MSochist

[5.9/10] I like Princess as a character, and I have since she showed up. I’m intrigued by the advent of this stormtrooper group, especially the hints we get about who they are and what they’re protecting. And I think Paola Lazara gives a good performance here, especially considering she is the anchor of the episode and the character necessarily comes with a lot of tics.

But good god, I am so so so so so tired of the “It was all in the character’s head” twist. It became played out at least a decade ago, and unless someone has a genuinely new spin on it, I wish storytellers would just retire it, because it’s lost all cultural currency and impact. It drains “Splinter” of any emotional impact, since the hoops the show has to jump through to make the situation work just leave a ton of interactions feeling awkward or speech-y.

The best I can say is that maybe the show wants the audience to know early, considering we never see Yumiko, and I started having my suspicions there. It’s a little bit better if the show isn’t trying to pull the wool over the audience’s eyes. But it doesn’t play that way. It plays like it’s supposed to be a dramatic reveal, for both Princess and the viewer, and it made me roll my eyes hard rather than give the “whoa!” reaction the show seemed to be going for.

At the same time, the delivery and execution of Princess’s backstory felt pretty rote. There’s power in the idea of someone with a history of parental abuse, anxiety coping mechanisms, and trouble feeling secure in friendships and found families because of it. But “Splinter” only plays the loudest, most obvious tropes in that regard, and it does a disservice to both the character and the idea.

The theme is also pretty trite here -- the usual “You can trust people, don’t give into despair, there’s good folks out there worth fighting for” which we’ve done dozens of times and dozens of ways on The Walking Dead. Hell, we’ve even done it in the form of hallucinations before. There’s not much new to it, which isn’t this episode’s fault, but makes the central message feel just as tired as the Durden-esque twist is.

That said, I’m still intrigued as to what the deal with the stormtroopers is, and I still think there’s a lot of potential in Princess as a character, so hopefully this is just a temporary bump in the road and the show realizes the potential of both going forward.

8.3/10. There's been a lot of death, unsurprisingly, on a show called The Walking Dead. We've seen folks in the series take out hordes of zombies, roving marauders, and even their own as a bloody kindness when necessary. But very very rarely are our heroes the aggressors.

That's what made "Not Tomorrow Yet" so interesting and so novel for a series already in its sixth season. Many episodes of the show examine the morality of killing--when it's justified, what makes it a sin, and how those things change after civilization falls--but it's never shown the show's main characters engaging in what amounts to a preemptive strike before.

It is, in a word, kind of uncomfortable, kind of troubling, even when on paper it makes sense, even when you're on the side of the people doing the killing. I think it's meant to be. The Walking Dead has paid lipservice to the moral gray areas that emerge when balancing life and death in something approaching a state of nature, but rarely has it confronted these ideas so directly.

It's telling that the closest thing to a preemptive strike of the kind that Rick & Co. unleash on The Saviors was The Governor's assault on The Prison in Season's 3 "Home". Even then, Rick's group had snuck into Woodbury and gotten into a firefight with his men. (Though it could be argued that Daryl, Sasha, and Abraham's run-in with Negan's group in "No Way Out" is a similar justification.) There, it's portrayed as cowardly, as cruel, as something that makes Andrea begin to doubt the goodness of her companion.

And yet here, it's Rick's group attacking without real provocation. It's Rick giving the speech to his band of survivors that they need to strike before a potential rival decides to strike at them first. It's Rick who startles Heath with how brutal he can be. It's our heroes who put together a surprise attack on a group of people they've never even met, let alone talked to.

It's harrowing, both from an ethical standpoint and a purely visceral one. I've often said that The Walking Dead tells stories better with images than with words, and the show lived up to that branding tonight in the tightly shot-and-edited sequences at The Saviors' compound. There was tension in the moment where Andy stood anxiously in front of the two Savior guards as they examined the faux-head of Gregory, before it deflated with the dark comedy of a one guard using a severed head as a puppet. (Despite the ethical conundrums and heavy thematic material, there was a surprising amount of solid comedy to the episode, in moments like this and in the awkward humor of Eugene asking Rosita about Carol's cookies at a very bad time.)

But from that moment on, Rick's crew moved with precision through the compound in crackerjack sequences that showed how scarily effective they had become in their seek and destroy mission. Director Greg Nicotero does a masterful job; there's a tremendous pacing to this part of the episode, that never loses the tension in the mostly one-sided fight, while still finding time to let the audience breathe between big moments and show the surprises and escalation of the conflict.

That part of the episode also includes the most striking scene of "Not Tomorrow Yet". In a wordless sequence, Glenn and Heath enter a room where two of the Saviors lie sleeping. Glenn kneels over one of them, holds his knife aloft, tears up, struggles, but eventually plunges his weapon into his erstwhile enemy. Then, although Glenn's clearly devastated by what he's done; he stops Heath from doing the same to the other man sleeping in that room, with the implication that after the pair's conversation about killing another human being while on the hunt for a Gregory lookalike, he wants to spare Heath the the pain, the stain on the soul, that Glenn himself just endured, even if it means doubling down on committing the grisly dead himself.

It's a powerful scene, one of the most captivating and poignant of the entire series. In truth, there are plausibility problems with it, It strains credulity that Glenn and Heath wouldn't wake up their prey when entering the room no matter how quiet they were tried to be; Glenn would presumably have to use much greater force to stab his targets, and the fact that the men died instantly without a sound has no basis in reality. But as I've said before, The Walking Dead is a show that runs theme rather than verisimilitude, and the performances of Steven Yeun and Corey Hawkins are so impressive, and the direction of the scene so well done, that it hardly matters, especially in the moment.

That one scene sums up the entire thorny ethical territory the show explores in "Not Tomorrow Yet." I recently wrote about how The Hateful Eight examines the idea of when lethal force is justified, and how that idea changes based on what team or tribe you're on, and this episode dives into similar thematic material. Our heroes seem more like butchers that warriors. We've seen Rick and his crew kill before, but almost always in self defense, always in the heat of battle. Killing a man in his sleep, a man who's done nothing to you, who simply poses a future threat, feels different, feels wrong. It clearly disturbs Glenn in that moment and gives him pause about the path that Rick so confidently sets his band of merry men on.

Suddenly it hits you -- beyond what they've heard from a group of people our heroes barely know (who are, it should be noted) led by an unsavory prick and guided by a man who stole from Rick and Daryl), Glenn and the rest of his compatriots have little basis to know that these people are really bad. Lying there, motionless on their beds, they just seem like survivors, same as anyone. At best, there are two sides to every story, and Rick and Maggie only got half of it, but their needs and the needs of the people they protect make it enough for them to kill unprovoked, to kill by a much less direct form of necessity than the kind that normally motivates the lead characters in this show.

But the episode still muddies the water further from there. After Glenn pains himself to kill the two Saviors they find in that room, he looks up and the camera pans across the sleeping man's collection of photos of people and/or walkers he's apparently shot or bashed through the head. It's morbid, and it speaks poorly of the character of the man that Glenn just killed, but I don't think it's meant to make the audience see the death as deserved. Instead, it's meant to underscore the complexity of the ethical choice here. The way that the folks from the Hilltop paint a picture of The Saviors makes the killing seem righteous, but the manner of it, the defenselessness of their enemies, makes it feel wrong. And yet, those gruesome photos, which imply the harshness of these men who died at Glenn's hand, suggests that as disquieting, maybe even unjust, as these kills feel, they may yet be for the greater good. You just don't know. Things are not as simple as pure right and wrong, and that just makes what it takes to survive in the next world all the harder.

And Carol, who is conflicted in her role in this assault, is on the other side of this moral quandary. She too has become scarily effective at killing at is feeling the weight of that, of the lives lost on her ledger. The show has been setting up this inner conflict for Carol since the beginning of the season, and it serves that conflict well.

From the cold open (which have been some of the best parts of The Walking Dead lately) that depicts Carol attempting to reestablish her shrinking violet bona fides with the community with some Macgyver'd cookies, only to offer a bit of penance for the dead young boy whom she frightened, "Not Tomorrow Yet" plays up the fact that Carol is having trouble dealing with the number of names she writes in the journal of people she's killed.

I wish I could unpack her sweet, earnest, human scene with Tobin as well as it warrants, but for now all I can do is say that Carol has been a paragon of unexpected strength for a long time now. Tobin recognizes that, he sees through the facade of the diffident homemaker, and respects what Carol is capable of. He calls her a mom not as something meant to minimize her, but as an honorific, as a term that means she's the kind of person who protects people, who does the scary stuff so that the people who can't handle it don't have to.

The implication is that she stands parallel to the soon-to-be father Glenn, who stabs one of the Saviors so that Heath won't have to. What Carol has done is a burden; this episode makes that clear. But at the same time, it is a mitzvah, to protect people, to take on the challenging, unpleasant, perhaps even unholy deeds that need doing so that others need not face them.

There's subtext to the scene that's hung in the background of the series for several years now. Carol couldn't do those things; she wasn't strong enough; she didn't know how to survive in this new world, and feels like she couldn't protect Sofia from it. She felt it was a mistake she had to correct for, to become capable, to teach the children of the prison how to defend themselves, to kill without hesitation to defend the people incapable of making that choice.

But it wears her down, weighs on her, the sense of the blood on her hands. She's still trying to protect people, allowing herself a moment of quiet comfort with Tobin, or staying back to look after Maggie, a mother-to-be thrust into a dangerous situation. Carol has become a killer, the kind that aligns with Rick's speech about doing what's necessary to survive. But she's been deeper into that mindset than the rest of them, and it's dragging her down, making it harder for her to go on and make peace with the acts a harsh world requires. In an episode that explores the murky waters of when a kill is right, when it's wrong, and when regardless of that inquiry, when it hurts the soul of human being to commit even necessary, lethal acts, Carol is ahead of the curve, and finds that those choices, and the certainty and necessity that seemed to motivate them, leave her wondering how she can live in the face of all the people who have died.

It’s safe to say that I'm obsessed with Arcane.

From countless reaction and analysis/breakdown videos to unhealthy fanart consumption, there aren't many shows in existence that elicit this kind of response from me.

One of my most anticipated shows of 2021 turns out to be absolutely fucking incredible in nearly every way. I imagine some people had concerns or pessimism because of the well-known curse of videogame adaptations, with them being shit or forgettably average most of the time. In my case, I chose to remain cautiously optimistic and it looks like I chose right.

The setting and intoxicating atmosphere are complemented by Arcane's art style, the story is great, the music is wonderful, and the animation is LITERALLY flawless. When people mention "every frame a painting" when describing cinematography, they will now be able to pull any frame from Arcane and hang it on a wall, It’s that beautiful.

There are very few shows I could confidently call a Masterpiece on this planet, especially since most of the things I see rarely score above a 6 or 7, but Arcane is easily a Top 5 tv show nearly but not quite edging out Avatar: The Last Airbender (which is a big deal because that's my #1) and solidifying itself as the best animated anything I've ever had the blessing of seeing.

It will be a herculean task to top anything done in this season and while I pity the staff knowing the pressure they must feel on accomplishing just that, I have every confidence that Riot Games and Fortiche Production will be able to do it and do it well, if not better.

I'm autistic. Attack on Titan has been my hyperfixation more often than any other piece of media in my life. I started watching a little late, entering in when the first part of the final season was out. But Attack on Titan is one of the most masterful, well-plotted, intricate pieces of fiction that I've ever seen. Analyzing it's mysteries and story, it's characters and world, it's message and symbolism. Nothing even comes close to Attack on Titan for me in that regard.
I unfortunately have been spoiled on many parts of the ending, because manga readers are the most insufferable people ever. But even still, it is an excellent conclusion, and I think it's so interesting how it decides to leave it's ending open to interpretation. It reflects how the entire series has been a series of questions and mysteries, so leaving with some questions left unanswered allows for discussion to be continued long after Eren's story is over.
I will forever love Attack on Titan, and the absolute joy it gave me for years, and it will be sad to see this legendary series go. But all good things must come to an end, and I think this ending is satisfying enough for something so special.

Truly interesting premise and the execution is almost great. I really appreciate the deep dive into psychosis the series boasts, the subtle turnover from sane to "undone." It's a well written turn many other writers should see.

However, I take issue with the ending of this season. Cliffhangers are tricky. They have to be done just right. But what makes them particularly difficult with shows like this is they must balance not only the literal payoff, but also the emotional and metaphoric weight of the show. And here is where Undone lost me. Purdy and Bob-Waksberg spend the entire season carefully crafting the subtle and nuanced switch from believing in Alma's ability to seeing her on the verge of a break in desperate need of professional help. The emotional arc here is beautiful and satisfying. It shows how slowly, naturally, and easily illness approaches. How much easier it is to believe in the fantastic than the reality, because here it stems from an unwillingness to process trauma and pain. It's relatable. But it also boasts extremely good character arcs from the supporting characters, primarily Camilla and Becca--but not really because they change. The arc is in how Alma (and, in turn, the audience) perceive them. They shift from overbearing and borderline insufferable, to compassionate (even if they perhaps could learn to express it better). The writers have put an extremely careful eye to developing the arc and it works.

But then comes the cliffhanger ending: is Alma actually schizophrenic? Is her father going to walk out of the cave? The answer, of course, needs to be no. If he does, there are more issues that arise than are solved. I suppose none of these are so big that couldn't be wrapped up with another season's worth of content, but I'd argue that another season will actually diminish the impact of the one that already exists. It feels as though we could be heading to a retread of the same arcs we've already seen. It might not happen though. Purdy and Bob-Waksberg have proven their writing mettle over numerous years of excellence on Bojack. But it does make me nervous. Particularly considering that indulging Alma's illness could have problematic implications similar to those presented by Legion's depiction of mental illness.

But on a completely subjective level, I just felt like the writing had so brilliantly shifted to showcasing Alma's mental state as the series is titled. A cliffhanger undermines this for what, to me, feels like nothing more than a just kidding... unless?

[9.5/10] If there has been one thing consistent about Aang from the beginning, it’s that he follows his own path. From the minute we met him and he was more interested in riding penguins than showing spiritual reserve, it was clear that this was an Avatar who did not fit the mold. There was a uniqueness to him, a purity, that belied the chosen one bearing he had to carry.

That’s what stands out in Avatar: The Last Airbender’s wide-ranging, epic, moving finale. More than the moral turmoil that Aang had experienced in the last few episodes, more than the massive battle between the forces of good and the comet-fueled Fire Nation, there is a young man, making a choice because it’s what feels right to him, what feels true, and it is that trust in himself, that commitment to being who he is, that sees him through.

What is almost as impressive about the final two episodes of A:tLA, which essentially constitute one massive climax for the whole series, is how they manage to give almost every notable figure in the series something meaningful and dramatic to do. The episode truly earns the epic quality of its final frame, whether it’s focusing on the Order of the White Lotus retaking Ba Sing Se; Sokka, Toph, and Suki trying to sabotage the Fire Nation air fleet; Zuko and Katara confronting Azula; or Aang having his showdown with Ozai. The combination of all these great battle, all these profound and grand moments, make for an endlessly thrilling, dramatic finish for this great series.

The siege of Ba Sing Se mostly serves as a series of fist pumps for the viewer, getting to watch these trained masters face their foes with ease. Like the rest of the episode, it shows off the visual virtuosity as the series pulls out all the stops for its final battle. Jeong Jeong redirects fire with awesome force. Bumi launches tanks like play things with his earthbending. Pakku washes away enemies with a might tidal wave, and Piando slides on the frozen path over the wall, slashing away at Fire Nation soldiers all the while.

And Iroh? Iroh breathes in the power of Sozin’s comet. He creates a fireball that bowls through the walls of the famed city. He burns away the Fire Nation banner that hangs over the palace. It is a sign that for as much as A:tLA is a story of the last generation letting down the next one, there are still members of the old guard there to fight for what’s right and make a stand for a better world.

That world is threatened by the Fire Nation Air Fleet. In truth, the cell-shaded CGI war balloons look a little dodgy. Something about the animation is a little too stilted, to where when the cinematography is cool, the computer-generated elements stick out like sore thumbs and hurt the immersion of the show. Nevertheless, there is something truly frightening about Ozai and company at the head of those ships, imbued with power by the comet, launching these fireballs and streams of flaming destruction down on the land below. It is a terrifying image that brings to mind footage from Vietnam of fire raining from above. As much as the cel-shading looks a little off, the imagery of the elemental powers used in the episode is awesome, in the original sense of the term, provoking terror and astonishment.

Thankfully we have our two favorite badass normal folks and the resident (and as far as we know) only metalbender to help destroy the fleet. It is a nice outing for Sokka, Toph, and Suki, who find a way to not only contribute to the great war effort, but to have moments of risk and drama where you wonder if they will make it out alive or not, featuring big damn hero moments for each of them.

It’s hard to even know where to begin. There is Toph launching the three of them onto the nearest ship, turning into a metal-coated knight, and neutralizing the command crew. There is the hilarious interlude where Sokka manages to lure the rank-and-file crewmen into the bombing bay with the promise of cakes and creams, with the lowly henchman making extremely funny small talk before being dumped in the bay. It’s nice that even in these heightened moments, the show has not forgotten its sense of humor.

But that humor quickly gives way to big risks and bravery from the trio. I appreciate that Sokka’s ingenuity gets one last chance to shine, when he’s inspired by Aang’s “air slice” and repositions the ship he’s piloting to cut through the rest of the fleet, downing as much of it as possible. That move, naturally, leads their vessel to go down itself, and the big escape separates him and Suki.

Still, Sokka and Toph are undeterred, and after some close shaves, Toph uses her metal-bending abilities to change the fin on another airship to send it into its neighbors. Again, it’s nice to see the show, even in this late hour, finding creative uses for its characters’ talents, which give each of them a chance to have a hand in saving the day. That includes Sokka and Toph finding themselves pursued by Fire Nation soldiers, and Sokka getting to use both his boomerang and his “space sword” one last time. And when despite having taken out their pursuers, it still looks like all is lost for the pair, there is Suki, having taken command of another airship, there to save them from their tenuous, dangling position.

It’s a superb series of sequences, one that manages to combine some incredible in-the-air action and combat with character moments that feel true to the people we’ve come to know over the course of the series. Toph still has her smart remarks; Suki still manages to be in the right place at the right time, and Sokka, far from shrinking from the moment as he feared after the invasion, employs the creative solutions to difficult problems that have become his trademark. It is a great tribute and final triumph for all three characters.

But they are not the only trio of Avatar characters who find themselves embroiled in combat on the day Sozin’s comet arrives. But far from the larger-than-life, heroic tones of the battle in the skies, the fight between Azula, Zuko, and Katara has an air of tragedy about it.

What’s impressive is how, so near the end of the series, A:tLA can make the audience feel for Azula, even as she is at her most deranged and dangerous. It is late in the day for a character study, and yet we delve into Azula’s broken psyche in a way that the show has only toyed with before. What’s revealed is scary, but also sad, the pained cries and last gasps of a young woman who never really had a chance, who was brought up by a tyrant like Ozai, rather than a kindly old man like Iroh, and it left her damaged and alone.

It also left her paranoid. One of the defining leitmotifs of Avatar: The Last Airbender is the way that Aang, despite being the chosen one, laden with a solitary destiny, has found strength in his connections to his friends, who sustain him in times of doubt and difficulty. The finale underscores the importance of that by contrasting how Azula alienates everything approaching an ally she has, and it leaves her not only vulnerable, but deeply suspicious, until she loses her grip on her own sanity.

That’s dramatized in the way she banishes a humble servant girl for daring to give her a cherry with a pit in it, in how she banishes the Dai Lee for fear that they will turn on her the way that she got them to turn on Long Feng, in her equally harsh banishment of her twin, elderly caretakers (or at least one of them), when they express concern for her well-being. Though Mai and Tai-Lee have only small roles to play in this episode, the force of their presence is felt in the way that their betrayal of Azula leads her to believe that everyone is a backstabber or turncoat in waiting, and that, poetically enough, becomes the source of her downfall, to where when the threat truly emerges, she has no one there to help and protect her.

And yet, that is not the deepest depth of her loneliness. In a particularly difficult moment, one where Azula has taken out her anger on her own hair, she sees an image of her mother in the mirror. It is a bridge too far, the ultimate pain that Azula has refused to confront, replaced with ambition and intimidation so as not to have to face it. But that vision represents a knowing part of Azula, one that understands how she’s succumbed to fear and paranoia, one that cannot help but feel the hurt of the belief that her own mother thinks she’s a monster, and one that knows despite that, her mother still loves her, something that makes that pain all the more unbearable.

It also makes her less capable, less focused, less ready to face her brother in a duel. Zuko sees the way that his sister is slipping, and is willing to face her alone in the hopes of sparing Katara since he believes he can win. Their fight is a beautiful and tragic one. The combination of Azula’s blue flame and Zuko’s red one echoes the red and blue dragons that reinvigorated Zuko and Aang’s firebending abilities, and which represented the conflicting sides of Zuko’s own psyche. The opposing forces swirl and twist in the field of battle.

But unlike the rest of the episode, this is not played as an epic confrontation. It is played as a moment of great sorrow. While the whirl of the fire blasts rings out and the structures around the siblings singe and crackle, wailing violins play. Azula cackles and cries out, her eyes wide, her smile crooked, her demeanor unhinged. Zuko is not simply conquering an enemy who has tormented him since he was a little boy; he is doing what he must do against someone who has everything, and yet has lost everything, including her mind.

That just makes Azula all the more dangerous, but that ends up making Zuko all the more noble. While Azula is wild and unsteady, Zuko is prepared, baiting his sister into trying to blast him with lightning in the hopes that he may redirect it and end this. Instead, Azula charges up her power and, at the last second, aims it a bystander Katara rather than her brother. The move throws off Zuko, and in the nick of time, he dives in front of the blast and absorbs the electricity to spare Katara. It is the last sign of his transformation, an indication of his willingness to sacrifice himself for one of the people he once attacked himself. It is a selfless gesture, and a desperate one, that shows how Zuko’s transformation is truly complete.

It also leaves Katara fighting a completely mad Azula all by herself. I must admit, I was mildly irked when Zuko cast Katara aside and intended to fight Azula solo, sidelining one of the show’s major figures, but I should have known better than to think the series would avoid giving her one of those vital moments of glory and bravery.

With a dearth of water in the Fire Kingdom capital, and Azula too crazed and unpredictable to fight straight up, Katara must also be creative. Her water blasts turn to steam against Azula’s electric fury. But Katara is as clever as she is talented, and in yet another inventive way to defeat the enemy, she lures Azula over a sewer grate where, just before Azula is able to launch a deadly attack, Katara raises the water and freezes the both of them in place.

Then, in a canny move, she nabs a nearby chain, uses her waterbending abilities to move through the ice, and confines her attacker so that she is incapable of doing any more damage. It is an imaginative way to end the fight, one that show’s Katara’s resourcefulness and gives her a much-deserved win. She heals Zuko, who has truly and fully earned her respect and admiration. Azula has only earned a bitter end – her manic screams devolve into sobs, the loss of so much, the crumbling security of who she was and what she was fading away, until all that is left is a pitiable, broken young woman.

Azula has been a one-note villain at points in the series, one whose evil seemed inborn and whose nature left her without some of the complexity that other figures in the series have possessed. But here, she becomes a tragic figure, one who has committed terrible deeds and who tries to commit more, but whose being raised to obtain power at all costs leaves her unable to enjoy or sustain the only thing she’s ever wanted, and utterly alone.

Aang, on the other hand, is trapped between two things that he wants very badly: to defeat Ozai in order to end this war and save the world, and also to avoid taking a life. Their confrontation lives up to the billing and hype it’s received over the course of the series. The mountainous range provides the perfect backdrop for their fight, with plenty of earth and water for Aang to summon as he combats the series’s big bad at a time when Ozai is infused with the tremendous power of the comet.

The two dart and dash across those jutting rocks, a furious ballet accented with mortal, elemental beauty. Ozai declares that Aang is weak, that he cannot defeat Ozai, particularly at the height of his powers, and despite the realization that this is not the kind of show where the hero fails in the final act, you fear for Aang, for what will be required of him in order to end this. This is, after all, not how this fight was supposed to happen. Aang was supposed to have mastered all four elements, to be Ozai’s equal, not a talented but inexperienced young upstart trying to best the man who has conquered the world.

So in a difficult moment, he retreats into a ball of rock that provides temporary but needed protection from Ozai’s assault. It calls to mind the big ball of ice that Aang retreated to a century ago, a safe haven when the weight of the world became too much for him, and he hid rather than rose to face it. It cements the possibility that Aang is not ready for this, that he was never ready for this, and for all the good intentions he may have, he will pay the ultimate price for that.

Instead, when Ozai penetrates the rock and sends Aang flying, he reaps more than he bargained for. The former Fire Lord’s blast shoots Aang into a nearby rock, and as a sharp point digs into the scar from where Azula nearly killed him at the end of Season 2, it triggers the Avatar state.

Aang emerges from the pile of rubble that the gloating Ozai approaches. Aang glows and speaks with a voice of thunder and fury. Ozai comes at the demigod with all his power but Aang slaps away his flaming blast with the back of his hand. The Avatar assembles the four elements, bringing them to bear against his opponent. He surrounds himself in a bubble of air; he summons earth, fire, and water in rings that surround him. He comes at Ozai with his full force, sending him reeling through rock and rubble, confining him with the land itself. Aang raises this swirl into a knife’s edge, driving it down into his prone opponent.

And then, once more, at the last minute, he stops. The whirl of elements turned into a lethal weapon evaporates into a harmless puddle. Aang stands, unable to do it. Even in the moment where he seems poised to fulfill his destiny, Aang cannot bring himself to snuff out a life in this world. It is against everything he believes in, everything he stands for. Ozai declares that even with all the power in the world, Aang is still weak, that his inability to do what must be done to his enemy renders him lesser.

It is then that Aang finds another way. He confines Ozai using the earth itself once more, rests his hands on Ozai’s persons, and begins to bend the energy itself. What ensues is a spiritual struggle, one that matches the confluence of red and blue that signified the two sides at war within Zuko. For a moment, it appears as though even in this, Ozai will triumph, that the red glowing embers that represent the cruel spirit of this awful man will overtake our hero. It’s rendered in beautiful hues, a burst of light erupting across a dark landscape.

But Aang is not to be overcome. The outpouring of pure blue light emanates from his body. He will not be moved, not be altered, not be changed. Instead, it is Ozai who falters, his ability to bend fire, his tool for committing all of this evil, is taken away from him. The threat is over; the war is done, and Aang has fulfilled his destiny, on his own terms.

There is release, a chance to reflect and take stock and enjoy the glow of having completed this difficult journey. Aang and Zuko speak to one another as Roku and Sozin once did – as friends. (Incidentally, the also confirm that the entire series took place within just a year, which seems kind of crazy.) They embrace, the two young men who were once bitter enemies now trusted allies. Mai and Tai Lee are released and seem to have new destinies themselves. Zuko credits The Avatar to a throng of people at his coronation as Fire Lord, and he is not surrounded by Fire Nation loyalists, but a balanced group of supporters from all nations, there to help rebuild the world. “The Phoenix King” promised to burn down the old world and make a new one from the ashes, and in a way, he has made good on his promise, albeit not in the way he intended.

There is such hope and catharsis in these last scenes. Aang is at peace, his mission complete, freed from the burden that created so much hardship over the past year. Zuko too is in a place of calm, having restored his honor and ascended to the throne, though not as the vicious ruler his father envisioned, but as the kind and noble man his uncle did, one ready to lead his people to a new era. After one hundred years of war and bloodshed, there is the hope that this new generation, one that has tried to cast off the scars and mistakes of the past, can make a new way forward.

We also get one last scene of Team Avatar as we knew them – simply enjoying one another’s company. Iroh plays music, the rest of the gang chats, and Sokka creates an embellished, mostly inaccurate drawing that he defends in his trademark way. This is a family – an unlikely one, filled with individuals collected from across the world from different backgrounds and temperament, but one that, through their shared vision and efforts and care for another, really did manage to save the world.

Aang gazes upon this scene lovingly as he walks out to see the new day and drink in the peace of his surroundings. Katara follows him, and in a wordless scene, with the glow of golden clouds behind them, the two embrace, and then kiss.

It’s the one scene in this finale that I do not care for. As I’ve said before, despite Aang’s crush, the chemistry between him and Katara always felt more friendly, even motherly, than romantic, a childlike crush Aang would need to one day move past than the trappings of true romantic love. It sends the series out on something of a false note, albeit one that the show has teased many times over the course of its run.

Still, it represents the larger idea of the episode – that even with the weight of the world on his shoulders, Aang chooses his own path, one true to who he is and what he believes. I’ve expressed my skepticism about his unwillingness to take Ozai’s life, but however foolhardy it may seem at times, it is a reflection of the young man who never seemed like the Avatar he was supposed to be, who instead, forged his own way. That way was often off-beat, confused, and at times, well-meaning but foolish, but it was always a moral one, and more to the point, one that reflected the unique attitudes of the young man who carried them.

He chose to run rather than be sent on his Avatar training. He chose to fight rather than sever his connection to the people he cared about. And he chose to find another way rather than violate his personal, ethical code against killing another human being. In the end, he became his own sort of Avatar, one that did not simply accede to the will of destiny or expectation and tradition but instead made his own way without sacrificing the purity of his spirit or his convictions. There is something admirable, something true in that, and it makes for a satisfying finish to this incredible series.

Avatar: The Last Airbender truly deserves that superlative. Though the series took some time to find its voice, eventually it would flesh out an incredible world, filled with well-developed characters, a deep, generational lore, and a core cast who grew more multi-dimensional and complex as it progressed. The show deserves to take its place among the great stories of chosen ones, the stellar, epic tales that offer hardship and hope, struggle and success, tragedy and triumph. With an attention to detail and character that made those larger-than-life events meaningful, it captures an amazing journey. The series is the story of a collection of young people, amid a war and a struggle they are not quite ready for, renewing the promises that this world can offer and discovering who they are in the process. In that, they returned harmony to the four nations, and to one another, and that’s what makes A:tLA so great.

[4.8/10] Well, that was dumb. I don’t want to pretend The Walking Dead was in anything but an impossible position at this point. The final eight episodes of the Commonwealth arc have been a dud, and there was almost certainly no saving it at the eleventh hour. Many of the important people from the show’s inception are gone, but not dead, and even more are committed to other projects, so it’s hard to put a period at the end of the series. This would be an uphill climb under the best of circumstances.

But it was also a bad finale. Oh my god, the preponderance of on-the-nose speeches at all too convenient times was just too much. The show’s themes haven't exactly been subtle to this point, but this takes the cake. We absolutely do not need Judith yelling “It’s never too late!” at Pamela in a scene that was pretty bizarre and underbaked to start.

For this part, Daryl’s never been big on speeches. He does better with quiet, intimate scenes as a man of few words. Having him shout out, “Your problem is that you tried to make this like the old world!” feels awkward coming from him and lays everything on much too thick. Pretty much everything does.

I said it last week. It’s just so hard to care about this anymore. There’s a raft of storylines and few of them have satisfying endings. THe Commonwealth is supposed to be a war zone, with a confluence of shock troopers and walkers running around like mad. But nobody seems terribly bothered. THere’s plenty of downtime and our heroes are able to hole up, rest, and recharge without even the minor threat of zombies or foes messing up their spot.

The conflict with Pamela is solved...with a couple of speeches, which are somehow enough to persuade everybody who matters that this was wrong and arrest Pamela. Oh yeah, and the walker infestation? It’s not even a thing. We’re just going to play “Cult of Personality” and blow them all up via some of the least convincing CGI you’ve seen from a major television show.

Everything is too simple, too easy, too weightless. The conflict has been dumbed down for a while now, so I wasn’t expecting anything particularly different. But our heroes don’t do anything particularly brave or clever. They just sneak in by magic, give a few faux-inspiring bits of oratory, and then the problems basically solve themselves.

God help me, I cannot be bothered to care about Negan and Maggie. (And good lord, I cannot imagine watching a show centered on the two of them.) It’s smart to try. Their conflict is a big deal. It should be taken seriously. The show has put in the work. But the characters have gone so far afield from when Glenn’s death happened, with the show itself drifting so far away, that I am just not all invested in whether Negan is redeemed, or whether Maggie will forgive him, or any of it.

I don’t fault TWD for trying. Negan trying to be the one to assassinate Pamela so that Maggie won’t have to deal with the fallout of doing so is a strong choice and gesture. Him asserting that the Commonwealth threatening his wife and child made him understand what Maggie went through and regret it all the more. God help them, they're trying. But both characters have just been exhausted to this point that none of it has any impact.

I’ll admit, during Maggie’s big speech, I started zoning out. I was thinking to myself, “When was the last time I cared about something Rosita did? Was it when she and Sasha teamed up to infiltrate the Saviors? Is it when she shot Negan’s bat? Gosh that was a long time ago.”

And it was, so I don’t even care about Rosita’s death, the biggest one in the episode. SHe’s been such a big nothing for a while now. It’s good, at least, that she doesn’t just fall into a pile of zombies and come out unscathed like the rest of our plot-armored lead characters. But I still just don’t give a damn because they haven't known what to do with the character for a long time, and it’s left her bland and empty. So while I can, in theory, comprehend Eugene and Gabriel being sad to lose her, or a mother being sad to miss her daughter’s life but gratified to be able to save her, there’s just no juice left in Rosita as a character for it to matter.

That goes double for Luke and Jules, one of whom is barely a character, the other who is comparatively new, and both of whom have been gone for what seems like forever until very recently. The actors sell the hell out of Luke’s death scene, but considering how little shading there’s been for them, it plays like a token loss amid the supposedly major threats floating around right now.

And what is any of this saying? The closest we get to a point comes from the conversation between Lydia and Aaron, where Lydia is convinced that this is all going to pot and she’ll never see her new boyfriend again, and Aaron reassures her that good things can still happen in a rough time. Sure enough, his optimism is rewarded, as both Elijah and Jerry make it back fine, and yay, we're all together again.

That’s kind of it. I don’t envy the writers of “Rest in Peace”. How do you sum up twelve years of far-flung storylines with very different takes, tones, and messages into one complete package. You can’t. All we get is some vague cliches and purple prose about communal strength and the power of goodness in dark times. As you’ll know if you’ve read my reviews, I’m not one to judge on that front. But it still ends up deeply unsatisfying, with no apparent message or final statement from the show beyond the broadest, blandest feelgoodery with hardly a whiff of real insight or eloquence.

So from there, everything is hunky dory. In a weird, cheesy line, Carol retorts to Pamela that they won’t have to worry about her place when deciding who gets to live in the nicer houses, but they do, apparently, decide that they and all their friends get to since they have a big feast in some fancy digs. Ezekiel is Governor. Mercer is Lt. Governor. Eugene and Max have a daughter named after Rosita. Alexandria is back to its full glory. Everybody’s happy and healthy. Everybody’s hugging. Big hip hip hooray for everything, I guess. I don’t fault TWD for wanting to go out on a warm note, but it comes off so arbitrary and unearned. It does next to nothing for me, even for the characters I care about.

(As an aside, the closing moments made me remember what a good dynamic Daryl and Connie have. There’s a ton of missed opportunities in these final seasons, but one the big ones is the show not leaning more into that for some reason.)

The whole thing is hollow. Sure, there’s some synergy to closing things out with Judith waking up in a locked off hospital much as Rick did in the series’s debut. But that’s a cute bookend, not a valid shortcut to make meaning out of all of this. The Walking Dead creative team hopes that if they can just pile on enough sap in the finish, that will suffice and we’ll stop pestering them over trifles like satisfying character development, or a world that makes a modicum of sense, or plots that feel worth it.

Plus god help me, almost everyone of note has a spinoff in the offing, so there’s no sense of finality to all of this. Just more teases of Daryl’s next adventure. (Do you know how crappy a job you must have done for me to barely feel a thing at Daryl and Carol saying goodbye?) A bro nod offered to Negan before he heads off to the next thing. And of course, what better way to close us out than by subjecting us to one more godforsaken Rick monologue. (Okay, I’ll admit, Michonne as a horseback samurai is pretty cool, if empty.) Just throwing a rush of familiar images and catchphrases at the audience amid your mini-trailers for future shows does not count as an ending, and certainly doesn’t count as profound or moving.

What a mess. Why in god’s name did I spend twelve years of my life watching this show, constantly waiting for it to reach its potential? Why did I stick out this last couple of seasons, figuring that even if it wasn’t great, I’d at least want to see how it ended? The Walking Dead has had its high points, both in terms of stories and performances, and I wouldn’t begin to deny that. But by god, the quality to crud ratio was almost never on the right side of things, and this pale, lumbering rotter of a finale does nothing to reanimate my onetime affections for this series.

I cannot imagine you’re reading this if you haven't likewise made it through far too much crap to reach this finish line. But all I can tell you is, don’t do what I did. Don’t waste your time on this series that will never justify your patience with it. Go consume some of the buckets of other zombie-focused media that will fly higher than this ever did.

If you can’t tell, I have no plans to watch the spinoffs, even to get to the end of these stories. I’m done expecting a good or satisfying ending to every come. I’m done thinking that the potential of “prestige zombie show” is enough to sustain a series in and of itself. I’m done expecting that “The Walking Dead Universe” has any more tricks left up its sleeve. Not me. Not anymore. “We are the ones who live.” Sure. Fine. This franchise will keep on living in some sort of malformed existence forever, much like the undead that give it its name. But it can do it without me.

[8.7/10] It's a stellar season premiere. I really enjoyed three themes in particular that flitted throughout the episode.

The first is the notion of homecoming. Arya beckons all the Freys to return to their family home in order to slaughter them. Jon returns the family homes to the survivng members of the northern families who betrayed him, and last but certainly not least, Dany returns to the place where she was born. There is a sacredness in return, in where a person is from, that GoT recognizes and plays around with.

The second is the notion of guilt, something that comes through in Arya's conversation with the run-of-the-mill soldiers she meets in the Riverlands. One of them speaks of hoping his wife had a baby girl, because girls take care of their fathers while boys go off to die in another man's war. There's a look on Arya's face, one that seems to reveal a lament that she'll never get to take care of her father, and that her victims may just as easily be lowborn who no more wanted to fight and die than Arya wanted to see her family killed.

There's a parallel with The Hound's portion of the episode there too, where he sees the corpses of the farmer and child he mugged back in Season 4, and can't help but feel guilt at the actions that if not caused, then at least contributed to their demise. This is a different Sandor Clegane, one who buries the people he did wrong, who believes in things, and even if he doesn't know the right words, gives them a eulogy that serves as an apology.

The third is the idea of perspective. Most of the players in the episode are concerned with who will sit on the Iron Throne. Jon is wrapped up in fighting the Night King. And Arya's on her rooaring rampage of revenge. But when Sam is caught up in the same struggle, the Archmaester (Jim Broadbent!) cautions perspective, that this too shall pass, and that there are certain things worth preserving, certain projects worth pursuing, apart from the worldly concerns that consume most men.

It's a rich episode, full of colorful scenes and potent themes. Exciting to have GoT back!

[7.9/10] I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it a million times. TWD is better when everyone just shuts the hell up. The dialogue in this show so rough, the performances so hot-and-cold, that I forget how great the series can be when it relies on its pure visual stylism.

The flashiest part of that is Beta’s attack on Alexandria, and it’s a hell of a set piece! I bristled a bit when they made him seem weirdly unstoppable against Daryl last season, but I actually love making him Michael Myers here. The way the show mostly proceeds in silence, and shows Beta taking an overconfident group of allied survivors is creepy as hell. His skirmishes with the major characters (so long random Savior lieutenant!) are a little more contrived, but even there, the show adds some tension and suspense that’s been hard to find elsewhere.

But even outside of that ominous, genuinely frightening setup, the show does some really cool cinematography here. There’s a number of interesting top-down shots (did the show just get a camera drone or something), a series of cool point of view shots (for Daryl in particular), and even some impressionsitic close-ups as Alpha thinks she’s dying. I regret to say that I’m not previously familiar with director Bronwen Hughes or her work, but if this episode is any indication (along with the season 5 premiere of Better Call Saul), she’s someone to watch.

There’s also some solid thematic material here. The show does a lot with the idea of mothers or at least maternal figures and children. Rosita is largely motivated by the desire to protect Coco, and the way the show sets up her fear of the Whisperers hurting her after what happened with Siddiq, only for her to stand up to Beta, is good work.

Gamma (aka Mary), earns her sympathies largely for admitting her pain at the fact that she killed her sister and let a child be taken because she was loyal to Alpha, breaking the sanctity of that relationship. She earns her place by helping to defend Judith and R.J. in a mama bear sort of way. And her name is literally Mary, arguably the most famous mother in Western Civilization. It’s a little muddled in places, but it works (and as someone who grew up thinking American Beauty was a great film, despite its later diminished reputation, it’s great to see that Thora Birch really can act!)

Last but not least you have Alpha, whose twisted motherly relationship with Lydia has long been a theme on the show. Theoretically, there’s something interesting there, particularly when Alpha’s offended, to the point of murderous intent, at Daryl’s declaration that she doesn't love Lydia. But that’s reinforced when Lydia rejects her, being unwilling to kill her mother when the time comes, returning to this scene to save her mom’s attacker, and declaring that she doesn't want to lead the Whisperers or have any part of his mother’s ways. Samantha Morton hams it up as usual, but there’s at least some potency to the idea of her being stronger and more dangerous now that her connection to her daughter is severed, the fear or reality of which is something that’s motivated others in the episode.

The other major theme in the episode is the usual “are we human beings or are we monsters...or possibly dancers?” shtick. It’s fine enough, and Gamma’s a good enough vessel for it, but it’s just been done to death on this show (no pun intended) to the point that I just have little interest anymore.

That said, when the show does go dialogue-heavy, it’s still not very good. As mentioned, Alpha’s monologue is over the top and unconvincing as usual. Rosita and Gabriel’s spat is somehow both cheesy and flat. And the less said about Judith’s “you don’t look like a monster to me” conversation with Gamma, the better.

Not all the visual stuff is perfect either. While the zombie design is cool, Daryl and Alpha’ fight feels really convenient, and the whole situation is contrived. But I suppose if I had a nickel for every character who probably should have died on this show only to survive because they’re too important for the plot and/or fanbase, I could afford to make effects that look this good.

Overall, this is an improvement to be sure, especially when it focuses on Beta’s super engrossing, silent, but scary rampage, and squeezes some good stuff out of Mary/Gamma, but falters more when it sinks into the same stolid dialogue that always brings down the show.

[8.4/10] I feel like this episode isn't going to please most people. The critical crowd is going to be annoyed at it for indulging in fan service at times and wrapping a lot of character relationships too quickly. The more casual fan crowd is going to be upset that this episode was full of yakking and sparse on action or narrative momentum. But honestly, I really liked this one. I have to imagine that the next four super-sized episodes are going to be filled to the gils with action and high drama and excitement. In the prelude to that, it's really nice to get a series of quiet moments to reflect on where everyone has been to get to this point, and the uncertainty of the future, amid the other grace notes that "The Rightful Queen" provides.

Those are the two big ideas at the center of the episode. On the one hand, you have this sense of everyone both assuming that they're doomed but worrying about what the future holds. More than one character declares that they're all dead. And yet at the same time, you have Dany and others worrying about who might have a claim to the Iron Throne or some slice of the Seven Kingdoms. You have Tyrion and others worrying about who might become (or remain) Hand to the Queen. And you have everyone from Misandei to Sansa thinking about what the world looks like when this battle is over. There's the sense of an inevitable, mortal threat, but also of concern for where things stand after they've picked up the pieces.

But there's also a sense of marking how long the journey has been to reach this point and how much everyone has changed along it. Arya is grown, with her own skills, directness, and desires that mark a sharp contrast from the aspirational little girl who went with her father to King's Landing. Jaime and Tyrion are both much different men since they were "The Golden Lion" and "The Imp" who previously set foot in Winterfell ("the perils of self-betterment"). Hell, even the likes of Podrick has become a capable warrior (and classy singer to boot.) There's a boatload of taking stock in this episode, of remembering where everyone's been and the distance between here and there.

What's more, there's tons of nice little moments. Lyanna Mormont gets a nice scene with Jorah, Gilly gets a little time to shine, and Edd gets a chance to reunite with his Night's Watch brethren. That's all on top of Tyrion's little gathering by the fire, which makes the most of the hang out vibe this episode summons when the time is right.

All-in-all, this feels like one of those Game of Thrones episodes we'll remember beyond the bigger clashes and contretemps the series usually has in store. It's a slower episode, but one that deepens our understanding of where these characters at psychologically and developmentally after nearly eight seasons, and lets us wonder about what the future holds right alongside them.

[8.1/10] Ahhh, it’s so great to be back in Avatar Land! Katara is still around! And she’s in the White Lotus Society! And she and Aang had three kids! And her son is the new Avatar’s airbending teacher! And he’s voiced by J.K. Simmons! And he has three kids of his own who seem to have Aang’s occasionally pestersome exuberance! And Toph has a daughter who’s tough as nails! And there’s whole squads of metal-benders now! And the four kingdoms have been unified into one united republic! To paraphrase Bart Simpson, “Overload! Excitement overload!”

But that’s just the stuff that ties into Avatar: The Last Airbender. What I really appreciate about The Legend of Korra’s first episode, is that it gives enough details and connections to its predecessor series to excite AtLA fans like me, but it’s still seems different and new and exciting and doing its own thing.

For one thing, Korra is not Aang. She is headstrong in a way that Aang isn’t really. Aang could be reckless and eager, but was rarely as bold and impulsive as Korra seems in the show’s opening installment. (I loved her “I’m the Avatar. Deal with it!” introduction.) Living in a more integrated society, she’s already mastered three of the four elements (earth, fire, and water). She’s very much of this time, not a relic of a century ago, but also very new to the ecosystem of Republic City.

That’s the great thing about the series premiere -- it’s familiar while still being novel. Korra’s quest isn’t as clear as Aang’s was in the early going. There’s no evil Firelord, no hunded years war, no step-by-step set of elements to master in time. There’s just one more element to learn, a complex city and society, and a young avatar who admits that she doesn’t really have a plan.

That’s wonderful! There’s such a sense of possibility to the series right out of the gate. I love the promise that Republic City holds. The world of Avatar has jumped several decades in the future, to where the vibe of the new metropolis is something approaching 1920s or 1930s New York. There are radios and cars and omnipresent dirigibles in the sky that mark this as something different than the feudal-type era depicted in AtLA.

There’s also just enough hints of bigger troubles in the city to whet one’s appetite for more. For one thing, I really like the notion that there’s a group out there that opposes all benders and views the use of their powers as a form of oppression. It’s a natural move for a franchise that’s always used its supernatural premise as a metaphor for societal issues. LoK introduces Republic City as a sort of utopia at first, with tall buildings and a buzz of activity, but quickly hints that not all’s well in the capital of the new republic forged by Aang and the rest of Team Avatar.

That comes through (and dovetails nicely with the anti-bender activists) when Korra breaks up a protection racket by a “Triad” gang of three guys who use their powers to harass a shopkeep. Korra, being the naturally protective and good avatar-in-training that she is, comes to their rescue, and the fact that these mobs exist, and that the cops arrest first and (under the auspices of Toph’s daughter) ask questions later, and that Tenzin says as much suggests that there are problems in Republic City despite its shiny exterior.

But what an exterior! It’s nice to see the world of Avatar depicted in beautiful HD. The elemental effects are just gorgeous, and there’s a fluidity to the way that Korra and others unleash their powers that even AtLA couldn’t always match. The animation seems to have stepped up a notch. At the same time, the design work is stellar. The bustling city at the center of the episode is remarkable and full of life, and everything from the statue of Aang in a nearby harbor to the glow of the underground quarters of the water tribe mark a distinctive, beautiful look for the whole place.

Of course, this being set in Avatar land, our hero has to answer the call to adventure. While the show belabors the passing of the torch idea with Katara a bit (who’s voiced by Eva Marie Saint of North by Northwest fame, it’s still feels true to the spirit of the franchise to have our hero set out despite being told not to. Katara’s polar bear dog (or is it some other hybrid) is a nicely cute animal sidekick in the proud tradition of Appa. And her misadventures in Republic City as a fish out of water make for a nice introduction to the new world.

There’s so much to unpack here, but really, that’s what makes “Welcome to Republic City” so exciting. There is just enough gestures toward the prior series to warm the hearts of those who watched Aang and company defeat Ozai. But it doesn’t feel like a rehash either, with the time jump and the change in circumstance inviting the devoted viewer to piece together what’s happened in the intervening seventy years and marvel at what’s to come.

I don’t know what I expected from the premiere of Legend of Korra exactly. Sequel series are tricky things. You have to feel of a piece with what came before without feeling derivative. “Welcome to Republic City” masters that balance beautifully. Korra feels fully formed and distinctive right out of the gate. The world of the New Republic seems ripe of exploration and new details just as the Four Kingdoms once did. And there is a new type of challenge, a new threat, new friends and foes to explore and discover.

We’ll see where Korra goes from here, whom she fights and whom she takes on as allies and where her journey to becoming the avatar and helping to realize Aang’s dream takes her. But for now, it’s more than enough to dive back into Avatar land, gawk at the new sights and developments that have unspooled in the last seven decades, and wait with enthusiasm for what’s yet to come.

[8.5/10] My favorite stretch of The Walking Dead is the Terminus arc, if only because the show stopped trying to do these overarching plot that it’s so-so at, and basically fell back into doing individualized short stories, giving its characters and performers space to breathe. It’s too season to tell, but part 2 of season 10 seems to be following the same tack, and it’s paying dividends.

In “Find Me”, that takes the form of a frame story where Daryl and Carol go on a hunt together, and a flashback story set in the unseen interregnum between Rick’s disappearance and the present day, where Daryl found an amiable concordance with a fellow Loner named Leah.

I like both parts of the episode. There’s a nice contrast between Carol/Daryl at the beginning of the episode versus the two of them at the end. They’re the two longest-serving cast members at this point, and it shows. There’s such an easy rapport, a lived-in back and forth between them as they make their way through the wilderness on Daryl’s bike and rib one another through the process. You can feel the shorthand and rapport that the two have developed over the years, a mutual understanding and deep friendship that’s persisted through all of this hell they’ve been through.

But at the same time, understanding a person also means understanding how to hurt them. Being vulnerable with someone also means opening up yourself to pain. So when Daryl projects his hurt and challenges Carol on the losses that are her fault, on her need to follow what’s right, and Carol returns fire on the topic of Daryl’s hero/martyr complex, it hurts just as much for the audience. What the two say to one another isn’t wrong exactly, but it’s uncharitable, it’s harsh, in a way that shows you how much these two people are smarting and, sadly, taking it out on one another with no one else to blame for the scars that have accumulated over the years.

At the same time, there’s a meta quality to their conversations and much of the dialogue in the episode. Carol seems self-aware when she wonders aloud if their luck has run out. Carol and Daryl and their coterie have enjoyed a certain amount of plot armor, and story-necessity protection for their communities given the needs of the show. And yet, we seem to be entering a new stage, post-Whisperers, with a new showrunner fully asserting herself and more wounds being opened in even the most hard-won relationships on the show. News of a spin-off featuring some characters dampens the lengths to which this could go, but it’s an interesting idea to play around with.

I also like the flashbacks we get to Daryl’s relationship with Leah. It’s a nice way to fill the gap from the show’s time jump, and I like the notion of Daryl having a tense but also solace-filled relationship with someone. Their interactions are a little traditional and expected for this sort of thing, but the chemistry is there, and the friendship is endearing. Plus, it’s an origin story for Dog, which I didn’t know I needed! I like the two of them together, finding comfort in the fact that they’ve both suffered losses, and the question of “Where do you belong?” to Daryl, challenging his hero complex, add weight to the romantic elements of the plot. The midpoint monologue from Leah is a bit much, and I just know she’s going to show up with the Reapers or something, but as a standalone piece, I still love these little glimpses of what Daryl was up to in the intervening years.

It’s also worth noting that this was a particularly gorgeous episode of the show. The autumnal setting, the beating rain, the summery glow when Daryl and Leah are enjoying life together, the framing of Daryl and Carol on opposites sides of the river, all made for some stunning images in this one. The score was excellent as always, lifting these moments without being too obtrusive. This was a slower, more aesthetic episode in a lot of ways, and I appreciate the show taking some big artistic swings, here.

Overall, this was another big winner for the new season. I’m not naive enough to expect it to continue at this level of quality, but it’s welcome to get the show as the earthy, character drama in the ashes of the world, the one we were promised all those years ago, from time to time.

[6.0/10] I’ll often forgive the text of a television show if it gets the texture right. I tend to be more interested in what an episode means than potential plot inconsistencies. Storytelling on the screen is a magic trick, and that means I’m willing to tolerate a fair amount of sleight of hand. That’s exacerbated by fan approaches to stories that seem too left-brained or inclined toward puzzle-solving for my tastes, where rather than taking a work as they find it, viewers go on the hunt for plot holes and inconsistencies as opposed to considering what the film or show made them think or feel.

But that only goes so far. And even, if you’re like me, and can forgive details like most folks in the show not looking unimaginably filthy or constantly complaining about the smell in the ashes of civilization, it matters much more why characters are the way they are and act the way they act. What purpose does a scene serve in the story? What is the motivation behind a particular character’s action? And if the only answer a show can give is “because the plot, or the pre-finale table-setting exercise requires it,” then you’re in trouble.

That’s the sense I’m left with at the end of “Worth,” an episode that basically only exists to fill time and set a few things up the end of the season. Why do Daryl and Rosita capture Eugene, lose him when he runs like five feet ahead of them, and then miss him in a dirt pile? Because the show reminds you that he exists, but can’t pull the trigger on major events ahead of the grand finale, and so the plot requires it.

Why does Aaron starve himself in the woods to persuade the Oceansiders rather than realizing at some point that he should head back and regroup? If you’re being generous, you could say that he either has little to live for after the death of his partner and so is more willing to lay down his life for the greater good. But the truth seems closer to some combination of his survival man routine needing to underline the “anything to survive” theme the episode dabbles in, and because, you know, the plot requires it.

And how and why is Negan able to play thirteen-dimensional chess with everyone in his orbit, being able to play Simon, Dwight, and Gregory off one-another, knowing precisely when certain meetings will happen (while hiding behind a dumpster or something), being certain when and how his sabotaged “fake ass” plans will get to Rick & Co., and deciding who’ll lead the Saviors based on a fistfight with his second-in-command after being in a car crash and kidnapping? Say it with me now -- because the plot requires it.

If you strain, you can come up with mildly passable reasons for all of these things. Maybe the combination of projectile zombies and vomiting gave “save my neck at all costs” Eugene just enough grease to slip away. Maybe Aaron talked to Tara and realizes that a feat of endurance is the only way to get the Oceansiders’ sympathy. Maybe Negan really is both smart and cocky enough to play his lieutenants off one another perfectly and trust his rule to the fortunes of his own two fists.

But none of it feels natural. None of it feels believably motivated. And none of it feels like it could plausibly exist in a world where a T.V. show wasn’t moving the deck chairs around before a long-teased battle between the show’s good guys and bad guys.

Worse yet, when the show does try to convey those sorts of motivations, it’s in the most clunky, ham-handed fashion possible. Father Gabriel literally announces his emotions and impulses, basically guiding the audience through his internal conflict. Seth Gilliam is a talented enough actor that you can still feel the emotion of the scene, but the lines he’s given are downright atrocious.

The same goes for Ross Marquand as Aaron. Marquand gives a hell of a physical performance in the best scene of the episode, where Aaron, barely subsisting in the woods near Oceanside, is beset by walkers in the rain. Marquand communicates the sense of raw exhaustion in Aaron; his joy at the prospect of fresh rainwater; his desperation when fumbling for his knife, his peril when being attack by the soggy zombies who threaten him when he’s sapped of all but last reserves of his strength.

But then, when the Oceansiders come across him, he gives the lamest, least-inspiring halftime speech to try to convince them to join the fight. It’s another in the long line of Walking Dead quotes that feel like they’re stolen from eighth grade fan fiction, which Marquand delivers with all the conviction one can muster for such banalities, which turn out over the top. But what do you know, the show implies that it works to persuade the Oceansiders to take up the cause. Because it has to. Because the show is now less concerned with making sense than shepherding everyone to where they need to be on the board before the endgame comes.

The one element of the episode that does manage to feel well-motivated, that manages to feel like both payoff and prelude, are its bookends, which feature Rick and Negan hearing Carl’s last words to each of them.

Rick seems, if not changed, then at least encouraged by reading his son’s pleas. Maybe it’s just the use of those cinematic tricks -- the swell of the gentle music, the images of Michonne and Judith in the background, the idyllic light that pours over everything as Carl’s words spill out in voice over. (And kudos to Chandler Riggs, who may have become a solid actor right when the show decided to kill him off.) But whatever it is, The Walking Dead succeeds here where it fails everywhere else in the episode in generating an emotional moment with real meaning for where the story goes next.

And it’s contrasted with Negan’s reaction to Carl’s similar plea for peace, for a bigger world and a better tomorrow, to him. It’s admittedly a little convenient that Michonne’s able to get the message to him, but it’s forgivable. When Negan hear’s Carl’s words, he’s just had to kill one of his top lieutenants for a coup attempt with his (almost) bare hands, and realized another’s turned on him. He’s too far gone, too unyielding, to take Carl’s words to heart.

And that sets up the inevitably clash between Rick and his allies vs. Negan and the Saviors better than all the backbiting power plays and vomitous escapes and symbolic stands in the forest ever could. There is a fundamental difference between the two men at the center of this conflict. The show has tried to blur those lines, the show how Rick can be just as stubborn, brutal, or cruel, and how there is, at the very least, an imagined greater good that Negan believes himself to be serving.

But here it draws the fundamental differences between them, how Rick can still be moved, still be pulled back from the brink by someone he loved, and Negan is in too deep to ever remove his iron from the fire. The two embody the episode’s opposing themes of people who will do whatever it takes to survive, and people who believe there’s bigger, more important things, that transcend an individual life and may even be worth dying for.

That’s motivation. That’s storytelling. That’s the stuff that gives weight and meaning to the swords slicing through zombies and bullets going through bad guys. The Walking Dead can pull it off when it wants to, but too often, in episodes likes “Worth”, defaults to spinning its wheels in contrived situations that only exist because the story demands they do, and yet manage to weaken that story given how inessential and forced those developments seem.

[8.6/10] The running line on The Walking Dead has been that the show is too bleak and too steeped in misery. The open-ended nature of the show, and thus the demand for more adventures means our heroes can never truly “win” and the abject state of the world has to continue. That means that, for the plot to have any bite, people we care about to keep dying; equilibrium can’t be established; more problems and losses and hurdles have to pile up.

I understand how that prospect wears on people. Maybe I’m just jaded from years of post-apocalyptic and gritty works that allow me to take this sort of thing in stride. But I get it – the notion that this is simply the ongoing march of The Walking Dead, never to cease, with characters we like continually picked off, could be too much for a number of viewers.

But what I like about the show, what keeps me coming back, and what is always underemphasized when this debate arises again and again, is that The Walking Dead is also a show about what motivates people to go on in these circumstances, about the connections that give them something to fight for when there’s no institutions or expectations or anything else to make them do it. It is a world of outrageous choice, one where there is still joy and comfort and sacrifice and love, regardless of whether the environment is hospitable to it.

What elevates “Say Yes” is how Rick and Michonne acknowledge that struggle, how they recognize what the current state of the world means for them, but find the happiness in it anyway. There is a strength that comes from the bond with another person, a buoying connection that can emerge even in the harshest of circumstances. It’s laced with the sad reality that such things, like all things, are only temporary, but it’s there.

So when Rick and Michonne go out searching for guns to placate the Junkyardigans, and stumble across an unexpected supply near a walker-filled carnival campground, we see the two of them enjoying the closest thing there is to a honeymoon The Walking Dead has to offer.

And it’s fun! They are playful with one another. They are loving with one another. They embark on this quest, nominally a functional one to obtain the fodder to put up a fight against The Saviors, but it’s also an escape, a chance to be together just the two of them. There is banter, honest to god banter between the two of them, and it is unexpectedly adorable.

To be frank, this is the most I’ve cared about Rick in years. While Michonne has been one TWD’s most compelling presences for a while now, Rick has just been sort of there, doing much of the same “heavy is the head that wears the crown” material he’s done for a while. There’s some of that here too, but pairing him up with Michonne, having them fight together, laugh together, getting a little peace together humanizes him. It turns him from the ever-conflicted leader of men into just another person enjoying time with someone he loves.

Of course, this being a show set in the zombie apocalypse, that time is a little unorthodox relative to what we might consider normal. The carnival is a great setting, because it leads to all sorts of little ways for Rick and Michonne to do their job while adding a little whimsy to it. Small touches like Michonne winning a midway game using a real sniper rifle, or the pair falling through the roof and chuckling about it, or tucking into some ready-to-eat rations livens the episode in a way that belies the show’s bleak reputation.

It also makes for some entertaining zombie set pieces. There is a cockiness to Rick and Michonne when they gear up for the big zombie fight in the carnival itself. They’ve done this for a while. They’re confident in their strategy and abilities. That gives the plan, even when it goes awry, a certain fun vibe. You can’t do this sort of thing every week, because it would take away the scariness of the show’s most persistent villains, but it makes the walker attack less about whether our heroes will survive, and more about the great dynamic between them while they’re doing it.

“Say Yes” does have one good scare. Perhaps it was naïve to think, even for a half-second, that The Walking Dead would kill off Rick in an unheralded mid-season episode, but when Michonne witnesses a crowd of walkers chowing down in the spot where we just saw Rick, I at least wondered if the series would have the stones to go through with it. I attribute much of that to Danai Gurira’s superior acting skills, to where she can convey Michonne’s shock and distress at this seeming death, and her relief and gratitude when Rick, of course, emerges from some implausible enough safe hiding spot. The call back to the deer, and the cleverness of it, does a nice job at papering over some of the cheesiness of the fake out.

But that tense moment also serves to puncture that rarified air that Michonne and Rick have been breathing. It’s a reminder that no matter how on top of things they feel, this is a world of threats and that, as Maggie learned, your happiness can be shattered in an instant. That sense of fun starts to dissipate. The excitement over the motherlode is dampened. The playful back and forth gives way to ruminations on death and sacrifice.

It’s not just Rick and Michonne who ruminate on such things, to the episode’s detriment. In a clunkily-written scene, Tara talks to Judith about whether to tell Rick and the gang about Oceanside, worrying about the potential lives lost in the balance. By the same token, Rosita grouses at Father Gabriel, goes on her own gun-hunt, and eventually meets up with Sasha. They agree on a suicide mission to take out Negan, each feeling bereft of those reasons to hang on, committed to avenging their lost loved ones and other innocents even at the expense of their own lives.

“Say Yes” contrasts them with Rick, who accepts the same outlook but on different terms. He keeps trying to push off their return, trying to extend this little vacation, just a couple of days more, because he knows the choices they’re coming back to. On the one hand, it’s just returning to responsibility, to potentially having to be the person in charge of everything once Negan is toppled. Rick demurs on that point, saying that he wants to do whatever there is to do in tandem with Michonne, but there’s a definite sense that he’s enjoying the freedom from having to be the leader, from having to be the guy who makes all these big decisions and tries to hold it all together.

But on the other, it’s also a sign that he’s internalized Aaron’s lesson from “Hearts Still Beating.” Rick seems to have made some peace with the fact that there’s a good chance they don’t make it out of this, that the upcoming war will lead to casualties of people they care about, because that’s what always seems to happen.

And yet, he also realizes that they have something to live for and something to die for. They are fighting for the future, for the possibilities of the world to come. Rick wants to cherish the time he and Michonne get to share together, because he realizes it might be slipping away, that soon, he might not be able to experience that sort of joy. That is bleak, the sort of rough reality that bums viewers out. But it’s also hopeful and perhaps even joyful in a different way. It acknowledges that even in the harshest of places, there is something to fight for, something worth putting your life on the line, and something to be happy about.

6.4/10. I enjoyed the season premiere of The Walking Dead better than most. I understand the complaints that it was too bleak, too cruel, and too hopeless, but to my mind, it made sense to establish Negan as a threat and as a character. There have been so many ineffectual bad guys on this show, so many antagonists who seemed like mere speed bumps along the way toward Rick & Co. getting the big win. It makes sense to me that TWD needed to make a big introduction to convince the audience that Negan and The Saviors were something different and something serious.

I also didn’t mind the hopelessness of it. Sure, it’s difficult to see the good guys broken, to see characters we know and love brutalized, to see the bad guys seem to take great joy in the process. But shows like The Walking Dead need stakes. In order for the heroes’ inevitable triumph to feel earned and meaningful, you need to make the villain not only someone whose loss doesn’t seem preordained, but who’s worth beating. The suffering at this point of the arc will, with any luck, pay off down the line when the good guys strike their blow against Negan and his goons.

The problem is that the premiere, “The Day Will Come When You Won’t Be,” already felt like a lot. It was a lot of blood and guts, a lot of horrible acts, and a lot of Negan preening and chewing scenery. It works as an opening salvo for the character and as the culmination of the build to Negan that had been bubbling up since the midpoint of Season 6, but it’s a lot to take in. The audience can only stand so much of that level of cruelty and velvet-lined venom before it starts to overwhelm.

Which means that an episode that basically acted as a sequel to the premiere, that gave us buckets and buckets of Negan’s routine, that skimped on the violence but doubled down on the lack of hope idea, comes off as rubbing the viewer’s noses in all of this. Making “Service” a super-sized episode to boot, one that packs in an extra twenty minutes or so worth of the same sneering bad guy stuff, the same hammered home message about Alexandria’s weak position, worsens the problem.

It’s especially rough for the character of Negan himself. I’ve enjoyed Jeffrey Dean Morgan’s performance as the season’s new big bad. It’s a difficult character to find the balance of. By definition, he has to be outsized, someone so grandiose and convinced of his own smoothness, but also someone who feels like a predator and not just a clown. Morgan pulls that off. He has Negan’s shit-eating grin down pat. He lays into his lines with a joy and a casual cruelty that lets you know he thinks of himself as the cock of the walk and the coolest guy in the room.

But again, too much of that begins to wear. The Walking Dead has had outsized characters before -- The Governor probably comes closest to Negan’s theatrical bent -- but so far Negan has really only played that one note. He gives you the sort of gleeful menace, the man who toys with his prey and thinks himself a just and noble ruler. That works well enough in small doses, but pile it on like TWD does in “Service” and you start to see the seams. It begins to feel as though the show is spinning its wheels, repeating itself as Negan simply reestablishes the things previously established memorably in previous episodes.

It also doesn’t help that “Service” has absolutely plodding pacing. Not every Walking Dead episode needs to be eventful of full of fast-paced action, but despite some effort at conflict on the margins, most of this episode is just a big walk around Alexandria for The Saviors. Seeing the effect that Negan has on the rest of the camp, the way the last bits of resistance are meant to be stamped out, is a valid and arguably necessary tack to take in the aftermath of the events of the season premiere, but there’s not enough there, or at least not enough of what we’ve seen, to fill an episode all on its own, let alone one with an extended runtime.

Those conflicts feel fairly tepid. The missing guns provides fodder for Rick to give one of his trademark speeches, albeit one about knuckling under rather than fighting back. This episode is full of reminders, constant conversations, and loud declarations, that “this is our lives now,” that things are different and can’t go back to the way they were. So when Rick finds Spencer’s guns and turns them over to Negan in exchange for Olivia’s life, it’s anticlimactic, feeling like there was never really much of a risk, but that the whole issue was drummed up, forced conflict to give a reason for that speech and to accentuate the mostly forgotten wedge between Rick and Spencer.

“Service” plants the seeds for that growing rift, with Spencer still resentful of Rick after the death of his parents, and laying the Saviors’ new order at his feet. It’s an issue that’s bound to come up at an inconvenient time, quite possibly with Spencer trying to make his own deal with Negan and ending up meeting a grisly end for the trouble after Negan decides to stick with Rick for his greater earning potential. But in the brief time we’ve known him, Spencer’s never been a particularly interesting character, which makes it hard to be too invested in that storyline or its implications.

The same can largely be said for Rosita, though she’s gotten a bit more characterization and adventure over the past couple of seasons. She is part of a different strain running through this episode, of people who are poised and ready to resist The Saviors, even if they don’t quite have the tools or the plan to do so just yet. Her task to retrieve Daryl’s bike (and attempt to find a gun from one of Dwight’s deceased running buddies) mostly serves as yet another opportunity for people to debate whether The Saviors can be stopped or whether the denizens of Alexandria should simply accept that this is how things are now. We’re given plenty of plausible justifications -- that The Saviors have greater numbers, more weapons, and a ruthlessness that makes them a threat to everyone and everything -- but the endless back and forth over it (probably meant to answer the “why don’t they just mount a resistance now?” question from the audience) isn’t particularly compelling.

It also bleeds into an uncomfortable air of rape among The Saviors. We see it in the disgusting way that Negan talks about Maggie (who, in one of the cannier narrative choices, has been whisked away elsewhere before Rick tells Negan she passed away). We see it in Dwight’s uncomfortable treatment of Rosita, and we see it in the particularly unsettling way that one of Negan’s henchmen tries to get Enid to repeat the word please.

I’m of two minds about this. On the one hand, as uncomfortable as these moments are, we’re talking about the bad guys here. We’re not supposed to like them, and so deplorable behavior is more excusable. What’s more, rape is about power, and the overtones to Negan’s behavior underscores the way in which he is, despite his violent and sexual appetites, clearly interested in the power of his acts, the way it allows him to act unfettered and unchallenged, than any inherent pleasure he gets from them. On the other hand, in the henchmen especially, it feels like a cheap way to make them seem more villainous, a shorthand in lieu of something better earned or more thematic. It all depends on where the show takes this particular thread in the rest of the season.

The same goes for the episode’s closing scenes. Michonne is exactly the type who, as her experience with The Governor portends, will not sit idly by while someone like this prances around and tries to keep her people under his thumb. But Rick’s speech, while not enough to convince her, at least ties the “we have to do what Negan says” sledgehammer of a point into something emotional and steeped in the history of the series.

The parallels are loose, but when Rick confesses that he knows Judith belongs to Shane, there’s power in it because it’s one of those few plot threads from the beginning of the show that haven’t been tied off yet. And the thematic resonance of it, that sometimes we have to accept hard truths, things that tear us up, in order to do what we need to do to protect the people we care about, is solid. Negan’s actions make Rick’s knuckles tighten up on Lucille when Negan’s back is turned, but his desire to keep the Alexandrians safe loosens his grip, allows him to make all these compromises and admission in the hopes that they’ll stay alive and healthy even under such harsh conditions.

That’s a fine way to dramatize the yoke under which Rick and Michonne and their band of survivors are living, the choices they must make every day. It’s just too much of Negan’s scenery-chewing, self-aggrandizing flotsam to where that resolution feels like too little too late.

It’s important to establish your villains. It’s important to make them notable characters in their own right, and to show them besting the heroes, posing a genuine threat, so that the eventual victory doesn’t feel hollow. But when you spend so much time with this bastard, so much time reinforcing how terrible he is and how little hope there is, those remaining moments when you try to show that there may be a light at the end of the tunnel, a reason behind the capitulation, it feels like a mere tiny bit of salve after forty minutes with your hand in the fire. Strong villains are good, but make them monolithic and give entire, overly long episodes over to their villainy, and the audience will be as apt to give up as Rick is.

One of the best parts of Carol's storylines on The Walking Dead is that they've largely been underplayed. Melissa McBride is such a talented actress that the show can dispense with its often lumpy dialogue and simply let her convey the meaning in the moment, whether it's a sullen look after the events of "JSS" or the harsh tone in her voice when she tells Rick that Maggie shouldn't be out on the raid. This season in particular, The Walking Dead had done a good job at letting the idea of Carol feeling the weight of her actions and gradually pivoting away from the ruthless persona of strength she'd taken on bubble under the surface, thereby making the scenes where those themes are a little more prominent stand out as earned and effective.

But "The Same Boat" basically turns that subtlety on its ear. It's a bleak bottle episode, that spends most of its time keeping Carol in a single room and trotting out an odd version of "This Is Your Life!" There's Maggie as a symbol of uncorrupted innocence and incipient motherhood there to let Carol fight to protect something in another person that she herself has lost. There's the colorful Molly, who offers Carol a view of her possible future, a dead woman walking who's not afraid to do what need doing. There's Donnie, a nearly textbook abusive boyfriend who's mostly a prop to draw out another parallel for Carol. That parallel is Paula, who is both a dark reflection of what Carol has become--a woman who lost her children, dealt with abuse, and resolved to kill when necessary without compunction or hesitation--and a living caution of what Carol is afraid that Maggie could become.

These are all interesting character comparisons in particular, but given that all of these people have to be introduced and die in the same episode, the audience necessarily gets thumbnail sketches of everyone rather than meaningful shades of character development to make them feel like real people rather than narrative devices to elucidate Carol's internal conflict. The episode does a good job in giving Carol's captors texture--Molly in particular is someone I'm sad to see go given how distinct and magnetic she was with little weight to carry here--but their characterization is thin, and that inevitably leads to the feeling that "The Same Boat" is more of a contrived allegory than a story with emotional truth.

That's especially true for Paula, a well-acted, poorly-written character who seems to have little use besides acting as the obvious living wakeup call for Carol she's meant to reflect and turning subtext into brutally on-the-nose text. When she blasts Carol for being weak, when she spits Carol's philosophy back at her in a clumsy fashion, when vocalizes that Carol sees Maggie as the way she used to be, it's all unnecessary emotional exposition about themes the show had already communicated in much subtler ways. I actually liked the idea of Paula as an antagonist because the performance is good, and there's a harsh pragmatism to her that makes her an interesting comparison point to Rick as much as she is to Carol. But when she launches into that monologue it becomes clear that she's only here to be a ponderous, poorly-sketched out doppleganger for Carol, with nothing under her skin but cheesy dialogue and didactic speeches.

Melissa McBride does what she can to save all of this. Her performance does a very nice job of showing Carol's simultaneous cunning and her pain. She's obfuscating timidness to disarm her captors, the same way she used that persona to keep the Alexandrians off guard. But McBride does a great job of selling the moments where Carol's real concerns, her genuine conflicted feelings about the choices she's made, bleed through. More than that, the episode shows her using those real feelings to further the lie, a tactic composed of equal parts canniness and pathos.

There's a bit of Morgan's philosophy that's wormed its way into Carol's thinking, whether she likes or it hates the way it makes her shoot an intruder in the arm rather than in the chest, or hesitate when a single bullet could practically end the whole struggle. Carol become this hardened warrior so that she could protect the innocent, so that what happened with Sofia wouldn't happen again. It's why what rouses her from her mild pacifist streak is Paula's swipe at Maggie's stomach. But as bluntly as the concept is hammered home in "The Same Boat", Carol has been wounded in that process, and when she looks at the deaths she's been responsible for, at the harshness she's perpetrated in the same of doing what's necessary, she doesn't necessarily like the person she sees, and begins to not only question that path, but to slowly feel more and more of the hurt of it all.

I'm hardly a Carol-Daryl shipper, but there's has always been a special friendship on the show, and one of the most pleasant moments in a dark episode was his immediately comforting her after she and Maggie kill the last couple of Saviors. Maybe he can help her find a bit of peace.

But that brutality doesn't stop at Carol. "The Same Boat" also suggests that it's infected the whole group, or at least the ones who embark on the raid of the saviors. Again, it's not subtle. Michelle, who seems intended as an alternate version of Maggie much as Paula is a dark mirror of Carol, outright says, "you're not the good guys." But at the same time, I like the idea of the show broadening its perspective a bit. We literally see the events at the Saviors' compound from Paula's eyes, and it's not necessarily a pretty picture.

The Walking Dead has been toying with this idea since beginning the Hilltop/Negan storyline, and it's fruitful territory. It's cold and nearly heartless when Rick takes out Primo without his enemy barely getting a sentence out before there's a bullet in his brain. To this end, the best scene in the episode is the first, that shows a group no less capable than Rick's looking on with horror but determination at what our heroes have accomplished. But it peters out quickly when the episode tries to draw a moral equivalency while making the Saviors we see too thinly-drawn to feel truly sympathetic.

But as I often say about The Walking Dead, there's the germ of a good idea there. I appreciate the concept of Carol as an agent of change, of someone who's lived by the philosophy of doing whatever must be done, no matter the cost, it protect yourself and your own, who's disillusioned by where that's led her and having serious qualms about the group as whole adopting that view. This episode was a weak attempt to draw out that internal conflict in Carol, but hopefully the way it tied that idea to the larger theme of whether our heroes are really worth rooting for or if, instead, they've become something different, something cruel out there in jungle, will lead to better and brighter things.

Weird season finale. After all the build up, everything feels anticlimactic. Right down from A-Train--the reason all this mess started--to Homelander.

Before we get to that, let's talk a bit about how weird the whole prison sequences play out. The joke, the attempted rescue, the shootout, all feel really weak especially compared to well-directed sequences in prior episodes. First of all there is really no need for some jocular banter that went for about two minutes or more. Not to mention the pauses. It feels dragging. This includes the attempted rescue which continues the joke.

Second, the shootout looks really weird. We've seen Frenchie did his weird stuff when it comes to the Female/Kimiko, but this doesn't seem logical. He is a professional killer, why the hell he keeps on showing up his head to look at Kimiko when getting shot at? Is he looking to die? Not to mention he got shot prior, on the stomach, how the hell he can walk and help Kimiko walk that easily? Hughie getting to shoot randomly while saying "I'm sorry! I'm sorry" and miraculously hit trained soldiers is even worse. Even the Starlight rescue looks like a cheap deus ex machina for the plot to goes forward.

The Boys had been attempting to mock the quip-ridden superhero genre--that is, the Marvel Cinematic Universe--but the whole prison sequences makes The Boys looks exactly like an MCU episode.

Now we get to the supes.

The Deep. His subplot has been standing on its for quite a while now. There seems to be no direct connection with the bigger plot that has been going on. And this episode his subplot stays that way, while still giving him enough screen time to focus on his emotion. I'm not sure if that is something we wanted to see for a finale. It feels like something to be saved for future seasons. Even if that doesn't mean it's bad, they could have cut it way shorter than what they did.

Then the thing with A-Train feels very anticlimactic. He just popped up there out of nowhere. We were previously shown his desire, his post-power syndrome, his attempt to be relevant. Then in the supposedly final showdown, we finally see Hughie vs A-Train head on. But we don't see A-Train. We see an injured A-Train, a traumatic supe in his mental and physical breakdown. Now this still could be an interesting, emotional confrontation between our protagonist with the one who murdered his sweetheart. Not to mention, the presence of Starlight could make this dynamic interesting--is Hughie done for, how would he cope between his past and present emotion? What we get instead, however, is a slow motion capture with very minuscule combat and almost none of emotional engagement. Then A-Train just went, just like that.

I feel like they are saving him for future episodes, but this being the finale--the culmination of all emotion that has been built up so far--makes this confrontation very lacking. It feels like we are still on Eps 5 or 6, but with worse pacing.

Now Homelander. He is our another main driver of the plot. Everything that has happened so far always leads us back to him. His dynamics with Madelyn the CEO has been a bizarre Oedipus complex-like situation, What happened between them in this episode is actually very unexpected, though one may sense that it would eventually came to this point through the clues scattered so far. This result should have provided a surprising reveal. However, as it turns out, there seems to be something hollow in the encounter. Given the interesting portrayal of their faux-mother-son-sexual-relationship in the first half of the episode, the second half seems to speed up the climax. As if they were being chased by some deadline, that they have to cut it short, while at the same time giving enough spaces for Homelander to give his, in Maeve's words in previous episodes, "boring speeches."

It feels climactic and inconclusive at the same time. And I guess the same can be said with many encounters in this episode. Starlight with Meave. Billy with the CIA. Hughie with Starlight at the church. It feels like they have to speed it up--to shove in the dialogues--for the sake of putting the plot forward. It's shaky and unreliable.

Now, the end of the episode leads us to a quite intriguing reveal. It's not the direction we--or at least, I--expected to take in the season. However, with such really weak build up throughout the episode, the ending feels like forced. As if they have prepared them to be this way, but still unsure how they would bring it up to this moment. As such, while the scene itself is (should be?) surprising, there is not much surprise when I watch the event unfolds. It's less of a "wow, so this is it?" than a "oh okay, so this happens, and then?"

Credits where it's due: Anthony Starr as Homelander and Karl Urban as Billy Butcher display terrific performances in this episode. Especially Homelander with his extremely erratic, unpredictable behavior. But that alone is not enough to pardon the sloppiness of this episode.

Perhaps because they, like MCU and other superhero movies, seem to busy themselves to prepare for the upcoming season instead of trying to give audience a closure of the plot. And that exact reason is what makes superhero movies went boring for these past years. They are focusing to build an universe, instead of writing a good narrative. Unfortunately, this episode robs the fresh air that The Boys has breathe for quite some time. While I hope for the continuation of the series, I am less excited.

[7.7/10] I like how simple this one is. It’s a very intimate, internal hour for The Walking Dead, the kind of episode we haven’t gotten in the longest time. There’s no major threat here. We get some minor zombie attacks just to ensure the show still hits its quota of the undead for the week. But for the most part, this episode is about smaller problems that Carol and Daryl face, that reveal deeper things about their psychology, a tack I almost always enjoy.

There’s an intimacy to it. The episode doesn’t quite reach these heights, but it reminds me of “Fly” from Breaking Bad with that balance. Carol’s challenges are simple: make soup and find a rat. So are Daryl’s: find a screwdriver and fix his bike. But the realities of the zombie apocalypse mean those tasks are not just more difficult than they ought to be; they’re harrowing and even maddening.

They also reveal something about the inner workings of these two stalwart characters’ minds, dramatizing the difficulties each is experiencing without the other to lean on, the way both have absorbed the pain of their fight earlier in the season, in ways they’re not likely to vocalize. THat’s another thing I like about “Diverged.” It’s a dialogue-light episode, one that lets the characters actions and the actors’ non-verbal performances carry the day. The writing on TWD is hit or miss, so taking a step back like that, giving us a more tactile, “show don’t tell” episode like this one is a breath of fresh air.

I like the themes and symbolism in this one. Things are hard in Walking Dead-land right now, and yet the refrain is “We’ll get through it, we always do” in a way that is well-intentioned but also glosses over how much hardship Carol and Daryl have absorbed over the years. It just assumes they can go through anything and be fine, because they always have, without thinking about the toll its taken on them.

That’s why I like Jerry here, someone who recognizes that for all her stiff upper lip, Carol is in a bad spot right now and wants to give her support. She wants to solve problems because it’s all she knows how to do, especially when she’s worried her best friend might have recognized that she’s broken. Jerry sees through the facade and gives her the solace and friendship she needs to help weather it. The fact that the rat she’s been chasing scurries off after Jerry’s expression of empathy lays it on a little too thick (hello, fans of The Departed!), but it’s a nice sentiment.

We see Carol and Daryl using similar expressions (“Take that, asshole”), applying similar approaches, and hitting similar walls and frustrations in their efforts to keep things humming after the absence of the other. There’s still a lot of raw feelings there, but I like the implication that they don’t work well without the other, that as much as they’re inclined to be lone wolves and take care of themselves, they still rely on one another to an extent, as we can see in the way each rests a little easier when the other’s around, and how even simple problems can drive them to exhaustion when the other’s gone.

Overall, it’s one of the more intimate and experimental episodes of TWD we’ve had in some time, and I admire the big swing “Diverged” takes. I can see how it’ll be controversial in the fandom -- there’s minimal zombie-killing and no major plot movement. But it’s the kind of small-scale, character development-focused episode that I can really appreciate.

[8.1/10] You can have the best of intentions, try your hardest, and still fall short due to circumstances beyond your control. That’s an underexplored idea in television and film, but a truer one. Storytelling is geared toward narratives where our heroes triumph due to their pluck or luck or determination, or fail tragically due to some fatal flaw. But left to the side are stories about those who do their best, follow noble ideals, and still lose because the world is more random and complicated than for good intentions and effort alone to win the day.

That’s the type of story The Walking Dead seems to want to tell about Rick Grimes in his final season with the show. When we meet our heroes in “The Obliged” all of Rick’s grand plans seem to have deflated. Eugene tells him that despite all their efforts, the bridge won’t be finished or hold in time to withstand the rising waters. Carol is breaking up camp and, without The Saviors, planning to take all her people back to The Kingdom. And Maggie is done waiting for Rick’s plan to work and ready to take out the man who slaughtered her husband.

There’s a sense that Rick was the one with his finger in the damn, trying to hold everyone together long enough to build the bridge, trying to forge a community through common purpose, and trying to establish a higher morality for this new society. But even Rick, the man The Walking Dead has placed so much importance and nigh-magical ability to lead on, can only fight the tide for so long. Things are disintegrating, and not even the show’s short-timed protagonist can stop that.

At the same time, Michonne is trying to keep something at bay. It might grow tiresome after a while, but honestly, I wish every episode of The Walking Dead opened with one of those nigh-wordless montages. Seeing scenes of Michonne waking up in the morning, working on her town charter, looking after Judith, doing the hard, golden-lit work of founding a community by day, contrasted with her stacatto slices through zombie viscera at night, is striking and symbolic. The way the balance of those scenes starts to shift, the pace of the editing starts to quicken, tells the audience everything it needs to know about the internal push and pull between Michonne the founder and Michonne the warrior.

And then she sees a man hanging as Gregory did, and holds a bloody bat as Negan. It’s fairly blunt as symbolism, but also effective. There are two sides of Michonne: the one who exists in broad daylight and excels at leading her people and raising a daughter, and the one who stalks through the night, taming the undead and letting off steam. The visual makes clear what Michonne is feeling: the joy of building a new life and a new society, the release of the physical violence, and the fear that there’s a colder part of her, the kind that would act like Maggie or Negan, that she can’t suppress.

Of course, this being The Walking Dead, that’s not just expressed through images, but through a series of one-on-one conversations where pairs of characters layout the exact themes of the episode. But you know what? I was on board here. I don’t know if it’s just writer Geraldine Inoa, who gets her first “written by” credit here, bringing something new to the table for the show, or simply some of the show’s best actors getting to share the screen with one another, but I genuinely enjoyed most of “The Obliged”’s extended colloquies -- the sort that generally irk me.

Seeing Michonne and Negan match wits, and meditate on whether there’s a place for them as warriors or statesman or something else in the new world, clicked better than I might have expected. Again, it may just be the strength of the performers, but you feel something when Michonne goes from barely tolerating, almost mocking Negan, to rebuking him for bringing her children into this. Negan’s usual preening schtick takes on a new context when he has no power, is wearing a Sadam Hussein spiderhole beard, and is going on hunger strikes rather than issuing threats. And I couldn’t help but be a little moved when Michonne, in calm but forceful terms, disabuses Negan of the notion that her son*s* make her weak.

Because Michonne is the walking antidote to Negan. The show, as usual, underlines it a little more than I might like, but raises the point that while there’s commonalities between the two of them -- a fighter’s impulse, a self-certainty, a survival instinct that’s served them well -- Michonne believes in something bigger than herself, in a world where they don’t have to be the bad guys in order to survive or make a society. She wants to do that for Andre, for Carl, and for Judith. While the spectre of departed loved ones only make things harder for Negan, they inspire Michonne to achieve more, and that sets them apart.

The impact of the deceased is just as much an issue between Daryl and Rick, who find themselves trapped in a pit and forced by circumstance and narrative fiat to hash out their differences as well. The situation is a bit contrived, between Daryl distracting Rick from Maggie’s plot and the plummeting zombies necessitating a bit of “hooray for metaphors!” teamwork. But again, the actual conversation between the two of them is a winner, something I didn’t necessarily expect.

There’s a lot of history, tension, and affection between Rick and Daryl. Giving them a private moment to deal with that, in Rick’s last go ‘round is a good choice that pays dividends. Daryl is, traditionally, not a very emotional character, so when he tells Rick that he would die for him, that he would have died for Carl, and looks at him with the ghosts of all their dead friends in his eyes, and all the love and respect in the world, you can’t help but take it seriously and meaningfully. Daryl has been through the ringer for Rick, and he sees it as a disservice that the man he trusts more than anything in the world, would let those people, people like Glenn who made it possible for both of them to be here and find one another, die in vain.

But Rick sees it the exact opposite. He too is worried about the dearly departed, but in the other direction. He’s driven by Carl, by his son’s view of a better future, where people could set aside their differences and come together to build something bigger, kinder, and gentler. For him, letting the cycle of bloodshed continue, letting Negan become a martyr, would be a betrayal to his little boy’s memory, in the same way that letting Glenn’s killer breathe feels like a betrayal to Daryl.

And yet, of course, in the end, they help one another. Sure, there’s some strained bits about Rick having not asked for leadership, but Daryl complimenting him in his curt manner and saying maybe he should have. There’s a fairly convenient escape for the duo when the going gets rough, even if it manages to create some near-literally cliffhanger tension. And Rick has to perform one more big selfless act to try to keep it all together, resulting in a Cordelia Chase situation.

But chances are, it won’t be enough. Because it couldn’t be. The Walking Dead will shamble on, with or without Rick. So he can’t win. He can’t have solved these problems. All he can do is try: try to save people’s lives however he can, try to stop his friends and allies from losing their souls, try to hold this fragile thing together for as long as he can. It may not work. In fact, the need for conflict and challenges in the realm of longform storytelling practically guarantees it won’t. But the best version of Rick, the most admirable shade of the man who is, too often, given a “Father Knows Best” veneer, is the one who fights the good fight because it’s the good fight, even if his life is one the line, and he’s fated to come up short.

[8.6/10] Impostor syndrome. Fake it till you make it. False confidence. There are a thousand phrases and a thousand permutations that if we just project enough strength, if we just put a mask on over our doubts and insecurities, we can become, or at least embody, the things that we want to be. Inspiration can come from within, and flow out to those we’re trying to lead or impress or simply comfort.

But what if you have imposter syndrome because you are, in fact, an imposter? What if you fake it with all your might, but the odds are too stacked against you for you to “make it? What if your false confidence just gets your friends and allies killed.

That’s the reality Ezekiel grapples with in “Some Guy.” His brand, his ethos, since we met him last season, is founded on the idea that with the right inspiration, the right idea, the right star to steer it all by, you can go anywhere. As he confides to Carol in a flashback, he made a choice at a particularly fraught moment in his life, about what kind of person he wanted to be. And since then, he’s used that choice to spur on others, to build something greater than himself, and hopefully lead his people into a better life.

But what do you do when that dream falls apart? The opening seven minutes or so of “Some Guy” is some of the best, most brutal work that The Walking Dead has ever done. We see Ezekiel making that choice once more, in miniature. We see the tired, plain-clothed man getting into character, going from a regular man into a King, using that weekend matinee experience to craft this inspirational figure.

And he rallies his troops. He promises them victory. He fills their hearts and minds with hope and confidence, with the idea that this act will help bring them about. It leads to a performance, a Shakespearean halftime speech that puts Rick’s earlier attempt at the same thing to shame. And it leads to the denizens of The Kingdom rallying around their king.

Then, just as quickly, the episode match cuts to a pile of corpses on the ground.

It’s a brutal, brutal cut. The image of Ezekiel emerging from that pile of dead bodies, gazing at the fallen comrades he walked into this fate, and then looking on as they slowly but surely rise from their decimated states and begin to walk and stalk as is the grim fashion of the age, bores into you. This is what has become of Ezekiel’s well-meaning bravado, of his pie-in-the-sky promises meant to ensure the opposite result. And the grisly scene understandably shakes him, and devastates him.

That’s the thematic pull of the episode. Where do you go, who do you become, when the fantasy you’ve created is punctured and spills blood on your hands. And it’s a compelling one. But “Some Guy” also works on a nuts and bolts storytelling level. In contrast to the first three episodes of the season, it zeroes in on two plots: Ezekiel escaping that lurching horde full of his own men outside the compound, and Carol escaping the lingering Saviors within it, until those stories collide. It creates a throughline for the episode that helps support the headier themes at play.

In the process, The Walking Dead gives us some damn good set pieces, with some well-crafted action movie moments. Ezekiel’s broken leg creates a notable obstacle to the challenges from Savior and Walker alike. The moments where he seems likely to be done in by a captor, only to be saved at the last minute by Jerry, where Carol gets into firefights with the latest crop of Negan goons, where Shiva springs into action to save them, have the right blend of thrilling action and thematic resonance.

Amid these slowly dovetailing stories, “Some Guy” even drops in a pretty badass car chase with Rick and Daryl vs. the Saviors from that same compound. The attempt to prevent those Saviors from getting their weaponry to The Sanctuary creates a clear goal, and between near misses with Daryl, shootouts with Rick, and car-hopping, truck-crashing mayhem, the episode crafts a setpiece that keeps your heart pumping even if it feels a bit tangential to the broader material of the episode.

But what’s so great about the other set pieces is how well the fit into the essential question that the episode is asking. Ezekiel believes himself a failure because his attempts at inspiration led to the deaths of scores of his followers. But while it’s yet to sink in, he’s given example after example of the ways in which what he exemplified, more than what he represented, still made him worthy of being followed.

That first comes in Jerry’s last minute save. Ezekiel, as he does throughout the episode, tells his friends to simply run, to leave him behind, because his injured leg will only slow them down. Instead, they stay and help and fight over his protestations. And despite Ezekiel’s attempts to push back, to say that he doesn’t deserve to be called their king, Jerry remains steadfast, not because of some elegant image Ezekiel has crafted for himself, but because he’s simply a “good dude,” a terminology that cuts through the King’s grandiose presentation and reaches the heart of what he was trying to do.

It also comes in Carol making a choice that parallels the one Ezekiel made with Shiva. After finding a sharp way to outsmart the Saviors she’s embroiled in a standoff, Carol faces a dilemma of her own. Either she can take out the remaining pair of antagonists and ensure that their powerful guns don’t make it back to Negan, or she can let them go in order to save Ezekiel. The Carol we know might tend toward the former choice, reasoning that two lives, even the lives of friends, are not worth the lives that those guns in the hand of The Saviors could cost. But instead she chooses to save the man who helped give her a lifeline in a time of crisis, who’s helped her to internalize that sense of altruism over her effective but brutal (and often fistpump-worthy) pragmatism.

And it comes with Shiva, who offers the last save of the episode. As Ezekiel, Carol, and Jerry attempt to cross a muddy brook, riddled with walkers, Shiva comes out of nowhere at the last second to fight and ultimately sacrifice herself that they may live. It is a hard moment for Ezekiel, almost as hard as returning to The Kingdom and having to look into the eyes of a child whose father he just saw reduced to a pile of fetid flesh.

But therein lies the cinch of “Some Guy.” Ezekiel will, as is the spirit du jour of The Walking Dead, no doubt be haunted by what happened here, no doubt blame himself for using his stories and speeches to send these men and women into battle and ultimately to their deaths. He will likely hold himself responsible, and argue that his embellishments only convinced good people to follow a lie.

And yet, what “Some Guy” reveals is that this theatricality, this impostorhood, this lie, was founded on a truth, a truth about who Ezekiel is and what he stood for, that overcomes any sense that Ezekiel filled his followers’ heads with nothing. He gave them hope; he gave them a reason to go on, and with their help, built a community to sustain them. The choices he made come back to him -- not as much the choice to put tokens in your hair or armor beneath your jacket, but the ones to rescue wounded animals, to be a just and kind leader, to show the same kindness and understanding to strangers. Those are what truly made Ezekiel a king, regardless of what he wears, or how he speaks, or who’s left to follow.

[6.7/10] Fault is a slippery concept. It’s bundled up with intention, result, and a host of other complicating factors that affect whom we blame and whom we absolve. Some people wrong us, and don’t intend to. Some people mean to hurt us and give us what we need. And some people simply twist in the wind, unsure where they are or where they’ll end up. How we credit and blame others for such things says as much about us as it does about the person whose actions we’re trying to figure out.

But so does how we move past that, whether we’re blaming others or blaming ourselves. How we try to avoid or overcome the bad blood, the hurt feelings, the guilt, can decide how long it weighs on us. In “The Other Side,” Daryl blames himself, Gregory bends over backwards to avoid blame, and Sasha and Rosita hash their shared, awkward part in Abraham’s life and death, and what comes next.

It’s a solid idea, but a weaker hour in Season 7. The meat of the episode centers on the fraught relationship between Sasha and Rosita, and while each of the characters is decent enough, they don’t have much chemistry together, leaving the many scenes they share feeling uneven and miscalibrated. So many moments in this episode simply feature two people going back and forth, and when there’s not a connection between the real people having the conversation, those moments quickly suffer.

That may be part of why the episode’s most effective scene was the final one between Daryl and Maggie. The dialogue between them is as trite as anything in the rest of the episode, but in keep their scenes together short, “The Other Side” keeps them punchy and affecting enough before the emotion in the moment from being stretched too thin.

It makes sense that Daryl would refuse to look at Maggie because he blames himself for Glenn’s death. There was a clear warning; Daryl acted, and someone who’d been with him from nearly the beginning died because of it. Despite his warrior’s bent, Daryl is a surprisingly sensitive individual, and it’s not hard to imagine him looking at Maggie and only seeing what he took away from her.

But Maggie gives him absolution. She tells him it wasn’t his fault. However much he sees himself as an avenging angel now, all the more ready to kill to prevent a death like Glenn’s from ever happening again, she tells him to hang onto himself. She calls him one of the good things left in this world, like Glenn was, and her embrace is one of comfort and of strength, that forgives Daryl his trespasses in a way that only a grieving loved one can.

Gregory, however, has no interest in absolution, no interest in carrying the burden of lives lost or saved under his watch. He simply wants to protect his own interests, to keep himself in whatever small amount of power he has. He’s willing to kowtow to anyone, to sell anyone out, to write off any blame or shame as owing to forces beyond his control, in order to ensure things stay that way.

I’ve come to appreciate Gregory as a character. It’s not my favorite performance on the show, but there’s something true to life about him. He is not pure evil like The Saviors. He is not nearly as avaricious as some of the antagonists who’ve peppered The Walking Dead. He is the sort of person who would emerge in a setting like this – a petty tyrant with delusions of grandeur.

While Negan, however horribly flawed he is, shares Gregory’s narcissism, he’s backed it up with his horrid empire. Gregory is the man who shakes hands with power and thinks himself power. He is the quisling, the one who’s cowed but prides himself on being the plumpest bovine at the slaughterhouse. His doomed haughtiness, his faith placed in the wrong places, makes him as intriguing a foil as he is an ineffective schemer.

It helps that he’s often paired with Simon, who seems to find a new level of cheery unctuousness each time he appears. This visit to The Hilltop sees him absconding with their local doctor to replace the one at The Saviors’ compound. (Apparently they’re brothers, in a detail that adds next to nothing to the proceedings here.) Gregory complains to him that he’ll be blamed, that he’ll lose his people’s trust, if this goes down, and that he could be replaced with someone less accommodating.

Simon writes him a “pass” to the Saviors’ compound, and with this imaginary get out of jail free card, one sure to backfire should Gregory ever try to use it, Gregory tries to intimidate Jesus. (Jesus, meanwhile, finally feels like he belongs, which is in no way convenient or setup for him to step up when things inevitably go south with Gregory.) There’s a foolhardiness to the attempt. Gregory’s no chess master, and his threats and misplaced faith in The Saviors to save him from facing the consequences of any blame will no doubt leave him sipping far less tequila.

And then there’s Sasha and Rosita. It’s nice, in principle, that The Walking Dead is having the two of them address the bad blood between them. And there are some good moments between them where the tension between them is present but set aside for their shared goal. But the whole frenemy setup is a weaker one, and neither Sonequa Martin-Green or Christian Serratos can elevate it through performance alone.

That becomes most clear in the scene where they’re enjoying relative safety and have their heart-to-heart. (Really, this could be called “Heart-to-Heart: The Episode!”) We get some perfunctory backstory on Rosita. It turns out she’s so capable because she would drift from guy to guy after the outbreak hit, sticking around long enough to learn whatever skill they had while they were trying to “protect” her, and leaving when she’d mastered it.

But Abraham, apparently, was different. There’s truth and complexity in the moment where she attributes her anger to the fact that Abraham seemed to adjust to life in Alexandria, to not being on the run, while she needed more time to “figure shit out.” It gives shape and depth to her relationship with him, and makes her pain and disillusionment this season more real. And it adds tragedy to the sense that, as she tells Sasha, she was happy that he was happy.

The problem is that, as often hobbles The Walking Dead, the scene is also filled with trite truisms and forehead-slapping dialogue. It’s a long scene, much like the one between Morgan and Richard last week, and it serves the same purpose – to setup and explain the dramatic choice made at the end of the episode. It’s a moment of bonding for Rosita and Sasha, one that makes them part of the same thing rather than opposing forces. That’s a nice idea, even if the episode’s realization of it leaves something to be desired.

The finish to the episode is more setup than resolution. Eugene reaffirms his loyalty to Negan. Sasha rushes into the compound and keeps her comrade out of it so that she may live to fight another day. And Rosita crosses Dwight’s path. These are all steps as much steps toward the next chapter of the story as they are cappers to this one.

Still, the episode is at its best when it depicts its central figures understanding the titular “Other Side” beyond the attribution of fault that haunts them. It stands for Gregory, whose alliances begin to shift to a group who will no doubt set him adrift when he’s no longer useful. It stands for Daryl, who can, perhaps, start to forgive himself after seeing how Maggie’s forgiven him. And it stands for Rosita, who bares her soul, tells her side of the story, and is given, whether she wants it or not, the chance live for something else, no matter whose fault it is.

There’s an old chestnut that goes that the best villains are the ones who believe they’re the heroes of their own stories. That’s the question I have for Negan after “Sing Me a Song,” an episode of The Walking Dead that spends more time acquainting us with him and his fiefdom. There are times when it seems like he believes he’s doing a good thing here, bringing civilization back to an untamed world. There are others when it feels like he’s just enjoying living in his own twisted version of Disneyland. It’s unclear which version of that he really believes, or is even aware of, but that ambiguity helps make him TWD’s most interesting villain yet.

“Sing Me a Song” reaffirms Negan as a fundamentally bad person, but also one who is full of contradictions, who seems to live by various principles (or at least rationalizes that he does), but whose actions often conflict with them.

For example, one of the things we learn about Negan here is that he has an almost fanatical devotion to the rules. Those rules conveniently never result in any harm to him, but he posits himself not as some sort of tyrannical dictator, but rather as a diligent steward, simply enforcing the previously established, well-understood rules of the road. Nevermind that Negan himself very likely created those rules, or that they’re inevitably tilted in his favor, the leader of The Saviors sees himself as merely dutifully abiding by the laws that are best for everyone.

There’s social commentary in that and the idea that people in power miss the underlying inequities of systems that just so happen to benefit them, while hiding behind the notion that they’re simply following the rules, regardless of whether those rules reinforce that system. But even taken purely as text and not subtext, it becomes unclear whether Negan truly believes what he spouts to his cowed masses or not.

Because there’s times when Negan seems to buy his own lines. We finally learn the origin of the term “Saviors” as used by his group. It’s founded on the idea that they are saving civilization through their intervention. It’s not hard to imagine Negan viewing himself as the embodiment of Thomas Hobbes’s Leviathan, preventing anarchy and protecting the harshest realities of the state of nature by creating a threat of force to keep everyone following the law, for the benefit of all. He is, in some respects, a slanted realization of that view of the role of government, one where it holds a monopoly on the use of force, to keep people working for a collective good rather than an individual good, gone more than a little mad. That sunny side of that system is what Negan preaches to his people -- that the rules, which he is so committed to enforcing, make life better for everyone.

But it also works well as propaganda, perfectly tailored to keep people lower on the totem pole in line, either out of a fear of what happens when the rules are broken, or because they truly internalize the idea that this is the proper organization of people and civilization. So it’s hard to tell whether Negan genuinely sees himself as a benevolent leader doing what’s necessary to keep everyone safe, or if it’s a useful fiction that keeps the gravy train that works to his benefit in perpetual motion, if he even knows himself. Perhaps it’s even a little of each, with Negan believing the way of life he presents as what’s best for everyone on balance, while suitably content to gloss over the rougher edges of that philosophy to continue his life in the lap of relative luxury.

Part of what points the needle in the direction of propaganda, however, is the fact that the qualities he respects and admires run entirely contrary to his Hobbesian perspective. Negan positions himself as the ultimate enforcer, someone who represents the barbed-wire carrying arm of the law, but he has the most appreciation for and the most interest in the people who stand up to him, the ones who, in effect, break his rules.

That’s why he takes in Daryl after getting punched in the face by him, claiming that he’ll make a good soldier. And that’s why, in this episode, he starts trying to groom Carl rather than taking him out after he engineers a bold but somewhat cavalier assassination attempt against Negan. Negan respects people who aren’t afraid, who are badasses, who stand up in the face of pure, merciless force and are undeterred. He won’t tolerate it -- he can’t or, to his mind, in his rule-bound system the whole thing would fall apart -- but damnit if he doesn’t respect it.

So he is a man who both puts the rules above all else, or at least feigns that idea, whether with his rank-and-file workers or his “wives,” but gravitates toward the people who are not cowed by them, who stand up to the system he has so painstakingly and so brutally established out of the factory we see in gross for the first time.

That complexity comes through most clearly in Jeffrey Dean Morgan’s performance. I’ve talked about that aspect of Negan a bit already this season, but it bears repeating. The thing that elevates Negan from the other scores of mostly underwhelming antagonists this show has featured is not just the way the character and his dialogue are written. In other hands, Negan could easily be simply too much. (And, to be fair, sometimes he is.)

But Morgan brings a magnetism to the role, managing to cycle through what appears to be genuine joy, quickly rising anger, feigned benevolence, and slimy, chipper menace, oftentimes all within the same scene. Like the season premiere, “Sing Me a Song” frequently feels like a showcase for Morgan’s performance as Negan, letting his scenes breathe, not only to milk the tension as Negan shows Carl around, introducing him and the audience to The Savior’s headquarters, but to put the talents of the actor front and center.

Which is why, perhaps, every time we cut away from Savior HQ to check in on the other survivors out in the world, it’s not quite as compelling. But there’s a common thread the rest of those stories, something that unites the mini-plots for folks we haven’t seen in a little while thematically, even as they seem a little disjointed. They center on the people who are willing to act, the kind of people whom Negan seems to respect, even as he puts even more strictures and shows of force the tamp down on such things.

We see Michonne (in a delightful homage to The Wire) whistling as she constructs a roadblock, commandeers a car, and instructs her hostage to take her to Negan. We see Rosita browbeat Eugene into making her a bullet to the same end, arguing that he is weak and never really acts. While Rick’s and Spencer’s parts of the episode seem more like table-setting for events down the line, there’s a thematic throughline centering on the idea of who’s willing to stand up and do something, even in the face of Negan’s harshly-enforced strictures.

The result is an episode that sets up a “Who Shot Mr. Burns”-esque sort of tension around Negan. So many people have a reason and a plan to kill him. Michonne is on her way. Rosita has her bullet. Daryl is angry and now loose. Jesus has made his way into the Saviors’ compound. Carl already tried once and is at Negan’s side. Dwight is forced to watch Negan kiss his wife, and seems to be having second thoughts about this arrangement. And when the occasionally impulsive Rick returns to Alexandria, he will see this ghoul of a man holding his young daughter. There are enough folks out there ready to get revenge, ready to stop him and all of this, that there’s intrigue in what seems like an inevitable reckoning, and the question of who will make the attempt.

But before that happens, we have to spend a little more time getting to know this man, trying to understand how he thinks. Is he, at least in his own mind, a hero? At times, he seems to think so. He’s not shy about the fact that this new order has been good to him, but when he makes his little pitch to Carl, he talks about remaking the world, making it better. Negan is a man who takes what he wants, but who puts on the airs of respectability, who justifies his particular brand of feudalism as some kind of justice, some manner of improvement on the way things used to be.

Still he toys with people. It’s unclear whether what appear to be occasional moments of compassion or restraint from him are legitimate, calculated, manipulative, or self-delusions. We know this much about Negan -- he is a terrible person, who has managed to concoct a method of organizing and taking from people that manages to sustain a miniature empire and feather his own nest, at the cost of many other people’s hard work and a great deal of bloodshed.

But what we don’t know, and the question for which “Sing Me a Song” offers many conflicting indications, is whether he knows he’s a terrible person, baldly reveling in the unchecked power and unbounded hedonism he enjoys under the pretense of good governance, or if he truly believes that he is making this new world a better place, showing kindness and mercy where he can, and only reluctantly doling out punishments to preserve the system when he must. Negan may be the tyrant with no delusions about the fig leaf he uses to legitimize his rule, or he may be a different sort of villain, the kind who genuinely thinks they’re the moral champion of the story, as a day of reckoning grows nearer and nearer.

[7.5/10] “The Harvest” takes a number of pages out of the George Romero zombie playbook, and it’s an appropriate tack for the second installment of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Romero’s Night of the Living Dead and its progeny were nominally amount the creeping monsters who used to be your friends and loved ones and the boilerplate horror of them attacking, but they were also stand-ins for any number of real life issues. Racism, consumerism, militarism, and much more were addressed through those reanimated corpses. It fits, then, that BtVS embraces its cinematic forebear in doing the same with its own set of undead villains.

To the point, the Real Life Problem™ this week is Buffy having to sneak out of school and then her house because of parents and school adminstrators alike worrying about her falling back into trouble. In lieu of genuine bad behavior, the actions that get Buffy crosswise with her assorted authority figures, whether it’s the principal or her mom, are her slaying duties. But it still has the tone of the rebellious teen surreptitiously getting out of the house to go down the local hangout.

That “supernatural as a stand-in for the real issue” setup works with the more literal call outs to Night of the Living Dead as well. The sequence in the sewers pays direct homage, with Buffy and Xander trying to hold the door up against grasping hands, and a mob of lurching creatures emerging around every corner to flush them out. It allows Whedon & company to create an appropriately tense atmosphere and action set piece in the show’s early going, with the vampire creating the same creeping sense of dread while they advance on our heroes that their zombie counterparts do.

But “The Harvest” also addresses one of the oldest and yet most salient tropes in the zombie genre – the notion of something you have to kill that still resembles someone you care about. Xander’s struggles when facing Jesse, and Giles’s warning that the scoobies are not fighting their friend, but rather “the thing that killed him” play in the emotional difficulty of having to take out a creature that, however much you rationally tell yourself is evil, still looks and sounds like your old buddy. The episode wrings a bit of power out of that, and it sets up something important for Xander.

As the painfully written and acted scene where the newly-dubbed Angel gives Buffy some tips portends, BtVS will play around with the idea of “good vampires,” or at least less-bad vampires running around. But Xander is always the slowest to adjust, the most likely to resist accepting them or helping them. While there’s rational reasons for that – even the best vampires in the show’s universe have killed and can be unpredictable – in retrospect it feels like an emotional response to this first killing. Xander is pained and upset that these creatures took his friend; he’s angry that they not only turned someone he cared about into another monster but that they made it so that he was a snack to his old buddy and had to kill him himself. Xander harbors a resentment for that which rarely, if ever, seems to leave him.

Jesse’s turn in the episode also plays in that “real issues brought to life with monsters” space. His transition is a dark-edged version of the Teen Wolf movie (which, in hindsight, seemed to represent the tone the director of the Buffy the Vampire Slayer movie was going for, over Whedon’s objections). Jesse suddenly has the confidence to go after Cordelia in earnest after being consistently rebuffed by her, and despite some pushback, she actually seems receptive to the new him. There’s some semi-uncomfortable commentary there, draped in nice guy vs. alpha male rhetoric, but maybe it’s just a critique of Cordelia who’s not exactly put up as a laudable person to woo here.

His turn also plays on one of the things “The Harvest” and BtVS does best, which would quickly set the show apart from its brethren – subversion and surprise. It’s easy to forget it when you know how the episode goes, but the twist that Buffy and Xander think they’ve rescued Jesse, only to discover that he’s been turned and leading them to a trap, is a nice little reversal that catches the audience off guard.

By the same token, Buffy’s confrontation with Luke at the bronze uses some generic genre action beats. The villain takes over, monologues for a little bit, only to be upended by a quip from the good guy, and a scuffle ensues. But it’s the shape that scuffle takes that makes it novel and interesting. Buffy faking out Luke by exposing him to “sunlight,” only to distract him enough with the ruse to take him out the old fashioned way, is a clever way to end the fight, and shows the inventive bent Whedon & Co. take to classics and clichés.

The nuts and bolts of the episode are a microcosm of the things the show had figured out and the things it was still nailing down. It’s impressive how well-formed the dynamic among Buffy, Willow, Xander, and Giles is already. Their banter in the library is, perhaps, off a half-step or so, but very recognizable and amusing. The world-building and description of the hellmouth are a little rote, but offer a solid enough setup for The Master and the events to come, which fit into a “here’s the ancient problem, now let’s find a solution” blueprint the show would return to repeatedly.

On the other hand, the show can’t always escape the orbit of its clichés and sillier bits. The scene with Cordelia and Willow in the computer lab is pure 80s teen comedy material. The same goes for most scenes featuring Cordelia and Angel, the former sounding a little too stereotypical in her takedowns of Buffy (to Harmony!) and the latter still generally unable to act his way out of a paper bag. And The Master is a mixed bag himself. Sometimes his friendly malevolence suggests the show laying the groundwork for a certain big bad yet to come, but sometimes he hams it up with bad puns that recall a maligned scene from the recent Rogue One film.

Still, in just its second outing, BtVS is much more assured and confident than in the pilot. Borrowing from the greats like Romero, whether its in direct references, familiar tropes, or the general spirit of genre-as-subtext, helps boost the episode and give it more focus and potency. There’s still growing pains, but “The Harvest” is a good introduction to what the show could do well, if not the best realization of its potential.

Pros
+Daenerys feeling betrayed and the talk with Jon about how she doesn't inspire love in the Seven Kingdoms so she has to resort to fear. fucking excellent dialogue.
+Jaime once again being chained to a pole and Tyrion returning the favor to him
+Cleganebowl was good, maybe not as amazing as it could've been but it was more that satisfying
+Euron fighting Jaime
+Stalemate in the city
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Dany's fury Particularly from Jon and Arya's viewpoints, was amazing
+Acting was WAAAAAAAY stronger than normal

Neutral
*Varys' death was kinda fast but it had to be
*First part of the battle was fine, nice of the writers to take the heat seeking missiles off of the ballistae
*Not crazy about Jaime returning to save Cersei as a storyline but it does make sense

Cons
-Golden Company had no point

Fuck any of the brainlets who say Dany is acting against character. Remember that part about her being raised by her psychotic brother, or when she walked into a big ass fire expecting to die, or when she threatened to burn down Qarth moments after arriving there while her dragons were still babies, or when she just gave all of slavers bay to a mercenary because she broke up with him, or how she has a savior complex and resents anyone who doesn’t immediately accept her as queen, or how she’s gradually becoming less and less accepting of criticism while being more sure of her “destiny” to rule, or when she killed Sam's family instead of imprisoning/ransoming them or how she continues to try to bang her nephew. Yeah, this came out of nowhere though lmao. She's always had that edge, seems fair that watching her best friend get her head chopped off set her just over. This isn't to say she's completely crazy either, she very well could justify making an example of King's Landing in order to inspire fear in the rest of the Realm. Remember, just because a show doesn't do what you want it to do doesn't make it bad or not make sense.

Very disappointing episode. Anyone saying it’s the best episode of this show is just caught up in the hype.

Visually, this episode was fantastic. And as a stand-alone episode, it was very good. But when you take this as an episode of Game of Thrones and think about everything that led to this, it’s undeniably disappointing.

Barely anyone died. Most of the characters had super thick plot armour. Lots of plot holes. Anti-climactic ending. I don’t mind that Arya killed the Night King. I also don’t mind how it happened. But for it to happen so soon... the army of the dead have been hyped up since season 1 as the true enemy, and we were told that they were the most dangerous army in the show. Yet all they accomplished was the deaths of a few side characters. It’s pathetic compared to the feats of other characters and armies in past seasons. The Night King should have taken Winterfell and killed at least a few main characters. The survivors should have them retreated somewhere and then beat the Night King in a later episode. The Night King and the army of the dead did not come across as very threatening by the end of this episode. They were unable to kill any main characters, and they were defeated in the first proper battle they took part in.

Very disappointing. My rating is only as high as it is because of the great visuals and the value of the episode as a stand-alone piece of television.

That reuninion of the Starks after so long, after so many seasons was so rewarding. And yet they all clearly showed the distance that has grown in between them during that time. Such great acting.

And wow that duel between Arya and Brienne was so amazing! I loved seeing the two different styles and the mutual respect that appeared after. That delightful smirk of Sansa and her answer of "no one" was perfect.

The cave scene was great for two reason. 1) I also loved the chemistry between Daenerys's and Jon Snow was great in the cave. Besides deepening the backdrop of the almost forgotten children of the forest lore (for me anyways), it 2) strengthened Jon's case that the White Walkers are REAL. The blue eyes in the cave drawing and that music was great at reminding me of the battle at Long Lake- in that eerie and terrifying finale where all the dead rose again as Jon rowed away from the beach.

I honestly thought that Jon was gonna tell Daenerys to attack King's Landing. The response he made started so neutral in the beginning I didn't think he was gonna say to not go. Besides that I loved the tension between Theon and Jon was great as well. There's so much tension going back and forth in this series now that there's a longer history of betrayals and cruelties this season is turning out to be really exciting.

This battle at the end totally exceeded my expectations. Small battle- another loss like the short conclusive clips of the Casterly Rock battle and in the seas with the Greyjoys.

That moment when u hear the thunder I knew the Dothraki where coming~ what I didn't expect was to see a dragon......HOLY SHIT LOL those precious seconds before the dragon spew fire was glorious. Was really anxious during the whole battle to see if any of my favorite characters would be killed. Danerys was there, Jamie was there, Tyrion was there, . Knowing that GoT has no qualms about killing main characters made this battle extremely tense. xD

Having Tyrion there and Jamie on the same battlefield also brought huge tension. Add into addition the new ballista as well as that shot into the dragon made me think Daenerys was done for. Then I thought Jamie was done for from that fire breath. Honestly this battle had me on the edge of my seat the whole battle. Jeezus.

8.5/10. Blood of my blood. The title gives it away. One could say this every week about a show so centered around familial legacy, but this episode of Game of Thrones in particular circles around familial connections, between parents and children and the other ties of kin that pull us into place and break our hearts in the process. These people save us, help us, make us stronger, but they also have a unique capacity to wound us, to frustrate us, and to unravel us.

Nowhere does the episode explore all sides of this than more than Sam's return visit to Horn Hill, which proved to be the most magnificent slice of the episode, despite the smaller stakes and lack of major reveals. Much of the time on Game of Thrones is spent focused on the larger machinations of the plot. Even when we're not devoting time to the dragons or magic or other fantastical elements of the world, we're focused on the stakes of not just the individual characters, but on the titular game of thrones as different players vie for power, and on the existential threat coming from the north.

Despite this, Sam's visit home has the feeling of something apart. There's no magic at play. While his stop is intended as a respite for Gilly and Sam Jr. on Sam's way to the Citadel to earn his maester's chain and ostensibly help Jon, there's little larger relevance to it when it comes to the show's overarching story. Instead, it's a quiet character piece, one whose chief purpose is to tell us more about who Sam is, where he came from, and what he's become since he left home.

To that end, in many ways the scenes at Horn Hill feel more like a costume drama, something of a piece with Downton Abbey than with the swords and sorcery and political intrigue of business as usual on GoT. It's a pleasant departure, and it feels so unique because it puts the focus on something very rare within the world of Westeros, at least the part of it we're privy to -- an intact family, and the harshness and difficulties that can exist within them even when your kin are not being torn apart from one another by rivals and medieval honor.

So we see Sam embraced by his mother and sister. We see his Wildling bride, clearly not the type of highborn lady who might be expected to meet with their approval, welcomed as a daughter and a sister into their homes. We see little Sam Jr., held by his grandmother and promised the world, spoken of with love and told he'll one day be great like his father. In the beautiful open air of Horn Hill, family is a kind embrace and a welcome home.

And then they all sit at that table. And the silence and tension is thick. And Sam and his brother make small talk, and Gilly struggles with her knife and fork, and a perfectly cast Lord Randyll Tarly scowls at the head of the table. All of a sudden, a conflict between Sam's old family and his new one occurs. Lord Tarly barks and growls at his son, calls him fat, a disappointment, unworthy of his mother and his name. Sam looks down, confessing later that he worried his father would not take his erstwhile wife and child in. But Gilly will not stand for it. She's seen him be more than measure up as the kind of man his father claims he'll never be. He's defended Gilly and Sam from worse than any horror Lord Tarly is likely to face. But the head of House Tarly continues to debase his son, continues to tear him down in the way that only a father can. And at that table, family is judgment and pain and something to suck you back down into who you used to be.

Finally, Sam goes to say goodbye to Gilly and Sam Jr. He is a defeated man. He's capitulating to a father who hates him in the hopes of protecting the people he cares for. There was something so unbelievably endearing about he and Gilly's walk to dinner, like a pair of teenagers dressed to the nines, stumbling off to the prom like baby deer. They keep each other up, and now he feels he has to leave her. He kisses her, and walks out that door, and seems to be giving in to his father's assessment of his life, love, and worth.

But then he comes barreling back through the door and declares that he's taking Gilly and Sam with him to the Citadel. They are his loved ones now, and it's them who make him feel like the man he is, who enervate him to become stronger and do more rather than be resigned to the weakness Lord Tarly ascribed to his first born son. Sam takes House Tarly's valerian steel sword, claiming his birthright and his place as a Tarly worth of the honor. He brings his wife and his son and storms off to claim his own destiny, to forge his own kin apart from the man who degrades him. And here, family is strength; family is the future; and family is love and devotion once more.

But in King's Landing, choices that strain the relations between father and son do not move only in one direction. As Jamie leads the Tyrell army to the steps of the Sept, ready to take back Margaery and Loras and Lancel, he challenges the High Sparrow. The crowd jeers as the spears and shields are raised and conflict seems imminent. Then, the High Sparrow reveals his trump card. Out walks Tommen, Jamie's son, to announce a union between the Crown and the Faith.

Olenna, the grand dame of Game of Thrones announces in memorable fashion that they've been outflanked. The High Sparrow is craftier than anyone in the Red Keep imagined. He found how to get to the king -- through his mother and through his wife. And now the group that Cersei brought into the fold has taken over, has the ear of her son. Jamie is stripped of his command and sent off to Riverrun. Though Tommen does not wield the kind of hatred Lord Tarly does, he too has his kin before him and deems him unworthy, and though Jamie doesn't blame his son, he's clearly infuriated.

It's then that his sister calms his nerves. She too is aghast at their son having been swayed by the Sparrows, but she has a plan to retake control. As uncomfortable as it is to see, Jamie and Cersei are blood as well, and when they describe one another as the only two people in the world, it is an affirmation, to an extreme degree, that their family is all that matters.

And in one of the episode's most striking scenes, Arya actually seems to understand Cersei for just a moment. When she's prodded by the actress whom she admires to explain how she would change the stage-Cersei's response to her son's death, there's a moment of recognition. Arya says that Cersei loves her son more than anything, so she wouldn't just be sad, she would be angry and want to kill the people responsible. And as Arya witnessed her father killed in King's Landing and felt those same emotions, it's a stark moment of maturity and growth from Arya, an understanding that she and Cersei are not as different as they might seem, that they both felt strong connections to their family, to their loved ones, and were moved to shake the world on its axis in order to defend and avenge them.

The way the actress helped her reach that realization, to remember who she is and how she started on this journey, helps her to cast aside her mission. She is not no one. She is a Stark. And Starks are not murderers for hire. Her father taught her to be someone with honor, even if honor in Westeros is a fractured, fragile thing. Like Sam, she reclaims her sword, and with it, her birthright and heritage. She is not simply a girl; she is Arya Stark, and carries with her all that it means.

And even that is not the last of the familial bonds shown to be brought closer and exploited in "Blood of My Blood." A long absent Walder Frey admonishes his sons for failing to hold Riverrun. He summons Lord Edmure, his prisoner since the Red Wedding, in order to hold power over his father, The Blackfish. He too speaks of his legacy, of the way his children have disappointed him, and how they can use the connection between a father and son to defeat the Blackfish.

And the mother of dragons returns to her "son." Named after Dany's fallen husband, Drogon is indeed the blood of Targaryen blood. While the CGI is still a little shaky, only someone with that sort of bond of kinship can ride the back of a dragon. She is strengthened by this connection, made greater and more powerful by her "child." She tells the Dothraki who have followed her into these desert mountains that though Khals of the past have taken only a few bloodriders to protect their leader, she will not be so constrained. They will all be her bloodriders; they are all her children, and they are all the blood of her blood.

Finally, when Bran Stark seems done for, when the wights are about to engulf him and Meera and extinguish the fire they have begun, a mysterious cloaked figure emerges, wielding a fire and a scythe and defeating the undead warriors in impressive fashion. After he takes them to safety, he has Bran drink the blood of his kill to fortify himself. And he reveals that he too is the blood of Bran's blood. He is Benjen Stark, Bran's Uncle, who has been saved and turned by the Children and called to be the latest of Bran's protectors. Unseen since the first episode of the show, Benjen is a welcome return, who shows that, as Arya demonstrated, the blood of the Starks still flows across the land, even if it's threatening to freeze.

For the first time in forever, it feels as though the pieces are falling into place as we moved toward the end game for Game of Thrones. Dany wonders who would have the ships she needs to take the Seven Kingdoms just as Yara and Theon are heading her way with a fleet of them. Benjen once again shows the effect that fire has on the Wights as we see, halfway across the world, a queen ride a dragon. Long forgotten corners of Westeros, from Walder Frey, to Balon Greyjoy, to the Blackfish, emerge once more poised to make their impact on the major stories of this world. Jon and Sansa are poised to rally their allies to retake Winterfell, Arya is ready to return to her former mission, and Bran has been reunited with his family as more of the ever-expanding world of Game of Thrones starts to come to a head.

And in the midst of all this, we are reminded that from the nation-altering strife of the king and his parents, to the simple, sweet moments between a disowned son who hopes to do better by his own adopted child, these events are shaped by families great and small. There is no doubt much more blood to be spilled in the game of thrones, but its current pulls each of the players across their great land, and makes them stronger, more devoted, more certain, more powerful, and helps to clarify who they are and where they belong within it.

Be kind to your giants. Be kind to your dragons. Be kind to your enforcers and lieutenants and underlings and the little people who, unbeknownst to you, loom quite large. Because these individuals have power, power that you may not recognize, power that you may take for granted, but power that may be turned against you or which you may find yourself sorely needing at some point.

No one is kinder, if cautious, on that front, than Tyrion. His quiet scene with Dany's two remaining dragon was the highlight of a fairly-action pakced, eevntful episode for the simplicity and ension in the moment. perhaps Tyion is uniquely suited for dragon training, for earning the trust of superior beasts. He is, after all, someone who has had to get by on disarming people with his wits and charm rather than with his sword, and as he noted when we first met him, he has a particular appreciation for the unique and broken things across Westeros.

So when he approaches those dragons, tells him that he is their friend, that he came to unchain them, and shows that he respects and admires them, they grant him their approval. They lean down and allow him to remove the iron around their necks. it's a moment fraught with tension (bookended with Tyrion's trademark hilarious bon mots), where the fact that at any moment, these massive creatures could turn their heads and snap up Tyrion like drumstick makes Tyrion's subtle bravery in even walking into that cave noteworthy. It's shot in shadow, making the dragons seem al the more hallowed and important, and Tyrion all the smaller in the process. But Tyrion's always someone who could see the power coming from unexpected places, who's been able to cut through the haughtiness of his last name and understand when things big and small were coming to upset their apple cart. He's as good a symbol as any for someone who recognizes strength, who respects what other people disregard or fear, and finding out how to earn respect, or at least survive because of it.

The opening few scenes of the episode each feature large, powerful men who are capable of inspiring fear, and who possess the physical strength that gives men some measure of power in the harsh environs of Game of Thrones. The first is Hodor, whom Bran sees in a flashback to his father's youth, speaking and moving around and dismissed as a stable bo. bran is dependent on Hodor, to move, as a silent protector and companion whom, in many ways, he's taken for granted. Bran has used him for combat, treated him as more of a tool than a person, but he starts to realize that there is, or at least was, more to Hodor.

Then the episode tacitly contrasts Bran and Hodor with Cesei and Robert Strong. While Bran uses his giant to help, to do what he cannot in terms of transportation and movement and the like, Cersei uses hers as protection and for vengeance. The reanimated brute destroys a brewhouse braggart in the alleyway behind the pub for daring to besmirch his lady's name. His imposing visage is put forward against the King's Guard, and intimidates the lot of them, even as they stand their ground. It's clear that while Hodor is a gentle creature, someone who arose from some trauma but retained a sweet disposition and became something helpful and useful for good, Robert Strong is his opposite, a reconstituted Frankenstein who is only a weapon, a hulking implement of war created only to wreak havoc.

But there's a third giant to be considered -- a real one. When Ser Davos and his loyalists are protecting Jon Snow's body, when Thorne's men are banging down the door, and the threat feels very real and very intense, in come the wildlings, with Wun-wun in tow. Initially, there is simply a standoff. But one foolish member of the watch shoots an arrow at the larger than life warrior, who proceeds to manhandle his attacker, smashing him across Castle Black's walls, and prompting the traitors to drop their weapons in fear. A giant who knows what he's doing, who's in control of his actions, can be the middle ground between Hodor and Robert Strong -- a powerful being who can put himself on the side of justice.

But it's not Wunwun alone who ensures that Jon stays in one piece long enough to be resurrected. It's the Wildlings he let in past the gates, who earned his respect. They represent the power of the people, the idea that there are many below the station of the noble families of Westeros who, nonetheless, band together and represent a threat and a power that stands poised to upset the established order.

That idea is present in Jamie's tense confrontation with the High Sparrow. Jamie is understandably upset at the man who had the woman he loves imprisoned and humiliated, and he threatens to leave the Sparrow bleeding on the floor of the Sept. Jamie is a man who's seen enough horror to question whether there's anyone to look down on him for what he's itching to do. He's been an interesting lens through which the show has examined morality in the brutish world of the show, and his godless threats are another interesting wrinkle. But just when he threatens to make good on his promise, he finds himself surrounded by the sparrows. The High Sparrow tells him that they are nobody, the lowest dirt of the kingdom, and yet he too speaks of them with an aura of quiet power, that nothing banded together can amount to something to put fear into even the most seasoned warrior.

That scene also touches on a key theme running through "Home" -- family. Jamie is protecting his sister, protecting the people who share his name. It's also what his son is ashamed of having failed to do. Tommen's had little development thus far, but he gets two meaningful scenes here, one of many in the episode between a child and a parent. He tells his father that he carries a deep shame for not being able to do more to protect his mother and his wife. He is a young man put in an impossible position who realizes that despite the fact that he is nominally the most powerful man in the world, he feels utterly powerless to do anything, and he cannot forgive himself for that.

That's also what makes his scene with Cersei so important. When he finally goes to apologize, Cersei hears him and tells him it's fine, but Lena Heady plays the coldness there perfectly. She speaks as a mother who loves his child, but is very very disappointed and hurt by his actions. And then he spills his fears out in front of her, he tells her that he needs her help, that he is weak, and he needs her to show him how to be strong. Despite her pain, despite her resentment, despite her frustration, Cersei cannot say no to her last living child, her little boy, and contrasted with her earlier curt acceptance of his apology, when she embraces him and reassures him, she truly means it.

Unfortunately, the scenes between parents and children are not nearly so loving in the rest of the episode. When Yara confronts her father about their losing battle, he dismisses her. He chastises her. He refuses to see reason, and then, faced with another family member, he is tossed to the waves. Balon hasn't shown himself to be much of a father, goading Theon into the events that led to his downfall, and ignoring his daughter's harsh but important truths. The old kings are dying, the heads of the old houses are dropping like flies, and those who refuse to adjust to the new realities find themselves quickly buried.

Roose Bolton is another lord sent to meet his maker, but he, unlike Balon, is dispatched by his own child. It's not surprising that Ramses had a cotningency plan in the event his father gave birth to a male heir. It's surprising that he would put it into place so soon. There's legitimate sweetness when Roose tell Ramses that he will always be his firstborn son, which just makes the ensuing murder all the more striking. And of course, Ramses being Ramses, he leaves no stone unturned, brutally killing his stepmother and brother in a sequence that could have conveyed the same cruelty with half the lurid detail. Even so, it's a scene of the love between a parent and a child being torn asunder by the harsher forces that abound as people like Ramses grope for power.

Melisandre spends much of the episode wondering if she has power. She's spent the bulk of the show as an agent of the Lord of Light, and now she's doubting herself, her vision, her abilities, the things by which she defined herself. She wonders if the lord has taken his favor away from her. And Davos tells her that he's heard tell of gods from hither and yon, but he's seen her power, and something greater, something more important, needs it.

So she sets to work. She cleans Jon Snow's wounds. She performs the ritual. She says the incantation. And yet we are led to believe that it's not her spell, not her tricks, not her forgotten tongue that raises the dead and returns the power. It's one simple utterance -- "please" -- a symbol of humility, of desperation, of need, of recognition that power can be taken for granted and just as easily slip away.

The trusted men and women in the room slowly slip away. One-by-one, they wait and hope and eventually step out of the room. It's a masterful sequence that draws the expectation and the methodical beauty of the Red Woman's work out in a series of warm images of tranquility. We know what's coming. The story demands it. But Game of Thrones takes its time; it lingers, it lets us drink in the fire-lit room while everyone waits with baited breath, let's us hear the splash of the water as it cleans the wounds of our fallen hero, lets us sit with anticipation as the show forces us to hold on, to pause, and breathe.

And then he breathes. This messianic figure--betrayed by his disciples, laid out in the traditional form of new testament suffering and repose, and then resurrected in the hopes that he might save them--comes back to life. It's strong imagery for the show to tap into, but it couches it in the larger themes of "Home." Power can come from strange, unexpected places, from simple men, from large men, from little men, from free folk, from dragons, from parents and children, from sparrows and red witches, from bastards and carpenters. Treat them all well; one day your life, your very being, may depend on them.

[7.5/10] When I wrote about the finale of Avatar: The Last Airbender my thesis, in part, was that it was about how Aang stayed who he was no matter what. Even with the fate of the world on his shoulders, he couldn’t, or at least didn’t want to, bend his principles and take a life. As he always did, he found another way. The climax of the series served, in many ways, as a tribute to his steadfastness.

But Korra’s path has been different, and the best thing to say about the finale of The Legend of Korra, and the show as a whole, is that it’s been about growth. The Korra we leave beaming off to the spirit world is much different than the one we met blasting firebenders at the South Pole. She is a more understanding, more steady, more complex, and more compassionate Avatar than the headstrong youth who first bolted her way through Republic City.

The rub, and the thing that keeps “The Last Stand” from earning a higher rating, is TLoK reveals this through heaps and heaps of emotional exposition. An inevitable and almost unavoidable part of any finale involves a certain amount of signposting and summing things up, but TLoK’s goes overboard with it. Between a post-battle heart-to-heart with Kuvira to on-the-nose exchanges with Tenzin about hope, “The Last Stand” brings its hero to an interesting place in terms of both story and character, but lays the message of the change on too thick.

But hey, it delivers some damn cool action, so that earns it plenty of points too. Having the climactic battle feel genuinely epic, particularly after a fourth season where the good guys have already battled an energy-bending rabble rouser, a flying revolutionary, and the Anti-Avatar, it would be easy for the last big battle to fall short. Instead, “The Last Stand” delivers a final confrontation that matches the moment.

It features some cool set pieces that give everyone something to do. It’s a nice grace note to have the Beifong sisters working together and immobilizing the Colossus’s arm together. Plus, it gives Lin a chance to do some badass combat that looks like fencing as she takes on an Earth Empire guard. To the same end, watching another pair of siblings, Mako and Bolin, try to shut down the engine to the Colossus works both to service two characters who have an important relationship outside of the show’s protagonist, and to give them a goal that contributes to the larger project.

It also gives Mako a nice moment of self-sacrifice. It seemed unlikely, at best, that TLoK would actually kill him off, but it’s still a nice moment in the sun (so to speak) for one of the show’s main characters, giving his all and using his unique powers to help. Bolin’s assurances to Mako that he already thinks his brother is awesome was an amusing, and true-to-character way to bring the pair’s relationship to the fore.

Korra’s one-on-one with Kuvira met the heightened expectations as well. The designers and animators deserve great credit for this season. Although we’ve seen many metal-benders before, the way that Kuvira and her crew use chain links and swatches to disable and move around their enemies gives them a distinctive fighting style which makes combat against them seem fresh. Seeing Korra and Kuvira go toe-to-toe in the enclosed bridge of the Colossus made for an enclosed by expansive setting that prevents either from running away but gave each plenty of room to work.

The climax of their fight was the highlight of the episode. While the villain’s hail mary, semi-crazy attempt to get back at the hero is a cliché, and the spirit weapon conveniently being near where they feel is a bit contrived, the power and symbolism of the moment really clicked.

When Korra faces down the blast from the weapon, instead of being destroyed by it, she harnesses its power, saving Kuvira and channeling that energy into a new spirit portal. It’s a choice that carries wonderful symbolism, how Korra’s previously attack first, ask questions later mentality has evolved to where she uses her abilities to turn a weapon into a bridge, a mortal attack into a saving throw. The scene is scored perfectly, with Korra’s theme adding gravitas to such a spiritual, emotional moment that represents the peak of Korra’s arc in this season and perhaps the series.

The problem is then the series decides to write it all on the screen. I’ve genuinely enjoyed the parallels between Korra and Kuvira this season, but having them have a literal “we’re not so different you and I” conversation is just too much. The themes are solid -- the idea that Korra sees her own impulses in Kuvira, the notion of wanting to ensure you’re never vulnerable again -- but it’s all too blunt and too artless. Hell, we get the revelation that Kuvira is an orphan thrown in at the last minute as an explanation for her perspective, and it’s just the most tacked on psychological explanation for her behavior.

Then the show doubles down on it with Tenzin. Again, while I like the theme, having Korra outright say that she needed to learn what suffering was in order to be more compassionate, is just too direct. It’s delivering the literal message of the show in dialogue. The same goes for Tenzin saying he’s glad that Korra is more hopeful, or Mako saying he’d follow Korra into any battle. I like those ideas, but just depositing them into the story as announcements is too much.

It’s not all bad though. As I mentioned in the prior episode, Wu’s evolution into a reasonable leader has been an unexpected treat. The fact that he sees what happened to Kuvira and decides that the Earth Kingdom doesn’t need another monarch or dictator, but instead an elected representative, is one of the most striking political changes, and a third option the show and its predecessor has rarely seemed to consider.

Then there’s the final moments, where “The Last Stand” brings all the subtext between Korra and Asami this season to the fore, and suggest the beginning of a romantic relationship. Asami is often a cipher on this show, being given little to do in comparison to the rest of Team Avatar. But in Season 4 in particular, the series has hinted at a deeper connection between her and Korra. Ending the series on that note is a bold choice, and the heartwarming, lyrical sequence in which they beam off together is a wonderful way to go out.
It’s just a shame that the rest of the finale cannot quite match the balance that sequence presents. Season 4, and the series as whole, took Korra on an incredible journey, but underlining the point of it all at the end cheapens the actions and decisions that led her there. Still, it’s been a hell of a journey, one filled with kinetic action, endearing characters, and most of all, a protagonist who grew and developed little by little as the series went on, until she became a stronger, more assured, and balanced Avatar. Some of Korra’s most engrossing growth happened this year, and whether it’s overdone or not, it’s lovely to see her walking off into the sunset, hand-in-hand with someone she loves, a changed, better person.

[8.8/10] When I think about why I watch Avatar-verse shows like AtLA and TLoK, it comes down to a few things in particular: compelling world-building, strong character stories, and mythos and humor to match the bigger arcs. But as much as I appreciate those elements of the show, it’s exciting every once in a while to have an episode that is basically one big third act action sequence.

The Legend of Korra does action well, and bringing in essentially the entire extended Team Avatar to fight this massive thing makes for thrilling set piece after thrilling set piece. What makes the episode work and not feel like an empty exercise in twenty-five story combat is the diversity of what we see.

There’s a progression in Team Avatar’s tactics. Meelo’s initial plan -- to effectively blind Kuvira in the Colossus using paint-filled water balloons and attempt to trip the mecha during her confusion -- is a good one. It creates neat images like the Colossus swatting at swarms of airbenders, and the tense, “so close” atmosphere when it stumbles but doesn’t fall.

Varrick’s follow-up plan, to knock the Colossus out using an EMP, is a solid one too, one that gives the show an excuse to devote a little more time to teasing the Varrick/Zhu Li pairing. Watching the regular-sized mechas falk like dominos is a cool image, and it gives our heroes a small victory to make the fight against Kuvira something more than just one defeat after another.

Even apart from the big plans, there’s loads of cool action beats, big and small, that give the battle character instead of being a spate of undifferentiated combat. Watching Bolin, Lin, and Suyin topple a building onto the Colossus feels so grand and impressive. Having Tenzin zoom in to same Jinora from a superweapon blast, only to have Ikki and Meelo save the two of them add a nice moment to clinch the family connection. And Korra summoning a torrent of water and freezing the Colossus in place grabs you as a show her might and power even against this seemingly impossible foe. “There’s just no way to beat this guy” is a cliché in superpowered show and films, but TLoK finds inventive ways to diversify the fight and keep in interesting and distinct from beginning to end.

Despite that onslaught of action, there’s lots of great character work going on in the episode too. The previously too annoying to live Wu gets a moment in the sun, using his dorky singing and the badger moles that he wanted at his coronation to create an escape route for the evacuees and take out some interfering Earth Empire soldiers. His arc has been one of the most pleasant surprises about this season, turning what seemed like a throwaway, weak comic relief character into one who grows but remains firmly himself.

We also see Varrick propose to Zhu Li. The subtext for all of this isn’t great, but as I’ve said before, I think of Varrick at TLoK’s answer to Tony Stark, which I suppose means eventually he has to make good with his version of Pepper Potts. It’s not the world’s most touching romance or anything (in truth I have a lot of problems with it) but Varrick’s proposal -- asking Zhu Li to “do the thing for the rest of our lives” still makes for a nice moment.
But that pales in comparison to the combination of character and action that comes from Hiroshi’s redemption story with Asami. His idea, to use the “hummingbird mechas” to cut a hole in the Colossus so that Team Avatar can get in and disable it from the inside, is a good one, and a nice evolution in strategy. It’s given added weight by making it part of Hiroshi trying to make good for his past transgressions. Sure, that too is a bit of a cliché, but him sticking it out in the hummingbird, ejecting his daughter and telling her he loves her before making the whole and (presumably) sacrificing himself in the effort is a strong moment that makes Asami’s chess game with her dad earlier in the season more than just a grace note to their story in Season 1.

That’s what’s always set the Avatar-verse shows apart. They are great on action, and episodes like “Day of the Colossus” do a stellar job of creating a compelling obstacle for our heroes to overcome. But these series not only find interesting ways to differentiate that action -- showing progressions and different types of sequences -- but ground it in character hopes and histories that give the skirmish stakes beyond the threat to the series. “Day of the Colossus” is a mighty fine prelude to the series finale, and an epic confrontation that finds meaningful things for almost everyone on the team (save Mako) to do.