All that being said, I think Clarice’s heart was mostly in the right place — that place being the extraordinary lead performance of Rebecca Breeds as the title character. Her Clarice Starling is a rare thing indeed, a cop character with deep psychological wounds who never once uses them as an excuse to cut moral corners. If anything, they drive her to become more stringent, more empathetic, and more compelling as a protagonist. Whatever problems I had with the show’s denouement don’t outweigh my disappointment that we’re unlikely to see more of it.

I reviewed the season, and unfortunately series, finale of Clarice for Vulture. I’m sorry to see it go.

There’s something about the sight of a gaggle of FBI agents standing around looking at a painting like students at an art critique that tickles the funny bone — for me, anyway. Crime-scene photos? Conspiracy walls? Evil Big Pharma execs giving press conferences before getting perp-walked? That’s the kind of stuff you’re used to seeing the Feds gawk at. Somebody’s commissioned modern-art masterpiece? It feels like someone’s pulling a prank. Which, in effect, somebody is.

I reviewed the penultimate episode of Clarice for Vulture.

With two episodes to go, and thankfully no more weeks-long breaks between them, Clarice is closer than ever to its core mysteries’ denouements. I don’t know that we’ll get anything as transcendent as The Silence of the Lambs’ riveting closing act. But what we’re getting — especially with Rebecca Breeds’s fantastic performance at the center of it all—is reason enough to keep watching until the case is closed.

I reviewed this week’s episode of Clarice for Vulture.

“Everybody thinks it’s cool or funny,” Catherine Martin says of the serial-killer phenomenon. “These monsters, they leave human beings behind — like you and me.” She’s saying all this to the mother of the serial killer who nearly made her one of his victims, but she could just as well be saying it to the audience of Clarice. From the start, the show has steadily steered away from the sort of supervillain glamour that gets attached to serial murderers in the public consciousness. Buffalo Bill is just an asshole who dies coughing up his own blood on the basement floor in flashback after flashback; Hannibal Lecter isn’t even mentioned by name. That last bit is legally mandated, of course, but from this episode, you almost get the sense that Clarice might have kept him at a distance anyway. This is less a show about the evil that men do than it is about the trauma left in their wake.

I reviewed the tenth episode of Clarice for Vulture.

The third episode of the new podcast on television from myself and Gretchen Felker-Martin is on the best fight scene ever filmed, the street fight from season three of Deadwood. It’s available at the link or wherever you get your podcasts!

The second episode of the new podcast on television from myself and Gretchen Felker-Martin is about the explosive finale of Breaking Bad Season 2. It’s available at the link or wherever you get your podcasts!

Mare of Easttown may ultimately go down in history, for me anyway, as “the one where Kate Winslet did a Philly accent,” the same way that a previous prestige-procedural like the acclaimed The Night Of is “the one where John Turturro puts ointment on his feet.” Deliberately de-glamorizing character bits like those will do that sometimes. (Her work has been excellent throughout regardless.) There are some weird lacunae in this episode, too—like, couldn’t it have found the time to catch up with Kenny, the father of the slain girl, to see how he took the news about the identities of Erin’s abuser and killer? What kind of teenager has a physical hard copy of an incriminating photo in the year of our digital Lord 2021? Did Mare really “need” to arrest Ryan, or was this grim bit of symmetry—having lost her son, she now takes away her best friend’s—unnecessary and cruel, just as Lori said, with the show counting on our faith in the institution of policing to carry the weight? And the final shot of Mare going up the attic stairs to confront her grief over her late son Kevin looked a bit more Hereditary-style spooky than it was probably supposed to; one last not-quite-right move from a show that made plenty of them.

That’s a lot of caveats, I know. But in this episode, at least, the series left me feeling moved, rather than ripped off. Folks, I’ll take it.

I reviewed the finale of Mare of Easttown for Decider.

With one episode to go, many mysteries remain. What was in that piece of paper or photograph that Erin’s beleaguered friend Jess showed to the Chief of Police? Why was it urgent for him to get in touch with Mare immediately thereafter? Why is there a gun in the Ross brothers’ tackle box, and who plans to use it on whom? Why the hell did the show confuse the whole issue by giving their cousin Kenny—not brother, all previous appearances to the contrary—a different last name? Why is the murder-mystery event of the season, stacked top to bottom with talent, so frustrating to watch?

I reviewed the sixth episode of Mare of Easttown for Decider.

And in the end, The Underground Railroad‘s titular, fictional, fantastical version of the real world’s underground network wound up being a bit player in its own story. Cora is transported from place to place by the Railroad and its offshoots several times, yes. But the story is found in the crimes that drive her from one destination to the next, always seeking safe harbor, finding nothing but an uncertain future—a hopeful one, yes, especially compared to where she’s come from and where she’s been, but still an uncertain one. We know now, decades and decades after Cora’s story, that there really is no safe harbor from the horrors of American racism—not in St. Louis, not in California (ask Them about that one), not in any given place.

No, to the extent that a better place exists, it’s in the uncertain hopes of people, people like Cora and Polly then and everyone involved struggling against what the late, unlamented Arnold Ridgeway referred to as “The American Imperative” today. “Are you kind, mister?” Cora asks Ollie when she approaches his wagon. “Most times, yes,” he says, before adding “Of course, like anybody, I falters, of course.” Of course, of course—he repeats it for emphasis, taking it as a given that no one can be their ideal self all the time, not in this world. But you can try, damn it. You can try.

I reviewed the finale of The Underground Railroad for Decider.

“You shoulda let ’em win a little,” Judge Payton tells the man named Mingo after their poker game with the local worthies has concluded in The Underground Railroad Episode 9. “Wouldn’t hurt not to parade around how as-good-as-white-men you are every chance you get.”

“But I am, Payton” Mingo insists, every syllable weighed with a lifetime of frustration and fury over not being able to convince people of this simple fact. “But I am.”

I reviewed the penultimate episode of The Underground Railroad for Decider.

What follows her trip to the Ghost Tunnel is, essentially, a dream version of the same excursion. In Cora’s dream, she descends the Tunnel’s long rope ladder and winds up in a truly palatial Underground Railroad station packed with Black travelers of all kinds. But the ticket agent says she can’t move Cora along until her testimony checks out, a potential problem since she hasn’t offered testimony in Indiana. “Did you really tell your truth?” the agent asks; Cora has nothing to say in response.

The tension mounts courtesy of some incredible sound design, which makes this mysterious mega-station—whether it is above or below ground “depends on where you’re coming from,” says a conductor—sound like it’s constantly inhaling and exhaling, with a crying baby thrown in for good measure. Cora exits and finds herself in the run-down house in the forest where the hatch is from; she reenters and everyone is staring at her as she walks her way to a reunion with her lost friend Caesar. They dance together, quoting their own romantic banter from several episodes earlier. They cry. This is not the surreal logic of a Mad Men or Sopranos fever dream; it’s a straightforward longing for something that can no longer be had.

I reviewed the eighth episode of The Underground Railroad for Decider.

Well, that was a relief.

Clocking in at just over 16 minutes, not counting the closing credits—that’s slightly longer than an installment of, like, Teen Titans Go! or Tim & Eric Awesome Show, Great Job!—The Underground Railroad Episode 7 rockets right by, taking us from tragedy to triumph in record time. Titled “Chapter 7: Fanny Briggs” after its main character, whom we’ve already met under another name, it’s a rare moment of elation in this relentlessly, appropriately grim series.

I reviewed the seventh, short, structurally bold episode of The Underground Railroad for Decider. More shows should do stuff like this.

From the moment Arnold Ridgeway takes out a flask and begins drinking whiskey from it, you know he’s in strange territory. Not literally, not at all—he’s returned to his family home for one last attempt at rapprochement with his dying father, “rapprochement” in this case meaning “my dad owes me an apology.” The strangeness is all in his demeanor, which takes a sudden turn for the fearful, the petulant, the anxious and uncertain—a far cry from his nearly supernatural implacability up until that point. “So Arnold Ridgeway is human after all,” Cora says after finding out the nature of their visit. He’s not a good human, but yes, something like that.

This episode of The Underground Railroad (“Chapter Six: Tennessee: Proverbs”) is essentially one drawn-out drunk for Ridgeway, who is absolutely hammered by the time he witnesses his father breathe his last breath. In one particularly galling scene, he drags Cora to a nearby saloon—in chains—for a meal and a drink, though in his case “a drink” means “an entire bottle.” He waxes philosophical and patriotic about Manifest Destiny and the American spirit—”The only ‘Spirit’ worth its salt,” he says, compared to the Great Spirit that his father borrowed from indigenous religious beliefs. The American spirit, he says, is a call to the people of the Old World to come to the New civilize the land, and either “lift up, subjugate, [or] exterminate, eliminate” the other peoples they encounter. “The American Imperative,” he calls this last bit. Even a broken clock tells the right time twice a day.

I reviewed the sixth episode of The Underground Railroad for Decider.

Throughout it all, Barry Jenkins’s camera makes slow pilgrimages from one end of a given scene to the next, like it too has been enlisted in Ridgeway’s grim procession. The ruined vistas it captures are stunning in their own bleak way. The camera also captures some characters looking directly at us, like Cora when she speaks aloud to her absent mother and Lovey and Caesar, or Ridgeway Senior when he glares at (presumably) his detestable son in the vision Cora conjures of their eventual pointless reunion. It is hard to meet their gaze.

I reviewed episode 5 of The Underground Railroad for Decider.

As I said last week, tonal shifts of the sort Mare is attempting require a strong, almost singular creative mind behind them. I’ve seen no evidence thus far that either creator and writer Brad Ingelsby or director Craig Zobel have what it takes to pull it off. Rather, the show comes off as determined to cut its serious material off at the knees with cheap twists and bad comedy, while the lighter material plays on as if oblivious to the steadily mounting pile of abused and murdered bodies.

I reviewed this week’s episode of Mare of Easttown for Decider.

And so, without a stable ethical foundation to stand on, the whole thing teeters and wobbles on the verge of collapse. There’s just no way to have, say, the slapstick teen sex comedy of Siobhan’s situation and Helen’s whack on the noggin on the one hand and the Silence of the Lambs–style abduction of women on the other and make them both work without that foundation. You can’t portray, for example, Mare’s continued presence in the investigation from which she’s been barred like it’s simple dogged detective work when she’s also keeping huge secrets from her own partner (who, I remind you, has also asked her out). For god’s sake, you can’t have Mare balancing multiple suitors and make it cute while she’s been suspended from the force for a fucking felony that’s getting swept under the rug!

I reviewed the baffling fourth episode of Mare of Easttown for Decider.

In reviewing the premiere of The Underground Railroad, the word “dystopia” came up as a description of the slave state of Georgia—an attempt to apply this powerful fictional designation to the very real nightmare regime of American slavery. In reviewing the second, the word’s opposite, “utopia,” was used to in describe the illusory nature of South Carolina’s genteel “betterment” policies for its Black residents, all of whom still live and thrive only at the pleasure of their patronizing white overlords.

What I didn’t count on is for The Underground Railroad to traffic in out-and-out, alternate-history dystopianism. That’s what Cora finds when the Railroad runs into a roadblock, stranding her in North Carolina. There’s no betterment here. There’s not even slavery. There’s genocide.

I reviewed episode three of The Underground Railroad for Decider.

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before: When Sir Thomas More coined the term utopia, he did so as a pun. Spelled eutopia, from the Ancient Greek, it means “good place,” which is how the term functions in fantastical literature—utopia as ideal society. But spelled utopia, which is the version More emphasized, it translates rather to “no place.” By definition, then, the ideal society cannot exist.

Griffin, South Carolina seems like a utopia in the eu sense, at least at a glance. By the time The Underground Railroad arrives there for its second episode (“Chapter 2: South Carolina”), our heroes Cora and Caesar have been safely ensconced there for some time. In this semi-integrated town, dominated by its futuristic “skyscraper,” Black people are not enslaved, but free—again, at least at a glance.

I reviewed the second episode of The Underground Railroad for Decider.

Of course, that kind of underground railroad is a fantasy, and that’s the simple genius of novelist Colson Whitehead’s original idea. Why not take the reality and make it a fantasy? Why not concretize the journey of slaves to freedom by creating a locomotive that literally operates underground? Genre stories use fantastical and spectacular ideas and images to communicate powerful ideas and emotions in a visual vocabulary that matches their power. The idea of an actual steam-powered underground railroad—well, it puts the status-quo-smashing “punk” back into “steampunk.”

And by taking on directorial duties for all ten episodes, Jenkins—who also wrote the episode—instantly joins a select company of Academy Award–winning filmmakers helming entire seasons of television, right alongside David Lynch and Steven Soderbergh. If this episode (“Chapter 1: Georgia”) is any indication, Jenkins, like his predecessors, will be making no qualitative distinction between the two cinematic mediums. His camera is calm, cool, and collected, allowing the inhumane drama of the plantation to play out in unsparing long takes. It’s a stylistic choice that makes sense, since so much of that drama is a matter of people being made to bear witness to atrocity. The camera won’t let us look away, either. And when the viewpoint does shift, most memorably letting us—or forcing us to—look through the eyes of the lynched slave as he burns to death, the impact is all the stronger. The surreal, staccato editing of the episode’s opening moments also stand out by comparison.

I’ll be covering Barry Jenkins’s strong new series The Underground Railroad for Decider, starting with my review of the series premiere.

Which brings us back to The Silence of the Lambs, the still-controversial masterpiece from which Clarice springs, and the legacy of transphobia that emerged in its wake. People understandably focus on the scene in which the serial killer Buffalo Bill puts on his makeup and tucks in front of the mirror — but that’s not the real Bill, just a self-aggrandizing fantasy. No, the real Bill comes out when he’s taunting Catherine Martin by mocking her screams in the bottom of that well, pulling at his shirt to mimic having breasts in a cruel pantomime of womanhood, one meant to insult and injure. (I mean, in that tucking scene, he is wearing a dead woman’s scalp as a wig.) As both Hannibal Lecter and Clarice herself say in The Silence of the Lambs, Bill isn’t trans. He’s just a dime-a-dozen misogynist, killing women because he hates and resents them, not because he is one himself.

But within the world of Clarice, the discourse around Bill’s crimes is no more nuanced than the one around The Silence of the Lambs was when it came out 30 years ago. Transphobic shitheads are always going to use Bill as a cudgel; given that Clarice is built around Bill much more so than around even Hannibal the Cannibal, it behooves the show to address this head-on. Giving voice to these concerns, hiring a trans actress to play a trans woman in order to articulate them, making the point that the silences (pun almost certainly intended) around Bill and his place in popular culture are as damaging in their own way as an affirmative assertion of his illusory trans-ness would have been — these are worthwhile moves to have made.

I reviewed last night’s episode of Clarice for Vulture.