You, the dangerously addictive series starring Penn Badgley as a sociopathic stalker, landed as an unappreciated, darkened gem on Lifetime in 2018. Months later, the first season found a ridiculous amount of life as a Netflix holiday binge. Was this because people enjoy obsessing over serial killers while avoiding their families? That's entirely possible, hough the streamer also found itself asking people to please stop lusting after Ted Bundy after running that Zac Efron movie. Attempting to understand the appeal might be futile, other than remembering that Charles Manson's prison romances were plentiful, but Badgley himself grew unnerved by Stalker Joe's panty-dropping popularity. Well, Badgley for whatever reason reprises his role for a sophomore season on Netflix, and I do have to wonder he thought of this year's scripts because Joe's back, and he's as bad as ever.
Actually, Joe might arguably be even worse because he imagines that he's capable of change and becoming a better person. This belief further complicates the show's moral ambiguity that revels in its absurd, pulp-y, and confusingly thorny appeal. You began almost fearlessly while diving in between genres, at once a horror story and a satisfying satire that held a mirror up to society's narcissistic trappings. The show convinced its audience to root for an unquestionable monster while hopefully questioning why they were pulling for him, who was twisted into being the protagonist. And Joe's victims were largely insufferable, other than his love interest, Beck Elizabeth Lail, who he of course killed at the end of the season. Where does Joe go from there? To Los Angeles.
Sure, why not? Of course Joe who hates superficiality would punish himself by hiding in a city where everything disgusts him. He's the antithesis of a California guy, so LA's the absurdly perfect place for him to go grim while everything around him appears to be sunshiny bright. Naturally, he's doing this while muttering about Dostoyevsky's thoughts on self-flagellation and carrying a copy of The Big Sleep. Yes, this season is just as intentionally surface-literary as its predecessor, rolling around and pleasuring itself with pretentiousness and interwoven with old Hollywood metaphors. One of Joe's foes even squawks like Jay Gatsby, tossing around “old sport” as a term of faux endearment.
Beyond the glittery new setting, though, the most important question about the followup You season would be this: After last year's deranged outcome, does the series settle into the same stalker-formula, or manage to be markedly different?
I had some doubts after screening the first few episodes, but before long, the show's sophomore outing ends up being vastly different and wilder than the show's first go-round. Things start out uncompellingly slow with Joe attempting to mend his “broken heart” in LA and vowing to never fall in love again. Unsurprisingly, this does not go as planned. He grows obsessed with a new woman, an aspiring chef and reluctant heiress named Love Quinn Victoria Pedretti. And he still somehow possesses a glass container don't ask me how he can afford the contraption, it's as silly as him successfully running a book store in the digital age to hold people hostage. Obviously, he also kills again.
As bonkers as all of this would seem to someone who hasn't watched You, it initially feels too much like history is repeating itself and like the series is aiming to replicate what it did the first time, only with Joe going by a different name, Will.
After this lengthy warm-up, though, things fly off the rails, even by this show's standards. If you make it to that point, you'll again be as aghast as I am that you're unable to stop watching. In other words, season two begins as twisted comfort food for fans, but by midseason, it becomes clear that this is a whole new stalker ballgame. Perhaps the least crazy aspects include Joe being haunted by Beck's likeness and being tracked down by a previous ex, Candace Ambyr Childers, who's thirsting for revenge. Yet those old ghosts are no match for what the present holds for Joe.
SPOILER ALERT: If you are among the few who haven’t actually watched Netflix’s Tiger King docuseries, this review contains a lot of details about what goes down in the sad big cat saga.
With Netflix poised in the coming days to cash in and crank the base up a notch with more Tiger King, it's time to come out and say it: I hate the Red State porn that is the crash and burn of Joe Exotic
The initial seven episodes of this septic and shallow patchwork of trademark infringement, sex, guns, labor exploitation, song, drugs, mullets, betrayal, animal activism, revenge, and a lot of big cats may be much binged over these weeks of coronavirus lockdown, but that doesn't mean it's actually worth watching.
Now, I get it, I sound like I'm just a dour critic who hates anything that isn't prestige premium cable or aspirational. C'mon man, you want to say, Tiger King: Murder, Mayhem and Madness is just so unbelievable, I can't look away.
I respectfully disagree, and in fact, propose Tiger King isn't just bad, but dangerous in a divided America persistently looking to reduce the other side to caricature.
In a presently ailing nation where TV is more voluminous and vital than ever, the truth is the March 20 launched Tiger King is a clawed white trash misery index. Gawking at some clearly fragile and damaged people like would-be reality TV star Exotic and their below the Mason-Dixon line antics, the series subsequently provides a cultural circus for those smug bicoastals under stay at home orders and screaming to rise up in moral superiority.
Essentially, the tale of big cat collector, self-styled Oklahoma zoo proprietor and 2016 Presidential candidate Exotic AKA Joseph Maldonado-Passage and his ultimately unsuccessful attempt to have rival Carole Baskin knocked off by a hitman hired for $3,000, Tiger King is in that context more a zero-sum game, literally and figuratively, than hitting the zeitgeist.
Obviously, Netflix are pretty damn good at gauging and dragging the public mood over the years, as the likes of the then phenomenon of 2015's Making A Murderer or 2018’s Wild Wild Country prove. Yet, for all the attention it has drawn, this unfocused murder for hire exploration of sorts emerges as a bastard child of Cops, a million Dateline segments from the 1990s and Fox’s short-lived Murder in Small Town X reality show from 2001.
Not exactly the prestige product that the home of Roma, The Irishman and American Factory likes to brag about at award shows. Then again, with the knowledge that the Romans sold out the Colosseum every night feeding Christians to the lions, the bottom line based House of Hastings surely loves the subscription sign up that the currently incarcerated Maldonado-Passage and the accompanying motley gaggle of...