Amazingly, Daredevil has joined Mad Men, The Affair, and Outlander in the pantheon of television shows that accurately convey the feeling of what my friend and favorite cultural critic Alyssa Rosenberg once described as “fuck fever”—an all-consuming lust so strong an actual human connection forms around it. Watching young Matt and Elektra together, or hearing them jokingly describe a future when they’re married with children whom they blow off in order to “spend our time doing better things…like sex,” you can see how sex really is enough fuel to sustain a relationship, even a serious one—at least until Elektra’s sociopathy intervenes and brings Matt to the brink of killing someone.
That Indian restaurant with the lights and mirrors is either the same cheapo place on 6th St. where I ate a million times, or a good recreation of it— notable for being about five feet wide. Had a good lime pickle.
You might have enjoyed Jessica Jones more if, like me, you had recognized the club where she and Luke have the big fight as being the Orensanz Center on Norfolk St. next door to where I used to live, which was the worst next-door neighbor in the world, constantly renting out their cool old very not soundproof former synagogue space for private parties and music video shoots at 3 fucking a.m. on weeknights… meaning that as soon as they started throwing each other through walls, I was rooting for them to destroy the whole building.
That was more italics than I intended, but you get the idea.