verbally lashes a service employee, or underling, or anyone in a lower power position, should be punished for it. Lets further assume that two or three–or a squintillion–powerful people have done the same thing, but off-camera.

If you could invent a magic device (like a video camera) that could reveal every such instance, would you want them all punished? Would you want the same to every nonfamous person who ever cursed out the cable-company operator? Or would the scale of it–there are a lot of jerks in the world–make it seem futile and ridiculous?

Maybe the knowledge that you never know when you might be caught on tape will lead some people to behave better. Occasionally, the power of example does some real good; Jonah Hill, for instance, was videotaped in 2014 yelling a homophobic slur, and it produced one of the few seemingly true, contrite and considered public celebrity apologies. He went through the now-familiar ritual of public shaming, came out of it with his career just fine, and hopefully he and maybe a few fans learned an actual lesson.

But the more meltdowns become public–not just celebrity ones, but increasing cable-TV fodder of amateur bad behavior–the more I wonder if they’ll become cautionary tales or just entertainment. It’s something we’ll have to work out, intentionally or gradually–will we define our standards of behavior up, or our ability to be shocked down? As McHenry reminded us, she’s on TV. But these days, who isn’t?

Read next: ESPN Suspends Reporter Britt McHenry Over Leaked Parking Lot Video

Listen to the most important stories of the day.

TIME Television

Review: Other Space Is a Cosmic Blast

Yahoo

Paul Feig's oddball sci-fi comedy gives us a spaceship as dysfunctional dorm room.

TV has given us space as final frontier (Star Trek), space as epic war site (Battlestar Galactica), space as source of mystery (Extant) and menace (V). Paul Feig’s goofily funny Other Space, whose full eight-episode first season is now on Yahoo Screen, gives us space as a site to work out your personal business. In Other Space, no one can hear you scream, except the family members, unrequited loves and assorted misfits you’re trapped with.

It’s the year 2105, and the Universal Mapping Project has given command of one of its ships, the UMP Cruiser, to wet-behind-the-ears captain Stewart Lipinski (Karan Soni). It seems like a big assignment for the well-meaning but jittery newbie, but deep-space exploration has become a less glamorous job over the half century in which the UMP has found nothing but rocks and dust.

So Stewart inherits a ship and crew of castoffs and oddballs, including his hard-charging big sister Karen (Bess Rous), who resents being his second-in command; his childhood buddy Michael (Eugene Cordero); Tina (Milana Vayntraub), whom Stewart hired because of a badly-hidden crush; and onboard computer avatar Natasha (Conor Leslie), who was originally programmed as a blackjack dealer. In a nod to low-budget sci-fi-TV past, the gang is rounded out by Mystery Science Theater 3000‘s Joel Hodgson as a stoner tech officer and Trace Beaulieu as the voice of outmoded robot A.R.T. (who, we learn, is the downloaded consciousness of a billionaire who made a bad investment in Singularity technology).

All goes–not well, and then it goes worse. The Cruiser is sucked up by a temporary wormhole–or “space toilet”–that flushes it into another universe. Inexperienced, poorly provisioned and terrified (a UMP training video on resigning yourself to die alone in space doesn’t help) sets out to navigate its new envirnoment, as well as all the personal and interpersonal space-junk that the stress stirs up.

The subject matter may seem an odd choice for Feig if you know him from Freaks and Geeks, which he created, or Bridesmaids, which he directed. (He did branch out into comedy sci-fi in his young-adult Ignatius MacFarland: Frequenaut! books.) But the science in Other Space‘s fiction is definitely light, even by the standards of, say, Futurama, and the production design is decidedly old-school. (It’s reminiscent of one of the few live-action sci-fi sitcoms past, NBC’s Quark, starring Richard Benjamin, from 1977.)

Really, Other Space is a workplace self-discovery comedy about misfits finding their place, in a office that just happens to be floating in an alien dust cloud. Though Yahoo may not have planned it this way, actually, Other Space (which Feig originally conceived for NBC) turns out to be a closer companion to its adopted Community than anything NBC ever paired with the show. The vibe is a little like a college dorm set afloat in space (at one point Tina draws on “my RA training” to handle a challenge), as the Cruiser’s maladjusted crew gets a forced crash course in socialization. (There’s a great example in the second episode, in which nebbishy officer Kent, played by Neil Casey, reveals an origin sotry that’s both heartwarming and hilariously gross.)

As with the LED-lit, beep-boop control panels of the Cruiser, there’s little brand-new about Other Space, but it grows into a low-stakes, good-hearted good time. The production feels amateurish in a good way, loose, light and benefitting from a cast heavy on sketch comedy experience.

Early in the pilot, the crew of the Cruiser discovers that its food replicator is busted, leaving them with nothing to eat but a massive stash of fudge in the ship’s hold. It feels like a metaphor for streaming the show. It might be too much to binge this odd confection all at once (just as, Karen dourly informs the crew, an all-fudge diet will lead to a ghastly death within weeks). But who doesn’t like fudge? Other Space may not be TV’s, or streaming’s, next great comedy. But it’s a welcome and unexpected treat.

TIME Television

Justified Watch: It Beats Angry

JUSTIFIED -- "Promise" Episode 313 (Airs Tuesday, April 14, 10:00 pm e/p) Pictured (l-r): Nick Searcy as Chief Deputy U.S. Marshal Art Mullen & Timothy Olyphant as Deputy U.S. Marshal Raylan Givens.CR: Prashant Gupta/FX
FX

Fittingly for this series finale, shots are fired but it's the words that hit the target.

Spoilers for the series finale of Justified, “The Promise,” below:

The last gunshot in “The Promise” is fired 20 minutes before the episode ends. The scene is as Western as Western can be without the tumbleweeds. Raylan and quick-draw artist Boon stare each other down on a lonesome highway. We see Boon framed, classically, from the vantage of Raylan’s holster. There’s a cut quick enough to just show Boon draw first. We see a long view of the two shootists, firing exactly at the same time. Raylan falls, Boon crumples, and Loretta kicks away his gun before he can fire the kill shot at Raylan, who has suffered only a graze.

Then the guns are holstered and put away.

Justified from the beginning has been a kind of modern-day Western. Timothy Olyphant, previously the seething Sheriff Seth Bullock on Deadwood, played Raylan Givens as a tortured hero in an (off-)white hat, basically decent yet–as ex-wife Winona pointed out in the show’s pilot–“the angriest man I have ever known.”

But it’s only a kind of Western, and what has made it great–its true legacy from late godfather Elmore Leonard–is that its choicest ammunition has always been the word. It shoots nothing as well as it does the breeze. This was not a series that was going to end in a climactic bloodbath with one gunslinger standing. In the end, contra Darrell Scott’s ballad, Raylan, Ava and Boyd all leave Harlan alive, albeit in different states of liberty. And Justified spends its final 20 minutes displaying its verbal firepower.

So Avery Markham’s story ended in blood, as was inevitable since Sam Elliott’s mustache-less, menacingly turtle-mouthed visage made its way to the screen. (Of Justified‘s many villains, he was probably the most compelling save for Margo Martindale’s Mags Bennett and of course Boyd Crowder.) But Markham was always merely the turtle-soup appetizer to this final meal, and Boon the middle course. The meat of the supper was the confrontation between deadly frenemies Raylan and Boyd.

That showdown at first seems to come too soon, Raylan getting the drop on an out-of-ammo Boyd halfway into the finale. (“God damn, Raylan, your timing sucks!”) But it turns out to be a non-shootout shootout, in which Raylan urges Boyd to draw, and Boyd refuses; if Raylan wants him dead, he’ll have to cross that line. That’s the penalty of being the good guy: you have to let the other guy draw first. We met Raylan as a good guy, but a pissed-off one, seething, grudge-bearing, giving crooks the make-my-day nudge that made his shootings, as the title says, justified–just barely.

“You make me pull,” he tells Boyd in that first episode, “I’ll put you down.” Two questions have hung over Raylan all these six seasons. Would he ever rid himself of that chip on his shoulder (which even his criminal daddy Arlo’s death could not dislodge)? And would he ever kill Boyd? In the end, he achieves the first by letting go of the second.

The scene is one of many callbacks to Justified’s pilot, fitting for a series so conscious of the pull of the past. History, in Justified’s Harlan, is a living thing–and it’s an ornery, spiteful bastard, lurking below your feet in a mine you thought was long closed, waiting to pull you back down. At best, it can be a source of pride. (Loretta, maybe my favorite character, makes the pot business into a kind of higher calling by promising to protect Harlan’s patrimony from Markham.) At worst, it goads you to keep soaking the ground with blood to feed it. Justified’s strength has been to show without condescension how Harlan’s people–beat-up, exploited, looked down on–have been both victims and enablers of this kind of historical cycle.

“The Promise” uses its callbacks to give us the happiest ending this show can: suggesting that, with work, old patterns can be broken. Raylan picks up Boon’s hipster-shootist hat after their showdown, but when we meet him four years later, he’s hatless, eating ice cream with Willa, being friendly with Winona who’s moved on with a new guy. He’s still, she says, “the most stubborn man I’ve ever known,” but as Raylan says, playing off the last line of the pilot, “It beats angry.” And so Raylan finds Ava, who–unlike his first visit to her after she blew her husband away–does not have Co’Cola or RC, and takes her hand off the rifle she’s hiding.

Which leaves Raylan one last challenge: to keep Boyd out of Ava’s life forever, and to do it with words, not bullets, by convincing him that she’s dead. Amazingly, the lie works. The bullshitter has finally been bullshat, and yet Raylan does it with a noticeably heavy heart.

There is no joy in Raylan’s final con, only necessity and the final awareness of how birth, family and the land mark you in ways you can’t escape or deny. Raylan may have contempt for Boyd, his schemes, his mud-people theories (another pilot callback), yet they will each always have Harlan under their fingernails and in their lungs: “We dug coal together.”

It’s no shootout, but it’s a confrontation as intimate as any. The two men are framed tight, from either side of the glass, cradling the receivers like a mother’s hand. There may be no love lost between them, but there’s a sadness; through it all, Olyphant and Goggins convey that this end may be no tragedy, but it’s a damn shame all the same.

And it falls, of course, to Boyd Crowder, infinite font of flourish and flim-flam, to give the last, best benediction to Justified and its love of lingo. “Raylan Givens,” he says, “I know you have never believed a word that has come out of my mouth. Though I have harbored a secret hope that you have nevertheless enjoyed hearing them.”

Every word, Boyd. Every damn word.

Your browser is out of date. Please update your browser at http://update.microsoft.com