TIME remembrance

Food Writer Joshua Ozersky Dies at Age 47

Award-winning food writer and host Josh Ozersky goes on a spirited journey across the country, and back in time, to explore the science, anthropology, and history of alcohol in United States of Drinking
Smithsonian Channel Award-winning food writer and host Josh Ozersky goes on a spirited journey across the country, and back in time, to explore the science, anthropology, and history of alcohol in United States of Drinking

The prolific author, former TIME contributor and meat evangelist wrote as much about why we eat as what we eat.

Joshua Ozersky, one of America’s most passionate and eloquent food writers, died on Monday in Chicago, where he was attending the James Beard Awards. The cause of death was undetermined.

Ozersky, 47, was a Beard winner himself, the author of several books on food, a columnist for Esquire and a former contributor to TIME and many, many other publications. He was also my friend. I met Josh in 1998. I was writing for Salon then, and I knew and admired his writing from around the web. He was living in Corning, N.Y., doing corporate writing as a day job, and he invited me out of the blue to get a drink in Manhattan and ask my advice on taking his freelancing full-time.

I don’t remember what advice I gave him, and whatever it was, he didn’t need it. Within a few years, he was embedded in New York’s food and restaurant culture. He was expansive, gregarious, a character of his own authoring: he wrote his “carnivore’s guide to New York,” Meat Me in Manhattan, under the name Mr. Cutlets, a pseudonym cribbed from Herman Melville’s “Bartleby the Scrivener.” He got to know the people who ran restaurants and learned how they work. He was a polymath and a performer; he produced a series of web videos, appeared on TV, and created Meatopia, a traveling, growing celebration of the fatty, sanguineous vittles he loved. (I remember a very early incarnation, in the back of a New York bar, which Josh kicked off with the benediction that became his personal credo of lusty eating: “The fat is the meat, and the meat is the vegetable!”)

Josh didn’t start out as a food writer, though. He wrote about pop culture, art, media; in 2003, he published Archie Bunker’s America, a sweeping, historically astute study of TV in the 1970s. It made sense that he would turn to food writing, though. Not only did he love to eat, he realized that food was culture that you engaged with, literally, on a gut level.

When Josh wrote about food, it was personal and forceful. Sometimes that meant controversy and feuds, but it elevated his writing above trend-chasing and meal-description. (Though he wrote about restaurants and loved to discover them, he always stressed that he was not a “restaurant critic” and didn’t want to be one.) He liked what he liked, whether it was high-end restaurant cuisine or Kozy Shack pudding. Josh didn’t just write about what to eat, but how to eat, why we eat, what needs eating fills.

If a journalist is good enough, it doesn’t matter what his or her subject is. Even if you eat peanut butter on saltines for three meals a day, Josh’s work still has something to say to you. For Saveur, he wrote about connecting with his father, an unrecognized artist, over souffles and Chinese takeout ribs. When he was cropped out of a photo on the wall of Katz’s Deli, he cut a hilariously confessional video rant on the hustle for fame. He rebelled against the MFK Fisher school of writing, arguing that our popular, romanticized food-lit leaves out the truth of many people’s lived experience: “My own formative encounters with food had exactly no connection to the seasons, to romance, to good times or for that matter bad ones. I self-medicated with it.”

One of Josh’s pieces that sticks with me is a simple list he wrote for Esquire of rules for dining out. It’s practical, funny, and typically impatient with pretense (“6. Life is too short for platonic love affairs or savory desserts”). But it’s also, when you get down to it, a wise, succinct guide on how to live. It ends by addressing the question of “ethical dining” with a perfect note about morality and humility:

“Feeling ethical?” he writes. “Tip well and take home what you don’t eat. And don’t talk about your moral choices. It’s boorish and contrary to the spirit of morality. Pipe down and do the best you can. That’s all that can reasonably be expected of anybody.” RIP.

TIME Television

Recap: Game of Thrones Watch: Inglorious Bastards

HELEN SLOAN/HBO

Legitimate or otherwise, the children of Game of Thrones are taking center stage.

This article contains spoilers. Click here to reveal them.

Spoilers for Game of Thrones, “Sons of the Harpy,” below:

“What would you say if I told you of a great sinner here in our very midst?”

In King’s Landing? I’d say I’m going to need to grab a scroll and some extra ink, because that’s going to turn into a very long list.

The irony of Cersei Lannister reporting a “sinner” to the High Sparrow–using a mob of fundamentalists as muscle in the service of her morally-selective aims–is obvious. But it also points up a theme of Game of Thrones, which comes up repeatedly in “Sons of the Harpy”: that sin is a moving target in this world, defined by who has the power to punish other’s sins and to obscure their own.

After all, it’s rich that Cersei should be targeting Loras for a specifically sexual sin (being gay, apparently, is no more tolerated by the Faith of the Seven than the medieval Europe it’s based on) when she not only commited incest but is–or was–truly in love with the brother who fathered her children. Cersei and Jaime are not free to be open about this, but they’re at least insulated enough to see that the whispers around them remain whispers.

By empowering the Faith Militant–visualized here as a kind of weird tattooed cult–Cersei is playing a dangerous game, loosing the power of religious absolutism in a land where, in practice, not all equal “sins” are treated equally. Just take, for instance, the very different treatment of a kind of character that is very prominent in Game of Thrones‘ story of power and family—the bastard.

Westeros is crawling with bastards, but not all bastards have an equal lot in life. The realm is ruled by one, after all: it’s not acknowledged that Robert’s children are not his, but it’s not unacknowledged either–sparrows yell “Bastard! Abomination!” at Tommen in the street, and Bronn answers “Your niece?” pointedly when Jaime describes Myrcella as such. In a way, it’s a demonstration of Lannister might that the gossip remains just that. (Would the family’s power crumble if the secret were exposed, or would the secret be exposed because the family’s power had already crumbled?)

The Lannister kids are a special case, of course, being the product of incest. But it’s ironic that Myrcella is believed to be in danger having been sent off to the one corner of Westeros that treats its bastards best. As the late Oberyn Martell said, “Bastards are born of passion, aren’t they? We don’t despise them in Dorne.” The Dornish, in keeping with their more generally liberated attitudes, acknowledge children born out of wedlock, giving them power and agency–and in the case of the Sand Snakes, whom we meet here, the ability to create big headaches for the Lannisters in the name of vengeance.

And in the rest of Westeros? It’s more a matter of luck. Poor Gendry is still out there rowing his boat somewhere, relatively powerless and yet threatening enough to be pursued because of his royal blood. The Boltons, on the other hand, may have their own trouble playing nice with others, but at least Roose was open to making Ramsay Snow legitimate once he proved his usefulness.

Then there’s the handsomest bastard of all, Jon Snow. Ned Stark did the right-enough thing bringing him back to Winterfell and raising him as his own, and he was able to bond with his siblings–yet always felt a distance from Catelyn, for whom things were understandably awkward. He was a good son, dutiful, protective of his siblings, responsible–and as his reward got to go off to The Wall. In the last episode, Stannis offered him the chance to be legitimized as a Stark, yet he refused it feeling bound to his vows. The Night’s Watch may be a harsh family, but at least it adopted him unconditionally.

But Jon’s situation is complicated, and I’m going to spoiler-protect the next couple paragraphs–it’s not technically a spoiler, since it only involves a theory popular among readers of the books, but it’s enough of a biggie-if-true that I’ll let you decide if you want to read it:

According to this theory, the story I just told you, the story that Ned Stark told when he brought baby Jon home, is not the real story. Jon, the speculation goes, is not actually Ned’s son, but the son of former crown prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Ned’s sister Lyanna. By this theory, Rhaegar did not rape Lyanna–the story that’s taken hold–but secretly married her, making him the actual honest-to-God legit heir to the Iron Throne. Ned claimed Jon as his bastard son to hide the truth and protect the baby’s life.

True? Not true? The hell if I know, but Rhaegar and Lyanna are suddenly all the hell over “Sons of the Harpy.” We have Sansa visiting the crypts at Winterfell, recalling Ned’s visit to his sister’s tomb and retelling the popular story of the rape. Later, Barristan recalls taking Rhaegar through the streets of King’s Landing, where he loved to sing for passers-by. Game of Thrones, unlike the books, doesn’t like to spend much time on history–let alone characterizing a long-dead character, first as a rapist, then as a sweet boy (who maybe was not a rapist after all?). On top of that we have Melisandre–well-know connoisseur of king’s blood–telling Jon of the power he carries within him.

Overall, “Sons of the Harpy” was a largely piece-moving episode: it set up a bloody conflict in Dorne, multiplied Dany’s troubles in Meereen, set Jorah and Tyrion on the road, and sent Mace Tyrell off to Braavos with Ser Meryn Trant, whom you may recognize as one of the names on Arya’s shortening revenge list.

But it had powerful moments, one of which reminded us that there are ways other than being born out of wedlock for children in this realm to lose legitimacy. See Shireen, Stannis’ only child, disdained by her mother, who apologizes to him for “[giving] you nothing but weakness and deformity.”

Which is why it was a surprisingly affecting scene to see Stannis telling his daughter how he fought to save and keep her after she fell ill with greyscale. It may be the first time that we hear Stannis talking about a decision that he came to, not because of honor or rigid adherence to law, but simple, febrile love. “I told them all to go to hell,” he says. “You are the princess Shireen of House Baratheon. And you are my daughter.”

I’ll admit it, I choked up. Stannis, you soft-hearted bastard, you.

Now for the hail of arrows:

* Whenever I see a new location on the title-sequence map, it’s like Christmas in the spring for me. Welcome, badass snake of Dorne!

* We get a little more clarity on the “What in hell is Littlefinger thinking?” front with regard to Sansa’ betrothal to Ramsay: he believes Stannis will defeat the Boltons and place Sansa in charge of the North. Let’s hope the puppetmaster knows what he’s doing.

* What was it Chekhov said, about how if you have a man buried to his neck in the sand at the beginning of an episode, he’d better get a spear thrown through his head by the end of it?

* I had been thinking that Game of Thrones this season had been doing a little less of the nudity-for-nudity’s sake scenes, but Melisandre’s attempted seduction of Jon felt like it. Yes, life is holy, sex is life, blah blah–and I do wonder what her larger motive was beyond Jon’s general dreaminess–but I couldn’t help but giggling when she disrobed to show him “what you’re fighting for.” (Her boobs?)

* Speaking of which: “You know nothing, Jon Snow.” I’m assuming Melisandre was never in a position to hear Ygritte utter the catchphrase. So: coincidence, or legit Red Priestess voodoo?

* “I was drunk through most of the Small Council meetings, but now it’s coming back to me.” Tyrion Lannister, excellent multitasker.

TIME Television

How Last Man on Earth Reversed Its Male Gaze

THE LAST MAN ON EARTH:  Phil (Will Forte) in the "Screw The Moon" season finale episode of THE LAST MAN ON EARTH airing Sunday, May 3 (9:30-10:00 PM ET/PT) on FOX.  ©2015 Fox Broadcasting Co.  Cr:  Ray Mickshaw/FOX
Ray Mickshaw/FOX

This odd show started great, went bad, then evolved into a Darwinian sex comedy with the men as the objects.

I can’t remember the last debut season of a show that had the great-to-awful-to-pretty-good quality arc of The Last Man on Earth. It began as something absolutely stunning, an art film that somehow snuck onto network TV, a bittersweet comedy of loneliness. It was the first act of WALL*E reimagined with a sad bro. Phil Miller (Will Forte) was modern American humanity reduced to its last crude expression after a plague, living out his days in an endless, bored succession of slapstick pranks, recklessly consuming to the end, trying to amuse himself back to life.

Then Phil met Carol Pilbasian (Kristen Schaal). The plot thickened, but also curdled. At first, it seemed like a productive pairing: just as Phil reacted to the apocalypse by letting go–of rules, hygiene, order–Carol dealt with it by clinging to them. So that’s what this was going to be: a comedy about what makes a society, whether laws and manners matter even when there’s no one to enforce them.

Or it would just be a sex comedy, which was what LMoE turned into. Desperate for companionship–OK, desperate to get laid–Phil hastily agreed to marry Carol even though she grated on him, then instantly regretted it when they found a newer, hotter neighbor, Melissa (January Jones). Suddenly, this unique TV experiment was one more dude-centric comedy, where the main joke was that Phil was the only penis in town, yet could never have the hot woman.

It’s not that LMoE took Phil’s side–it showed him as a lying heel scheming for a do-over–but it all became unpleasant. The show bottomed out for a while, as Todd (Mel Rodriguez) showed up and paired off with Melissa, and the joke seemed to become: The fat guy’s with the hot chick! What’s wrong with this picture?

It was tough to stick with LMoE through this middle phase, but if you did, you saw it change again. Erica and Gail (Cleopatra Coleman and Mary Steenburgen), two hot-to-trot survivors, turned up in Tucson–followed quickly by a second Phil Miller (Boris Kodjoe), nicer, slicker and, above all, way, way hotter.

In one deft move, the show’s viewpoint flipped, as the community’s women went as bug-eyed over New Phil as he had over Melissa. A show that seemed to be all about ratifying every male-gaze joke every sitcom had ever made was now about Phil and Todd as humanity’s runners-up, feeling every bit as judged and objectified as, well, every woman in a sex comedy ever.

LMoE was still very different from its beginnings. But now it imagined the postapocalypse as a kind of ultimate dating show, with its women as much the pursuers as the pursued. So many stories imagine the end of the world as a struggle for survival, but biology being what it is, why wouldn’t it be just as much a struggle for sex?

Last Man on Earth is still not as amazing it it promised to be at its beginning (nor does the title make much sense anymore). It’s developed–maybe inevitably–into something more familiar. But it’s rebounded from its worst point. What’s more, I’m not sure if it could have become what it is without having gone through that off-putting stretch: we needed to spend time with Phil as a self-absorbed ass in order for the series’ gender-reversal shift to work. (That asked a lot of patience; I think Sonia Saraiya is right that this is a show that would have been better served by binge-watching.)

As it approaches its season finale (May 3), maybe the most interesting thing about Last Man on Earth is the level of faith it’s asked of the viewer: it invited us to watch without knowing exactly what kind of show it was, then changed itself week by week without warning. I loved the show, then I hated it for a while, and for all I know, I may hate it again a half hour from now. And I have no idea what it will be next season.

I can only say I’m glad I stuck around to see its current iteration: a comedy of Darwinism, with Phil Miller suddenly floundering at the bottom of the gene pool. That’s enough, at least, to make me want to come back and see how he and this curious show evolve.

TIME Television

NBC Wants to Be Netflix. Netflix Wants to Be NBC.

Aquarius - Season 1
Vivian Zink/NBC Duchovny, right, in NBC's Aquarius

As the broadcaster embraces binge-watching, the streaming giant is pitching a big tent.

Serial killer, meet serial viewers.

Wednesday, NBC announced that it will make the entire 13-episode season of Aquarius, starring David Duchovny as a police detective on the trail of Charles Manson, available for streaming on May 28 immediately after its premiere on what we apparently now call “linear television.”

It’s the kind of news that’s both not so big and yet huge. On the one hand, Aquarius is a summer series, premiering just after the end of May sweeps, so the network is taking a relatively small chance in exchange for more attention than the show might otherwise have gotten.

On the other hand, that the network feels the need to test this at all shows that, not unlike an L.A. flatfoot in the Summer of Love, the world is changing whether it likes it or not. Binge-ers wanna binge, and if networks don’t give them that option, someday someone else will.

The announcement was especially striking after some recent news about Netflix. (When isn’t Netflix making news these days?) After its first-quarter earnings report, CEO Reed Hastings made the point of stressing the company’s big aim: not to replace companies like HBO, but eventually to replace the network system of TV generally. In Netflix’s view of the future, cable bundles will be replaced by baskets of Internet services (like itself) and streaming will supersede turning on a channel and watching what’s on.

The media covering Netflix (me included) have tended to cover it as a competitor to cable. It’s natural: like HBO, say, it’s a subscription service, not dependent on advertising, investing in original programming on top of its library of acquisitions so that people will feel they need to have it.

But there’s one thing that doesn’t match up in that analogy. Cable channels tend to have what you call “brands”–types of content or aesthetic philosophies that distinguish them from other channels. They may be literal: History channel is history, Comedy Central does comedy. They may be more amorphous: Bravo does aspirational lifestyle programming, FX does middle-aged male angst, HBO and AMC do the TV equivalent of movies or literature. (Not every show a channel makes will fit a brand, and brands can drift: USA, e.g., is moving from cheery “blue skies” programming to darker drama.)

Look at Netflix’s programming and its recent announcements, though, and try to tell me what Netflix’s brand is. It made House of Cards, a drama about a villain roughly, if superficially, in the HBO mold. But it also made Bloodline, a Damages-style potboiler, and Orange Is the New Black, a Showtime-esque drama/comedy from the creator of Weeds. It revived Arrested Development–but it’s also going to revive Full House. It dropped millions on Marco Polo, a lavish international historical production, and picked up Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt, a castoff comedy from NBC. It made Daredevil, a superhero drama one notch darker and smaller-bore than the superhero dramas on broadcast TV. It’s adapting Green Eggs and Hamas a series. (I guess you can devote an entire episode to “eating them on a train”?)

Look at those titles, and the other series in the pipeline, and tell me if you can discern a common thread, an ethos, an aesthetic. I can’t–except for this. The shows that Netflix creates and makes available to stream tend to carry DNA–subject or cast members or creators–from other, past TV series that its voluminous viewer data tells it that people are streaming. (Netflix, given the cost and difficulty of licensing movies, is mainly a TV-watching service now, though it’s also getting into the movie-making business.)

In other words, Netflix doesn’t have a brand, except: things that people have proven they like to stream on Netflix.

In TV, in this niche-targeted, specialized era, who has a brand of “Lotsa different kinds of stuff that different kinds of people like”? Not any cable channels–broadcast networks. NBC, ABC, CBS. That whole vast-tent approach was supposed to be fading in the cable-TV era.

Except that the way Netflix views the streaming business is as the most capacious virtual tent ever. In its view, there is a future for a TV-maker that is simultaneously broad and niche: selling a service to all kind of people and demographics, but appealing to them with very specific programs. It sees itself as a broadcaster of narrowcasting.

In a strange way, this vision would use a radically different way of structuring and watching TV to recreate one of the oldest paradigms in TV: something for everyone! Netflix sees itself as the next NBC or CBS, but for an era where everyone in the family looks at their own screen instead of gathering around a single hearth.

In different ways, in other words, NBC and Netflix seem agreed that eventually they will be in the same business. But Netflix is getting to NBC’s territory a lot faster than NBC is getting to Netflix’s.

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

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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?

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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.

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