In The Boroughs, Sam Cooper (Alfred Molina) moves to the titular retirement village after his wife’s sudden death. The Boroughs is the ultimate lifestyle enclave for seniors, a desert suburbia offering residents plenty of sunshine, Pilates, and easy living. Although Sam starts off determined to hate everything, he quickly bonds with his neighbours.

And then Sam discovers the residents are being preyed upon each night in their sleep by alien creatures. 

The reason this reminded me so much of Gibson’s article “Disneyland With the Death Penalty” is the Boroughs itself. Gibson wrote that when he visited Singapore in 1993, he was horrified by how perfectly ordered and pristine the place was. He found the city-state soulless, a nation without originality or any real substance beyond capitalism – essentially, a world built as artificially as a theme park like Disneyland, except without the fun. 

Similarly, French sociologist Jean Baudrillard claimed that Disneyland is the perfect example of a hyper-real place. Disneyland’s Main Street offers a picture-perfect, small-town Americana, condensing the nostalgia of childhood fantasy. The retirement community in The Boroughs does the same. It’s an idealised place engineered for seniors – a playland with swimming, afternoon drinks, and Dog Day Afternoon screenings. The homes are single-storey and the lawns manicured. The streets are wide and human-scale. There’s no traffic except for the golf carts. It’s a place without stress or crowds. But also without children or families. 

The Boroughs is as hyper-real as Disneyland’s Mainstreet and as soulless as Gibson’s dystopian Singapore. It’s a town without history, without soul, willed into existence from the desert through sheer capitalism and crafted as a perfect replica of southwestern USA suburbia. Heck, even Gibson’s comment that Singapore is “…like an entire country run by Jeffrey Katzenberg…under the motto ‘Be happy or I’ll kill you,’” applies to this place. The Borough’s founder, Blaine Shaw, pretty much tells Sam and his friends to be happy…or else.

And the hyper-real goes even deeper. Residents of the Boroughs tend to develop severe dementia after living in the community over time. Those residents are then sent to live at The Manor. There, the residents (or inmates) are kept in an indoor neighbourhood of fake front porches, artificial streets, and a painted sky. These memory-triggering streetscapes, suburban décor, and faux coffee are part of The Manor’s dementia therapeutics, and based on the principals of compassionate care. 

But as Sam discovers when he gets forcibly trapped there, The Manor is an even more insidious level of the hyper-real. If the Boroughs is a hyper-real copy of small-town America, then The Manor is a hyper-real copy of the Boroughs. What’s troubling is that the residents can sense, but never fully understand, why everything around them lacks reality. How can they, when The Manor is an emptier copy of an already empty copy of reality?

The horrors of this series are multiple. There’s the obvious body horror of the alien creatures feeding on the residents. But there’s also the horror of aging – not aging itself, but what comes with it – the powerlessness, infantilising, and gaslighting that Sam and his friends experience every day. At the Boroughs, seniors are removed from public life, sequestered in a perfectly curated ‘lifestyle’ town. At The Manor, the elderly are removed and kept apart from even the other elderly, their decline and eventual deaths disguised behind the promise of care.

But it isn’t all doom and gloom. In this youth-obsessed media world where teenagers are always the chosen ones saving the world, it’s nice to have a series that celebrates senior power. As Sam and his friends struggle to free themselves and their neighbours from the Boroughs, they prove that seniors can be as smart, badass, sexy, and morally grey as any action hero – all while smoking weed, eating good camembert, and comparing their latest surgeries and medication. Give me more of this Grey Rebellion.

The Boroughs is now streaming on Netflix.

The post In The Boroughs, It’s Suburbia All the Way Down appeared first on Goggler.

For me, Beef was great art, a tragicomedy of misunderstanding, pettiness, and revenge that was genuinely Shakespearean in this age of streaming. So I was looking forward to what Season 2 would bring. And the new season makes clear that Lee Sung Jin is determined both to catch lightning in a bottle and prove that he’s no one-trick pony. Season 2 keeps the beef fresh while offering viewers a decidedly subtler form of anger.

The main beef this season is between Josh (Oscar Isaac) and his wife, Lindsay (Carey Mulligan), against another, younger couple, Ashley (Cailee Spaeny) and Austin (Charles Melton). When Ashley and Austin catch Josh, their employer, in the middle of a blazing row with his wife, they do what any Gen Z would: record it. Austin initially wants to help save Lindsay from what they believe is an abusive relationship, but Ashley sees a golden opportunity to milk the video.

The brilliance of Beef is how the series gets us to empathise with both sides. No matter how badly behaved everyone is, we understand that their anger comes from similar yearnings and loneliness. Just like how Danny and Amy from Season 1 were dark mirrors reflecting the worst (and best) of each other, Season 2 positions the two warring couples as symmetries. Josh and Lindsay may be outwardly perfectly polished, but they’re not so different from Austin and Ashley’s young love. Everyone’s equally messed up.

If you were expecting the same kind of bare-knuckled, bloody inferno as Season 1, you might be sorely disappointed. The anger this season is more restrained and diffused, as each side wages tactical destruction on the other, on their partner, and ultimately, on themselves. This is the kind of beef that’s trimmed and manicured, fitting because much of it unfolds in a wellness and country club. Even if it’s not a powder keg ready to blow, the psychodrama is just as deep. 

While Season 2 was strong in many ways, not least the performances, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this season felt neutered. See, Season 1 was spectacularly, unapologetically Asian. Yuen’s Danny was an all-American guy, but his Korean heritage and immigrant family were integral to his lived experiences. The road rage between Danny and Amy, a Vietnamese-American, wasn’t just between a man and a woman – it tore open the tensions between two people who, on the surface, look the same to White America. 

Season 1 blew up the model minority mystique surrounding Asian Americans. Sure, as stereotypes go, being widely considered super-smart, hardworking, and successful doesn’t sound too bad. But the insidiousness of the model minority belief is that these traits aren’t universal or even true. Yet Asians in America are held to impossible standards while their real social and economic struggles are glossed over. And many feel they can never vent about it because that’s just not what model citizens do.

Beef’s genius was that it took the cultural particulars of Asian-Americans, like their struggles against white tokenism, and the humorous absurdities and anxieties of Asian immigrant families, and made it universally appealing. Danny and Amy’s personal challenges, which were grounded in their experiences in America as Asians, could resonate with anyone. Beef allowed its Asians to mess up, do outrageous things, be funny, angry, and sexy. In other words, to be full human beings. Model minority be damned. 

Season 2, while solid, extensively whitewashed the cast and thus, the narrative. Sure, Charles Melton’s Austin was half-Asian. And they had the legendary Youn Yuh-jung playing Chairwoman Park. And yeah, they went to Seoul. Also, I’ve no problems with Isacc or Mulligan’s inclusion. But I mourn the dilution of what made the first season so unique. Beef rode the wave of critically and commercially successful Asian-centric shows like Parasite and Minari. It was proof that the world could celebrate Asian-led stories and casts. So why whitewash itself? That’s my only beef with this season.

Season 2 of Beef is now streaming on Netflix.

The post Beef, Season 2: Rare, Medium, Complicated appeared first on Goggler.

Theroux, a celebrated documentarian of hard-hitting topics, interviewed some big names from the manosphere. There was HSTikkyTokky (HS), Sneako, Justin Waller, and Myron Gaines. Compared to these muscle-bound “alphas,” Theroux’s skinny frame and glasses scream “nerd!” And that’s his superpower. These boys didn’t stand a chance against Theroux’s signature style. He asks them hard questions and gives his subjects the space (and the silence) to explain themselves.

Behind their muscles, flashy cars, and (purportedly) insane body count, these influencers open up on fame, women, sex, conspiracies – and most importantly, themselves. Trying to follow their pretzel logic would require some impressive Double Think gymnastics. Heck, they even admit they don’t believe some of the trash they spout – it’s all for engagement and likes. 

Theroux’s gift is getting these boys (for boys they are) to show their inner selves. Unused to having an actual adult hold them accountable, as opposed to speaking to unseen fans behind a screen, they blab to Theroux. In so doing, they betray their hypocrisy and smallness. HS admitted his mum would slap him if she heard him talk. And it was pathetic seeing how quickly Myron Gains cracked. Seconds after declaring he wanted multiple wives, he backpedalled when his girlfriend Angie entered the room. 

What surprised me most was how deeply entrenched these influencers are in neoliberalism. For a bunch of guys who boast that they’ve taken the red pill, woken up from the Matrix, and now want to help other men “liberate” themselves from a corrupt system sucking them dry, they sure are huge proponents of a capitalist society. They all embody hustle culture; their entire online shtick is about monetising the attention economy, branding themselves, and getting rich. How hyper-capitalist is that?

I honestly wonder how people like Sneako and HS would react if someone pointed out that all their reference points for masculine liberation come from the Wachowski sisters, two transgender women. The fact that the Wachowskis left behind their privileged position of manhood to embrace their trans identities would probably make these guys sick. They’d have to do some serious Double Thinking to justify continuing to believe in anything from the Matrix franchise.

One thing I wished Theroux had done was take more time to ask these boys about their pasts. Considering that he was granted such rare access to these mainstream, media-shy influencers, it was a waste that he didn’t mine their psychological depths more. I was curious about their formative years. How did these guys become this way? Who were the men in their lives? What were their relationships like with their families? What do their parents think of them? And for Sneako, who converted to Islam recently, I would’ve liked to hear how his new faith holds with his worldview. 

HS was the only one whose parent got involved in the documentary. His mum appeared when Theroux visited him at home. Seeing her telling off HS (or Harrison, as she insisted) about his primitive views on women, was a revelation. It was so funny hearing him whining about “not wanting a juice, mummy!”, before his mum forced him to wipe a spill on the floor, in front of all his adoring viewers. Too bad she doesn’t make him clean the mess he’s made online.

After watching Inside the Manosphere, I thought about how Greg Jenner, a historian of celebrity culture, defined fame. One of Jenner’s criteria is that a truly famous person must saturate the cultural consciousness – basically, if your mum doesn’t recognise them, they’re not actually famous. The guys Theroux interviewed might not be known outside their demographic of young boys and men, but their power over that sphere is huge – as is their potential to cause damage by peddling poison.

That’s why documentaries like Theroux’s, that expose the manosphere to a wider audience, are critical. Theroux closes with this call to action: The Matrix is really the algorithmic prison these influencers create for their followers; it’s up to us to free those trapped inside.

Inside the Manosphere is now streaming on Netflix.

The post Louis Theroux: Inside the Manosphere – Small Men, Big Screens appeared first on Goggler.

The answer, it turns out, is by going somewhere entirely darker. 

At the end of Season 3, Pierpoint has been bought over by Al-Miraj, who, in an attempt of “ethical investing,” furloughs the entire London trading floor. Gus is gone. Eric has been asked to retire. Rob has left for California. Yasmin leaves finance entirely and relishes life as the bride-to-be of aristocrat Henry Muck. Harper, hungry as ever, starts her own short only fund. So where does the show go from here?

Season 4 introduces us to Tender. A payment processing platform operating in the grey zones of gambling and pornography, now pivoting under the stewardship of its CFO Whitney Halberstram (played by the chilling Max Minghella), to reinvent itself as a legitimate bank. When Harper’s fund sets its sight on Tender, what begins as a short position unravels into something darker that threatens the trajectory of every character.

What’s impressive is how organically the returning cast has grown into their circumstances. Once known for sex, drugs, and hedonism, the electric colours and youthfulness of the show’s atmosphere in Seasons 1 and 2 are now mere afterthoughts. It would seem that the characters are aging with the show – and now, leaving their wild and free twenties behind. Eric, now retired on his Pierpoint severance, eventually finds his way back into his mentee’s orbit, with the two launching SternTao, a fund liberated from Otto Mostyn’s political (and aristocratic) will. Yasmin, pulling the strings of her husband’s floundering political career from behind the scenes, is on a trajectory toward something genuinely monstrous, launching the family into Halberstram’s web of deceit. Rishi, as usual, is always having the worst day of his life. 

It is the intrinsic nature of these characters, and who they have grown into that propels the season forward, not their circumstances. The contexts may have shifted. The people, however, have not. 

At the centre of it all, as it always has been, is the Harper-Yasmin relationship (or as I like to fondly call them, Yasharper). The duo have always had a rocky relationship – best friends turned rivals, fuelled by betrayals, and then sexual tension. And it is in Season 4 where that tension reaches its most punishing form. They are now on opposite sides of the Tender trade. Harper wants the company completely decimated. Yasmin, now stuck within it through Henry’s role as CEO, needs it to survive. And yet, somehow, none of this cancels out the magnetic intimacy that hums in the air between them. The season ends with an electrifying finale that completely recontextualises Yasmin’s character while feeling entirely probable for her arc. 

What Industry has always done better than most of its peers is trusting its own intelligence. No moment overstays its welcome. No messaging is hammered onto your face. Having lost its investment banking spine, the show (deftly) pivots into an examination of the technocracy that quietly governs democracies. It doesn’t flinch from real-life headlines, grounding it in a realism that makes the show feel more present than ever before. 

And nowhere is that realism sharper than in its politics. Season 4 is, beneath everything else, an intensely political show, and it isn’t afraid to wear that identity proudly. Otto Mostyn’s seat in the House of Lords, a new MP lobbying for Tender’s regulatory approvals, and the texture of a Labour government navigating the uncomfortable synthesis of old money and new tech – all of it lands with a distinct specificity that feels like a live dispatch rather than just a dramatic backdrop. Most prestige dramas mistake topicality for depth, but at a moment where the relationship between political institutions and new technologies is one of the most defining anxieties of British public life, Industry is entirely unafraid to map that terrain in real time. It may not have the bank setting to follow the markets, but it definitely has access to the politics that govern it.

The early episodes do ask for some patience as the show finds its footing in a new light. Longtime viewers will be sceptical, and the introduction of Tender and its entanglement with SternTao will initially read as a mishmash of ideas with no real place to go. But Industry has earned a degree of trust, and by Episode 3, the direction and shape of the season gets bludgeoned into focus. This is still a show about the industry, but now without the bank, Kay and Down are able to refract it through a wider, more sinister lens. 

The season is a corporate thriller that delivers on every front – heart pounding drama, corporate espionage, (many) quick trips to Accra, the aristocracy, forensic accounting, sex, drugs, Daft Punk’s Veridis Quo pulsing through a club, and also, glory holes. For a show that completely burned its house down, what it has rebuilt is sharper, darker, and entirely in a class of its own.

All four seasons of Industry are now streaming on HBO Max.

The post Industry, Season 4: New Money, Same Devils appeared first on Goggler.

I was so upset by the second part of Bridgerton Season 3 that I didn’t even want to review it. What was a great build up in Part 1, just ended in utter chaos and dissatisfaction. An attempt at far too much with little payoff, and an ending that felt frayed in a distressing way.

By episode eight, I was almost glad for the season to be over. I had such high hopes, but the totally fumbled the endgame. Was this going to happen every time? Were we doomed to experience the highest of highs, and then a terrible crash with each new season?

Thankfully — with a careful heart and the patience to wait for both parts — Season 4 revived my hope in the series. Stripped back and contained, if a little winding, it refocuses on what matters most. Love. And not just romantic love, but all the love that surrounds us as people.

Bridgerton works best when it inclines less towards society (both at large and in the Regency sense) and more towards the connections between people. It was so focused on the scandal and the intricacies of Lady Whistledown in Season 3, that it loosened its focus on people; on human connection. Be it in joy, in grief, or even in the face of sacrifice.

Yerin Ha and Luke Thompson as the leads, Sophie Baek and Benedict Bridgerton, craft the sort of chemistry that’s hard to replicate. They carry the story so much that I felt it whenever they weren’t on screen, as I was eager to learn more about them individually and as a couple.

The relationship between them is a retelling of the classic Cinderella trope, but it’s also so much more. While understanding the divide between them, they can also see each other for who they truly are, which makes their love hard to fault. There’s an unwavering certainty that makes their story swoon worthy, even in the difficulties they have to endure to be together.

It’s why Episode 3 stands out. The chance for the pair to be together, away from society, at My Cottage, made it apparent why they’re so compelling as a couple and as individual characters. The push and pull of their magnetism felt hard to step away from, which was great to experience in some cinematographic choices as well. The voyeurism of the long shots when one of them is watching the other (often without noticing), or looking at each other from different sides of the same room, felt like we were yearning right along with them. And when they are together, the camera sits close — an electric collision between two people in love, unable to care for the outside world.

In exploring the life of the lower class through Sophie, Bridgerton also broadens its in-universe world. There’s life (almost literally) under the ton’s feet, and “the help” become less silent servants and more characters in their own right, able to have independent voices and deep connections. The clear divide between the classes puts into perspective the privilege the Bridgerton family are afforded, but also blurs it. The familial and platonic connections that they have show us how it’s their best asset, and it’s what makes them so compelling to watch. It also makes the biting performance from Katie Leung as Araminta Gun, Sophie’s stepmother, so delightfully jarring.

I do really like the more ostentatious styling; which is among the few things that Season 3 did right. It brings visual appeal when necessary, so when the shiny dresses and colourful ballrooms are toned down in certain scenes, it’s almost a sigh of relief.

Unfortunately, even though I love the surrounding relationships in the show, they were also my main strife with the season. I appreciate that they all had connecting points to the main story, but the subplots somehow lacked conviction while also feeling far too drawn out — all of them could have done with a little condensing.

Some of them seemed to eat into time that could’ve been better afforded to Sophie and Benedict, to further explore their relationship. The parallel lines playing out were fun at times, but also tedious to go through when there there was so much on the line. Eloise’s arc was a tired rehash of seasons past, with some minor improvements in her growth. Francesca’s story in particular, while important, felt more like it was a heavy preamble for her season, even to the point of sidelining Benedict’s personal growth. All of which may be necessary in the big picture, but still a detriment to this particular narrative.

Ultimately, Season 4 stands out as one of the best since Season 2. It’s emotional, expansive, and so enjoyable to watch. Letting the relationships drive the show, with society as its backdrop, is where it thrives, instead of the other way around.

So, as a viewer and a fan, I’m glad that Bridgerton is picking itself up again. In opposition to how I felt at the end of Season 3, I felt a yearning at the conclusion of this one — much like Sophie and Benedict did towards each other throughout their run. I was left wanting to see the main pair and their love just that little bit more. I was left excited for the future.

(Also, since this is also something of a mini review of the previous installment, Season 3 of Bridgerton gets a limp 3/10 from me.)

Season 4 of Bridgerton is now streaming on Netflix.

The post Bridgerton Season 4 Resparked My Hope in Love (And in the Show) appeared first on Goggler.

That also means it can get tiring. Of course, seeing the same beats and themes is hard to avoid, but with about 15 direct screen adaptations of Sherlock Holmes since 2010, finding something fresh is difficult. How do you add another aspect to a widely beloved character? How do you continue to explore a dynamic as popular as Holmes and Watson?

High Potential does all of that and more. Based on the French-Belgian show HPI, it follows a cleaning lady who becomes a consultant to the LAPD due to her high IQ, analytical skills, and wide breadth of knowledge. Funny and heartfelt, High Potential is the kind of procedural that delivers more than it promises, using its format to weave an engaging, deep story without minimizing the crimes that surround it.

It also happens to have the best iteration of Sherlock Holmes in at least the last two decades.

The Sherlock Holmes of It All

Of course, there’s a reason why there are so many versions of this character. Sherlock Holmes is one of the first fictional detectives of his kind. Conan Doyle pretty much set up the trope for every detective that followed. Since his first appearance in 1887, Sherlock Holmes has gathered a following that has become the basis for superfandoms today.

His “brilliant-but-damaged” persona lends the perfect thing to latch onto in stories, a hook that adds to his charisma and depth, and stops him from becoming a “Gary Stu,” but still lends to his competency in his adventures. “He’s a genius, therefore he’s a bit strange,” as Mark Gatiss, co-creator of BBC’s Sherlock series, explains, becoming a force that works beside the main lines of justice due to his abilities.

Most adaptations follow this general characterization, as in the aforementioned BBC series, Robert Downey Jr. movies, or Elementary. Sherlock is a genius, but he’s socially inept. Often rude and struggling with his own issues, but continuously able to get down to the root of the mysteries he’s faced with.

In High Potential, Morgan Gillory (played by Kaitlin Olsen, best known for It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia) is the Sherlock character modified and made better. Of course, with an IQ of 160, she’s supremely intelligent, with a hyperfocused brain that’s a perfect asset to the major crimes department. She’s not a detective, though. Far from it. She gets her job at LAPD by happenstance after tampering with a crime board that she had access to only because she’s the cleaning lady.

Instead of being a functioning sociopath like most Holmesian characters, she’s deeply empathetic and kind. In nearly every episode, she shows a level of care for victims and their families that is direct and humanizing, using her power and abilities to help them because she wants the best for everyone. She can be abrasive and blunt, but ultimately, the coldness is replaced with a fun, almost quirky personality. And arguably, it makes her more interesting, and a clever way to reframe old tricks and explore things with a new lens.

Holmes-Watson Contemporaries

Sherlock is nothing without John Watson. The connection between the two (whether perceived as platonic or romantic) is in part why Holmes has stood the test of time, having a narrative foil and a confidant that steadies him. In fact, this parable is probably more directly adapted to the screen compared to the characters themselves. Shows like Bones, The Mentalist, and Castle (all three were airing around the same time, interestingly) depict the dynamic in their own way, but keep the “hot and cold” core of it steady.

Adam Karadec (Daniel Sunjata) is the lead detective of major crimes and Morgan’s Watson. The classic dynamic is twisted on its head with this duo — the detached, calculated character is Karadec, while the emotional, humanistic one is Morgan. They butt heads, especially in the beginning, with Karadec seeing Morgan’s lack of respect for authority as a hindrance. She’s much louder than him too, which takes him aback. In fact, rather than being socially inept, Morgan thrives with people and her connections, has three children, and ends up befriending some of the detectives in the police station. Often, she gets relevant information for cases by talking to ordinary people around the cases. So it’s not only her brilliance that makes her a good consultant, but also her humanity.

From London to Los Angeles and Beyond

All the major and minor inspirations High Potential takes from the British detective only emphasize how its differences make it better.

The gender switch plays into this especially. Sherlock Holmes was a man of privilege and class in Victorian England, which gave him the mobility to live a “bohemian” lifestyle outside social conventions. Morgan grounds the character type by being a working class single mom who, while aware of her abilities, has had it be more of a hindrance all her life until she gets hired by the LAPD. Because she didn’t colour inside the lines, she was vilified and didn’t get chances to show her potential, which is much more realistic, especially for modern audiences.

Morgan even visually contrasts with many Sherlock characters (as well as other characters in her show). Her eccentricities come out in her personality, of course, but they also show in her bright outfits, short skirts, and snazzy patterns, creating a different kind of image, not only for a Holmes iteration but also for a motherly character. She’s allowed to express herself loudly and unapologetically, which is a welcome change.

As a whole, High Potential injects something fresh into the already crowded “genius consultant” story. Morgan Gilloroy mixes the logical with heart; the order with chaos. Instead of making this about how opposing forces create friction, they work in parallel and almost blur the difference, turning its Sherlock Holmes character into a modern, maybe more believable figure. So, yes, undoubtedly the best version of it we’ve seen in a long while.

You can watch High Potential on Disney+.

The post High Potential Is the Best Version of Sherlock Holmes appeared first on Goggler.

Don’t get me wrong. Welcome to Derry is decent and Andy Muschietti, who helmed both It and It Chapter 2, has proven credentials. Plus, considering how King’s novel, published in 1986, has so extensively saturated the popular imagination for four decades, it would’ve been challenging for anyone to find fresh ideas about the story of a small, all-American town in Maine that gets terrorized every 27 years by a child-eating clown.

So rather than reinvent the wheel, Muschietti turns the wheel backwards. There’s a new group of Losers now, with Will Hanlon and his friends. This group’s got better gender representation (the girls outnumber the boys) and more ethnic diversity than the original gang. And where the parents of the OG Losers were either dead or deadbeats, there’s more active family involvement now. Including the grown-ups opened the story in interesting ways, giving us shady military conspiracies, the ugliness of racism, but also warmth and love. 

Yet for all that, watching Welcome to Derry, just felt… tame. Even though Muschietti was clearly determined to cram in as many oblique references and Easter Eggs as possible to connect the series with the sprawling macro-verse of King’s lore. Right up to the finale’s reveal of the timeslip plot device that explains the current generation’s connection to the original Losers. I guess if too many cooks spoil the broth, too many ingredients will do that, too. 

The result of so many competing plot points is tonal whiplash. The constant jumping from the kids, to the adults, and then back again, lacked cohesion. The multi-stranded storylines could’ve worked brilliantly. But it felt like Muschietti himself wasn’t quite sure what to aim for. So without a cohesive tonal glue, when the scares came, they weren’t fully committed. Every time the kids were in peril, the cheap CGI monsters and disguises that Pennywise conjures up, looked like they came straight out of Goosebumps or Hocus Pocus. Never did I imagine Pennywise looking lame.

And yet individually, each plot ingredient works. The most powerful was the African-American struggle for acceptance in a very white town, during the explosive years of Jim Crow and the Civil Rights movement. The tragedy is, even here, the series offers little that’s actually original. That the casual racism of Derry’s white townsfolk metastasises into something far more monstrous than Pennywise is expected. And after Sinners, even the horrific racial violence at the Black Spot club seems like it’s been done before. 

Still, there are good things, too. What impressed me was that the series actually had the cojones to kill children. I know that sounds redundant when there’s a child-devouring primordial entity like Pennywise roaming the sewers, but exceedingly few mainstream American TV shows actually kill kids. There’s this unspoken taboo. Kids can die, sure, but off-screen. And almost never when they’re the main characters. Killing off children is a good, if grim, marker that a TV series is serious.

This seriousness was established way back in the pilot episode. We thought we were watching the original Losers and then three out of five of them get slaughtered at the theatre. How many shows wipe out half their main characters in episode one? This was ballsy and showed real commitment to bloodshed. Plus, it was such great misdirection. Having the kids whose viewpoints we were most closely aligned with, mercilessly massacred, drove home that this was no kids’ show (goofy special effects aside). 

It might seem a strange place to shine, but Welcome to Derry excels not because its violence is gratuitous, but because it treats child death with nuanced respect. Children are going to die, and horrifically, because, well, it’s Pennywise. But they can be brave, and smart, and selfless. And they are honoured with heroism. The finale pays beautiful tribute to one fallen child and the lifelong power his friendship will leave on the Losers and their community. That alone made the entire show worth sticking through.

All episodes of It: Welcome to Derry is now streaming on HBO Max.

The post It: Welcome to Derry Finds New Angles on a Familiar Fear appeared first on Goggler.

Now, those on the right would probably decry as alarmist and “woke” any comparison between today’s America with Gilead, the ultraconservative, theocratic regime in the series. True, Trump hasn’t (yet) signed any Executive Orders criminalising reading or outlawing women from working. But the news headlines from America these days sound frighteningly similar to the horrors that the Hulu series imagined across its six seasons.

I’ve got receipts. So here are just a few examples of how America is swinging perilously towards Gilead. 

Project 2025: Initially, when Trump was running for office the second time, he disavowed any connection to Project 2025, which was a call to action that was drafted by the right-wing Heritage Foundation. One of its aims was to restore the traditional, nuclear family as the cherished ideal for American life. This means promoting “healthy marriages” which, by definition, excludes, even delegitimises, other family structures like single and same-sex parents. 

Project 2025 reads like a blueprint Gilead’s Commanders would’ve used to justify overthrowing a democratically elected government. Just as Trump’s been busy dismantling and discrediting every government arm. Still, the blame doesn’t all fall on him. The novel and series show how the collapse of liberal democracy comes with the general population growing so apathetic that they’d support burning the current system down. Considering how Trump won the popular vote in 2024, at least half the population want his vision of America.

Zombie Pregnancy: One of the most morbid events from Season 3 of The Handmaid’s Tale was when the black handmaid, Natalie, gets shot. The only reason she receives any medical attention is because she’s pregnant. Though Natalie is braindead, she’s still a “holy vessel,” so she’s kept alive until the baby’s full term.

Earlier this year, Adriana Smith, an African-American woman from Georgia, was declared brain-dead at nine weeks pregnant. Under Georgia’s LIFE Act, Adriana was kept on life support against her family’s will. Like Natalie, Adriana was only allowed by the state to die once she’d served her biological destiny of giving birth. 

The Tradwife: Remember when Trump promised that he’d protect women, “whether they liked it or not?” Well, Aunty Lydia did say that there are two kinds of freedoms: “freedom to and freedom from.” What Gilead and Trump would offer women is freedom from – everything, it seems. Take the Hulu series’ most fascinating character, Serena Joy/Waterford/Wharton. Pre-Gilead, Serena controversially championed domestic feminism. She genuinely believed that by embracing traditional values and taking their place in the home, women could save the world. 

Serena got everything she wanted, and became as much the oppressor as the oppressed. In a stroke of brilliance, the series made Serena young, unlike her original book incarnation. But would any young, modern woman really want these things? Well, take influencer Estee Williams, who went viral on TikTok for showcasing 1950s-style traditional homemaking as an aspirational choice. The tradwife is a reactionary countermeasure to the perceived threats posed to the family and society by career-driven women.

While Season 6 of The Handmaid’s Tale often felt more like a filler season for the upcoming spinoff The Testaments, the final season returns at a critical time. June Osborne/Offred reminds us that only by fighting the good fight, even in the bleakest of times, can freedom survive and win. Before Trump, I thought that Atwood was overly optimistic in her belief that oppressive tyrannies must fall. But Atwood partly wrote her novel while living in West Berlin. Just four years after the book was published in 1985, the Berlin Wall fell. So there’s hope for America’s recovery.

Atwood’s prescience comes by reading the past. She famously said that nothing in The Handmaid’s Tale didn’t happen to someone, somewhere, in history. The novel and TV series so accurately foresaw today’s political environment in the West because Atwood keeps her eyes open. As June says, “I was asleep before. That’s how we let it happen.” The only way to prevent the rise of ultraconservative extremism is to be politically awake. Sleep, and we might soon find ourselves under His eye.

All seasons of The Handmaid’s Tale are now streaming HBO Max.

The post The Handmaid’s Tale Is Prescient Because It Understands the Past appeared first on Goggler.

I was a gymnast all throughout my childhood, right up until my last years in high school. I used to train where the gymnasts in the show trained. I was training at the same level that theses characters were. And while I was a part of the sister sport, rhythmic gymnastics, instead, it still felt like I had a lot of personal attachment to this series.

The world of gymnastics is complicated and harsh, and it was a real issue for me whenever people underestimated it. Gymnastics is often used as a gimmick. A talking point. Barely taken seriously.

Which is why, even though I was enthusiastic about watching the series, I came to it with a critical eye. I expected something soapy. I expected something that would leave me cringing. 

Generasi: Perfect 10 blew my expectations out the water.

As a TV show, it builds up wonderfully. A mountain climb of a narrative that just gets more intense with each episode, unraveling different aspects of these character’s lives and psyches, before eventually hitting a breaking point by the last two episodes. It’s a hard watch at times, but never hard enough that I ever wanted to stop. The realism here is heightened with dramatic flair, reinforcing that notion of how life can sometimes be stranger than fiction.

The first half of the last episode in particular is wonderful and worthy of a whole star by itself. A metaphorical tensing, and then sigh of relief, that leads to a slightly unsatisfying end for some characters, but one that makes total narrative sense. 

Exaggeration may be typical in the world of film and TV, but some scenes were so close to my own experience, that they felt both vindicating and anxiety-inducing at the same time. Generasi: Perfect 10 felt like a look into a real gymnast’s experiences, right down to the all too familiar public comments about decency, and often disheartening view of the sport that even those closest to the athlete refuse to understand.

The story hits those universal coming-of-age themes, but it also explores genuine issues that plague the gymnastics world – like abuse disguised as discipline – all wrapped up in complicated, layered arcs and led by characters that you love, hate to love, and love to hate. By the end, there’s only really one character that is truly antagonistic, and they’re really a symbol of the larger problem of exploiting young women and their dreams.

There’s a very real care and craft that was put into the making of Generasi: Perfect 10. Showrunner Nas Addina seemed to cradle much of show — she helped write the story and script, alongside creating it — and her passion shines through. Knowing how young she is, it’s exciting to see what else she comes up with, and her potential growth from something like this.

That’s nothing to say about how the collective cast was a joy to watch onscreen. Arena Wan heads the show as Ezrina “Ezie” Riyad Azfar, and she has a leading woman quality that’s subtle in the best possible way, growing in confidence just like the show does. Coach Sue (Sofia Jane) and Nazma (Sherie Merlis) were also standouts as the yin and yang of Ezie’s maternal figures in the show.

My personal favourite performance though, was Ellyza Azizi as Ezie’s best friend Amal with her Terengganu dialect and cheery disposition that leads into heartbreaking depth. (Definitely one of the only characters in the show you can root for the whole time…)

Now when I talk about Generasi: Perfect 10 as a mountain of a narrative, I mean it. It’s an uphill climb, with an exposition-filled episode one that’s difficult to jump into, but ultimately worth it. It feels like the narrative build up there could’ve been shortened, and there were some choices that felt slightly weird too. 

The addition of actual legendary Malaysian gymnast Farah Ann Abdul Hadi as an in-universe character is understandble, but also made it hard to suspend disbelief in some parts, especially when she eventually appears in the show. 

The rest of the hang ups I have are a bit more personal, definitely nitpicky, so take these with a pinch of salt. But a lot of the action of the actual gymnastics can come off wonky, with body doubles and angles that try their best to match the actresses, but comes off awkward. The makeup and hair could also be overdone in some instances, especially in the school scenes, where it looked a lot less natural than it should have been, which didn’t help selling some of the action.

That said, Generasi: Perfect 10 is a passionately made, painfully realistic depiction of the life of artistic gymnasts in Malaysia. It’s a coming-of-age story that’s filled to the brim with layered characters and arcs, led by a great majority female ensemble. A high recommended watch from me. It most definitely has this ex-gymnast’s stamp of approval!

Generasi: Perfect 10 is now showing on Astro via On Demand and Astro GO.

The post Watching Generasi: Perfect 10 as an Ex-Gymnast Triggered and Healed Me appeared first on Goggler.

Based on a popular YA book series by Holly Jackson, A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder (henceforth AGGGTM because it’s a mouthful) reaches much further and asks questions that affect more than the main characters. That is, in part, because it’s a mystery thriller show first, but the ages and transitional period that the main characters are in are a big proponent that makes it feel like a coming-of-age story as well.

Pointedly, one of the main questions Pip (played by Emma Myers) has to struggle with is whether she’s fundamentally a good person or not, and that in itself was pleasantly surprising to see.

It fits in with the plot pretty seamlessly, too, since the show focuses on Pip trying to solve the murder of a local golden girl, Andie Bell, that happened five years prior. It was initially done to fulfill her EPQ (Extended Project Qualification, essentially her final year project), but it quickly devolves into something more complicated and related to her own grievances.

In six episodes, AGGGTM does a great job of framing the complex questions of how morality and relationships can coexist realistically. It feels a lot more mature in tone compared to the typical Netflix teen-focused shows, definitely less cheesy and more thoughtful, and grounded in a way that’s still entertaining. (That’s probably in part because it was produced and shown on the BBC in the U.K.)

It confronts real life biases and assumptions (like racism and sexism) in a nuanced way. It doesn’t take over the plot, but it’s still a point of contention that makes sense because the assumed killer and boyfriend of the victim, Sal Singh, was an Indian boy in a predominantly white town. 

AGGGTM is a really, really easy watch. It has points of excitement, tension, and adventure that keep the plot moving. With an average of 45 minutes per episode, it’s also a nice weekend watch to indulge in; or a one day, one shot watch if you’re like me.

Surprisingly, one of my personal favourite things about this series is that it’s so refreshingly British. Something that shouldn’t be as rare as it is, but when its peers and predecessors are either aggressively American or Americanized in a significant way (see: Sex Education or XO, Kitty), it’s nice to see how AGGTM is explicitly faithful to its setting. 

The town of Little Kilton is quaint and has so many genuine markers of the culture that it lends itself to a kind of relatability. There’s no turning it into a grand, unrealistic place where teens have parties every other night. Pip and her friends have to deal with their A-Levels exams and focus on university applications. Ravi (played by Zain Iqbal) has to work in a pub after he’s forced to drop out of school due to the fallout of his brother’s death. 

The cast is also part of the reason it avoids the Netflix teen show dilemma. All the actors deliver excellent, realistic portrayals of their characters in their respective situations. Emma Myers, in particular, leads the show with an understated energy that is a far cry from her more popular Netflix role as Enid Sinclair in Wednesday. She does a wonderful job of showing how Pip changes from a “good girl” into someone willing to push boundaries to get answers. 

She does, however, have a questionable British accent at some points. As the only American in the cast, it becomes blatantly obvious when her natural accent starts to slip out. She might have been able to get away with it in other productions, but when everyone around her was talking in their native accent, it’s hard to ignore.

Devastatingly, the thing that makes AGGGTM an easy watch — the meager six-episode run — is also part of its biggest letdowns. Even an extra two episodes could have created a better flow in the show, maybe giving more time towards developing the Singh family, or other underutilized characters in the cast. Some threads felt like they were either wrapped up too quickly, or were nothing more than an afterthought. 

Apparently, book fans have issues with many plot points being left out of the show, too. While I understand the need to cut the bloated parts of a book to fit into the medium of film and TV, the extra content could have helped create a better show overall. 

Now, with Season 2 on its way, I hope the show gets even better coverage and popularity. It’s a genuine step up in quality from what you can usually expect in the genre and on the platform, and I think more teen-focused media should have this realistic aspect to it.

A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder is streaming on Netflix.

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