The Kyon Chronicles: Jacob's TV Show Reviews

[JacobKyon]

I hope this is fine. I don't want to spam up the "Binge-Watching" thread, so I created my own review thread for television shows I watch. Since I review every episode of every show I watch, these tend to stack up, so it would be nice to have a space where I could share my thoughts with people my feelings about the shows. :)

To offer a refresher on what I said in the other thread about my TV-viewing habits:

I follow a pretty complicated system when it comes to watching my TV shows. Basically, I divide my shows into three sets, and within each set, I rotate between the shows. I’ll watch one episode from each show in the set, then circle back to the beginning and repeat. Once I’ve finished a full season for every show in that set, I move on to the next set. To account for uneven season lengths, sometimes I’ll adjust—watching two, three, or even four episodes per show before rotating, depending on how the pacing feels. It sounds excessive, but it helps me keep things varied and avoid burnout.

I actually started doing something like this back in my college days when I was deep into anime—back then it was simpler, just one set of four shows or so. But around 2020 or 2022, I decided to revisit a bunch of older shows I was too young to remember or haven't seen, growing up in the '90s and all, and the structure evolved from there.

The first three shows that sparked this idea were: The Simpsons, The X-Files, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. From there, I built out the three sets with shows that had a similar vibe or genre connection:


The Simpsons set expanded with stuff like Futurama, and other nostalgic cartoons like Teen Titans and Codename: Kids Next Door.

The X-Files set included Millennium (Chris Carter’s other show), The Twilight Zone, and other darker or more mature animation like Batman: The Animated Series and South Park.

The Buffy set turned into a prestige drama cluster, for reasons I honestly don’t remember—maybe I just wanted an excuse to knock out the big-name shows. That group included HBO's Oz (followed by The Sopranos), The Wire, Mad Men, and Breaking Bad.

I finished The Wire and Breaking Bad about six months ago. Oz was done even earlier—maybe two years back. Right now, I’m nearing the end of The Sopranos (season 6) and Mad Men (also season 6).

In addition, I would also attach a visual novel to each set because I'm just that big of a visual novel fan, trying to catch up with all the big titles I've missed.

Here’s what my current three sets look like. I’ll include in brackets which season I'll be watching next:


Set 1 - The Animation Block - Upcoming set

Bojack Horseman (season 4)
Futurama (season 9)
Archer (season 6)
Beavis and Butt-Head (season 7; B&B Takes America comes first)
King of the Hill (season 6)
X-Men: TAS (season 3)
Attack on Titan (season 4)



Set 2 - The Sci-Fi/Psychological Block - Last Completed 22/4/25

Star Trek: The Original Series [Completed]
The Twilight Zone [1959] (season 4)
South Park (season 9)
Disney's Gargoyles (season 3)
Castlevania (season 3)
Superman: TAS (season 3)
The New Batman Adventures (season 2)
The Venture Brothers (season 4)



Set 3 - The Campy/Prestige TV Block - Current set

Hannibal (season 2)
Firefly (season 1 and Serenity)
Xena: Warrior Princess (season 6)
Seinfeld (season 7)
Community (season 2)
Invincible (season 3)
Barry (season 1)
The Sopranos (season 6)
Deadwood (season 1)
Mad Men (season 6)
Better Call Saul (season 1)


Set 3 is PACKED this time.

As I add more reviews to this thread, I'll update this first page and the list of TV shows I'm watching. Feel free to tune in if you would like to hear some of my thoughts. I usually cover decades-old TV shows and animations, including HBO prestige TV that I missed out on like Deadwood and Six Feet Under. Let me know if you would like to discuss any of the TV shows I've seen in this thread. :)

[JacobKyon]

Superman: The Animated Series
Season 2, Episodes 16-18
"The Batman/Superman Movie: World's Finest"

Part I
https://i.imgur.com/AsztuDY.jpeg
3.5

Superman, the last son of Krypton.

Batman, the dark knight of Gotham.

There’s this joke I heard—probably half urban legend, half truth—that you could walk into any remote village on Earth, show a kid the symbols for Superman, Batman, and Spider-Man, and they’d still recognize them instantly. That’s the level of cultural penetration we’re talking about here. For decades, fans had wanted these legendary icons to share the screen.

And in the fall of 1997, they finally did.

Trailer Voice in the Marketing:
“THE BATMAN AND SUPERMAN MOVIE!”
(Except... it's not actually a movie; it was initially released on home video as three episodes stitched together.)

DC and Kids’ WB finally teamed up to make it happen. A historic milestone. A dream crossover. A marketing goldmine. It’s remembered as a pop culture moment for a reason.

But does it hold up?

Well… funny story. See, coincidentally, I just wrapped Gargoyles Season 2 yesterday, with its big finale arc Hunter’s Moon, and going straight into World’s Finest made the contrast feel like cinematic whiplash. Both stories feature the protagonist's love interest caught in a triangle, but Gargoyles treats that dynamic with emotional maturity, while this... doesn’t.

In Hunter’s Moon, Elisa Maza’s struggle with her feelings for Goliath and her brief connection with Jason Canmore are handled with nuance. She knows Goliath’s silence isn’t malice, just emotional distance wrapped in a species-sized complication. Even when she starts falling for Jason, she pauses to acknowledge her heart’s still tied to someone else. She’s dignified, strong, vulnerable—all at once. Her arc is grounded even when the soap opera elements kick in.

Now enter Lois Lane in World’s Finest:

"I hear he’s nothing but Gotham trash. Rich, spoiled…”
Bruce Wayne exits the plane.
“...and absolutely gorgeous.”

BLECH.

The whiplash was instant. Any progress Lois had made in prior episodes like Target and Brand New Metropolis—all gone, replaced with a cartoonish swoon that rewinds her development to “flustered schoolgirl at billionaire convention.” It’s shallow, it’s lazy, and yes—I’m watching in production order, so this isn’t an early slip-up. It’s deliberate. It treated Lois as a plot device for the sake of stroking male egos. Even on a Saturday morning cartoon, that's insulting.

And this isn’t just a Lois problem—it’s a writing problem. The emotional beat they wanted—Lois torn between Clark and Bruce—feels manufactured by a plot vending machine. Superman has to act like a clueless dope so Lois can be conveniently disillusioned and fall into Bruce’s Bat-arms. Compare that to Elisa and Goliath’s distance in Gargoyles, which was built on years of baggage and interspecies existential dread, not the emotional IQ of a CW subplot.

Meanwhile, Superman himself doesn’t get off easy either. His reporter side gets a rare spotlight—tracking the Joker, following leads—but even that’s turned into a punchline. He asks Bibbo to keep an eye out, and Bibbo just shrugs and says “There’s lots of jokers around,” like it’s a Family Guy cutaway. Can’t have Clark looking too competent, not when Gotham’s golden boy is in town.

And then there's that fight scene. Batman roughs up a thug, Superman steps in to stop him, and Bats promptly shoulder-throws Clark across the room. Yeah, it’s a cool animation trick to reveal he has Kryptonite, but from a story standpoint? It’s plot convenience and Batman polish. Why the hell would Batman not just say, “Hey, Joker’s got Kryptonite”? Oh right—because that would rob Bruce of his obligatory dramatic mic drop.

All of this just reinforces what I already suspected from my childhood memories—and from plenty of comments I’ve seen online: this crossover leans heavily into being “The Batman Hour” on Superman’s turf. Bruce swoops in, seduces Lois, gets the cool lines, outsmarts everyone, and walks away with the final word. Clark, meanwhile, is left cleaning up the emotional debris.

Now, is it all bad? No. The Joker and Luthor subplot is functional, if not particularly inspired. Their interactions have some charm, and Joker and Harley harassing Lex in his limo was mildly amusing—though Mercy Graves gets absolutely dunked on just to give Harley a moment. Typical.

But the real draw here—the promise of Superman and Batman teaming up—lands with less thunder and more of a thud. The tone is off-balance, the characters feel undercut to prop up guest appearances, and what should’ve been an emotionally rich crossover ends up looking like a scripted Bat-flex with Superman playing second fiddle in his own damn show.

It’s not a trainwreck (cough BvS theatrical cut), and it does have moments of fun and visual flair. But the character work is frustrating, the continuity is ignored, and the emotional beats feel forced to make way for Gotham’s favorite son.

Overall, not a terrible first part, just disappointing. A crossover that sells its concept but forgets who’s wearing the cape.


Part II
https://i.imgur.com/ga7e17k.png
3


Superman: “Thank you. I couldn’t have saved Lois without your help.”
Batman: “I’m aware of that.”
—Batman, helpfully marking his territory.


I’m trying not to judge this one too harshly. After all, this isn’t just a Saturday morning cartoon—it’s supposed to be a historic milestone for superhero animation. Not just a Superman and Batman crossover, but the crossover. Sure, “Speed Demons” brought in The Flash earlier, but let’s be real—Barry Allen wasn’t a household name. This was the main event. The titans finally sharing screen time.

And to be fair, I wanted to let it slide. I really did. I tried to be generous and remember that it’s a kids show, so yes—plot conveniences and thin character work are basically part of the Saturday morning contract. But then the episode kept piling on reasons to groan... and not just because of Lois this time, either.

Let’s start with Lois anyway, because holy hell, where do we even begin?

She’s now officially been electrocuted unconscious, gift-wrapped, gagged, dangled, and dragged around like an emotional prop. She’s not technically fridged, sure, but the show dances right up to the edge of that trope like it’s flirting with disaster. Lois doesn’t exist in this episode to be a character—she exists so Superman and Batman can be heroic. She is bait. And the metaphor of her being literally silenced just reinforces how little agency she’s been allowed across both episodes so far.

There was even a window for something meaningful—after Superman thanks Batman for helping him save her, they could’ve explored some actual emotional fallout. Maybe Clark reflects on what Lois means to him. Maybe we see some emotional development. But nope—Batman steals the scene with a one-liner flex, and Clark is reduced to background noise in his own emotional arc. The show doesn’t let Superman feel, because Batman’s too busy winning.

And then there's that scene: Luthor and Joker having a business meeting while Harley and Mercy literally catfight in the background, complete with ripped clothes and grunting sound effects. It’s not even subtext—it’s just straight-up fetish bait thrown in for flavor. You can practically hear the pitch: “And in the background, we’ll have the girls go at it. Y’know. For the dads.”

It’s not like Mercy doesn’t get her moments—she’s far more competent here than in Part I. But even that gets undercut when she’s tossed around like a ragdoll. Whether it’s Harley clubbing her into a limp or Batman casually punching her out and leaving her with a black eye, there’s something distinctly exploitative about how her scenes are framed. These aren’t “tough girl” moments—they’re action figure abuse, animated in slow humiliation.

Normally I wouldn’t nitpick gender roles in an old cartoon, but this episode makes it so unmissably obvious, it feels insulting. It’s not just Lois—it’s Mercy, it’s Harley, it’s all of them being downgraded to side attractions while the narrative feeds the egos of its lead men.

Now, on the plus side: the Joker’s scheme does feel grounded. His strategy is clever (even if Superman has to dial his IQ down a few points for the plot to work), and the whole “lead suit” bit was a cool concept, even if it didn’t last long. And hey—Superman does get to do something useful in the rescue, so… baby steps?

But then we’re right back into cringe territory. Bruce and Lois are suddenly in a serious relationship, which apparently now includes moving to Gotham and changing jobs—because Lois has known this guy for a weekend and he’s rich, so naturally, that overrides years of work and ambition. Love at first plot device.

And Superman? Still sidelined. Still simmering in jealousy. Still not allowed to confess his feelings or confront the situation. Batman taunts him like an emotionally stunted frat boy with a utility belt, and we’re supposed to accept this as some kind of “power contrast.” But without any real attempt to explain Bruce’s hostility or show any emotional depth beneath the brooding, it just comes across as mean-spirited and petty.

Yeah, I could infer that Bruce resents Clark’s powers, or that he distrusts anyone that strong. But that nuance isn’t in the script. It’s in the fan’s head. What’s in the script is Bruce rubbing his new relationship in Clark’s face for no good reason while Clark gets emotionally dog-walked.

To be fair, Lex Luthor’s involvement is solid. He straddles the line well—manipulative, pragmatic, and clearly in over his head with the Joker. Their dynamic has some bite, and Luthor’s cold demeanor fits the tone better than most of the over-the-top antics around him.

But when you zoom out, this episode just feels like a toxic masculinity fantasy disguised as a crossover. It gives the edgier Batman every advantage—narratively, romantically, morally—while making the weaker and less aggressive Superman play catch-up with a character arc he’s not allowed to complete.

It’s not terrible. There are fun visuals. Some moments work. Joker’s still entertaining, and Lex provides a decent foundation. But as a crossover? As a meeting of the minds? It’s one-sided, frustrating, and weirdly tone-deaf when it comes to the women involved.


Part III
https://i.imgur.com/VQUQezG.png
3.5


Bruce Wayne: "It's ironic, you know. She likes Bruce Wayne and she likes Superman. It's the other two guys she's not crazy about."
Superman: "Too bad we can't mix and match."
– Superman's creepy innuendo sacrificing a potentially interesting character growth


Welp, it's finally over—the long-awaited team-up between DC's titans that limps across the finish line with a shrug and a flashbang. For a crossover that was supposed to define a generation of superhero animation, World’s Finest ends more like a Bat-epilogue with guest appearances.

That said, Lois Lane finally gets a sliver of her dignity back. She pulls off a quick-thinking move to help Bruce mid-action, shows actual frustration at being lied to, and—miracle of miracles—has a moment of clarity where she realizes that Bruce, for all his brooding appeal, might not be the healthiest emotional investment. It’s a fleeting moment of character depth... but hey, it’s something. Too bad it’s undercut by the later revelation that she’s still hot for Bat-brood two seasons later. Continuity, thy name is kryptonite.

Meanwhile, Superman spends the episode like a guy third-wheeling in his own relationship. Instead of addressing any emotional fallout or tension with Bruce, he drops what can only be described as a bad throuple joke and lets Bruce walk off into the night with a smug quip about Lois. Clark had a perfect moment here to finally confront the cost of living behind a dual identity, to reflect on what it means to be Clark and Superman in a world where neither can be a meaningful partner for the woman he loves. Instead, we got awkward banter and lingering regret. Honestly? Superman II handled their relationship better, and that movie had an amnesiac kiss and a cellophane emblem.

The action’s... fine. Competent, slick, and exactly what you’d expect from a '90s cartoon trying to outdo itself with every explosion. The Jet-Wing makes a cool debut (though the later aired Old Wounds in TNBA is said to be its chronological debut), and Batman glides through the chaos with all the narrative plot armor you'd expect. He has gadgets. He has competence. He has the writers’ full attention. Clark gets a number of decent action moments this episode dispatching robots, but mostly just ends up with clean-up duty pushing an airship with his brute strength, not to use the intelligence he had displayed in previous episodes of the series.

Lex Luthor and his war-tech also have a role here, even if it’s largely reduced to set dressing. He’s basically there to show that trusting a literal chaos clown is not good business strategy (shocking, I know). Mercy gets some scraps of relevance but still spends most of the runtime in “punchable sidekick” mode. Joker runs away with the entire final act like the giggling goblin he is—stealing scenes, sabotaging plans, and reminding everyone why he’s the wildcard you never invite to a power lunch.

And no review of this episode would be complete without referencing that final Batman joke at Joker’s expense. No spoilers, but let’s just say—when you hear it, you’ll be checking the label on your Blu-ray box wondering if you accidentally popped in a parody disc. It’s so out of character for Bruce that it stops the tone cold and leaves you blinking like you just caught him doing stand-up at Joker’s roast. Lazy. Misread. And absolutely not how you end an arc about Batman's most psychologically complex nemesis.

In the end, World’s Finest was always more about the idea than the execution. A crossover built on iconography and hype, not character arcs. Everyone in this story—Clark, Lois, even Luthor—is used as a prop for Bruce Wayne’s prestige. And it shows. Lois gets closure in theory, but not with Clark. Clark gets screen time, but not growth. Joker gets what Joker always gets: the last laugh (kind of).

Bruce? He gets the girl, the gadgets, the victory, and even the emotional epilogue two seasons later.

Because in the DCAU? Batman always wins.

Even when he shouldn't.

Overall rating for the three-parter:
3

[JacobKyon]

The New Batman Adventures
Season 1, Episode 9
"Mean Seasons"
https://i.imgur.com/GbyBCQX.png
3.5


"For 10 years I starved, sweated... subjected my body to surgery after surgery, and for what? Days became weeks, weeks became years... until my time ran out."
- Calendar Girl


Look, I don’t need a cartoon to lecture me like I just walked into a public service announcement. If you’re gonna bring social commentary into your story, it better feel earned—lived-in, textured, and not like it was scrawled on the back of a protest sign and mailed to the storyboard team. So imagine my surprise when Mean Seasons opens the door to a potentially brilliant, surprisingly mature theme... and then kind of fumbles it like a banana peel under a T-Rex.

No, really. There’s a T-Rex. Don’t ask.

The premise? Solid gold. A former model and spokesperson, discarded by a youth-obsessed industry once she dared to hit the scandalous age of 30 (gasp!), returns as a masked villain called Calendar Girl. The symbolism practically writes itself—pin-up nostalgia, disposable glamour, literal calendar pages left behind at crime scenes, a sleazy agent tempting a young actress into the industry, literal Chippendale henchmen being used as eye candy in a pointed gender role inversion. It’s one of those episodes that makes you think, “Wait, how was this made in the ‘90s before #MeToo?” There’s a clear shot being taken at the kind of shallow beauty standards the media has enforced for decades, especially with the episode's clear dig at the WB network for favoring youth-centered shows at the time like Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Dawson's Creek.

Even though I'm a man, I'm conscientious enough to clearly see the objectification that runs rampant in entertainment. It’s baked into the industry—women chewed up and spit out once they age a day past 29, sacrificed on the altar of youth and beauty. So I don't mind when such messaging is grounded on realistic problems, such as it was initially here in this episode.

And yet, just when it’s gaining traction as a smart critique of Hollywood's obsession with beauty and age, the episode starts folding in a side plot about Bruce Wayne feeling old, throws in some explosive holiday props, and yes, drops a mechanical dinosaur into the mix like it's Saturday Morning Cartoon Says Feminism. Now, don’t get me wrong—I think ageism is absolutely worth exploring, and the subplot about Bruce Wayne feeling his age was a clever parallel, especially with how he's surrounded by younger sidekicks who could very well take his place. But it tonally clashes with the earlier symbolism about female objectification. It’s like the episode accidentally picked two powerful, socially loaded issues and then jammed them into one villain origin story without doing either justice. It feels like two completely different scripts collided in a production meeting, and nobody noticed.

What really complicated my feelings, though, was Barbara Gordon’s role. Initially, I thought her quip to Batman—“Don’t you mean woman? She was your age when she made that commercial, Bat Boy”—was part of the problem. On first watch, it reads like casual internalized misogyny: the younger, sexualized sidekick mocking the older woman’s downfall. And given the way Batgirl’s design in TNBA leans hard into the male gaze (thank Bruce Timm for those weird curvaceous angles the animation keeps framing), it felt especially tone-deaf.

But after thinking about it more, I’m convinced that line wasn’t aimed at Page—it was aimed at Bruce. Barbara’s calling him out for referring to a woman his own age as a “girl,” and subtly dunking on his lingering nostalgia for a pretty face from his youth. It’s a blink-and-you-miss-it critique, and the episode never follows through with Barbara showing empathy toward Page, which is a missed opportunity. But it does suggest that someone in the writers’ room had a sharper angle in mind—they just didn’t know how to give it room to breathe.

Now, to be fair, there’s still enough haunting aspects to be experienced here. The costume design for Calendar Girl? Genuinely eerie—equal parts glam and ghost, masking both vanity and pain. And Sela Ward's voice performance absolutely nails that tragic downward spiral. There’s a psychological core in this episode, buried under all the gimmicks and misfires, that still resonates if you’re willing to dig for it.

But man, this thing had the potential to be more. It flirts with depth, then runs back to safe cartoon tropes like a kid who realized the pool was too cold. And while I’m not blaming the writers for failing to fully articulate themes that culture itself hadn’t grappled with yet—this was pre-Weinstein, pre-social reckoning—it's hard not to feel the weight of what they almost said. They touched something real... and then gave it fireworks and a dinosaur.

Still, I respect the swing. And even when the show misses, it’s not boring. Call it a near-miss with ambition. One that deserves the points for trying—even if it chokes a little on the landing.

[JacobKyon]

The New Batman Adventures
Season 1 Review
https://i.imgur.com/P4kuDeZ.jpeg
4

When Batman: The Animated Series wrapped up its original run, it left behind a reputation for being the gold standard of superhero animation—moody, noir, dramatic, and willing to take itself (and its audience) seriously. So when The New Batman Adventures rolled out as a revamp, expectations were sky-high. This wasn’t just a sequel series—it was a full-on makeover. The character designs got sleeker, the animation a little more streamlined, and the stories slightly more compact. Not all of it worked, but when it did, it really did.

First things first, the showrunners clearly got the memo that people hated the lighthearted "The Adventures of Batman & Robin" intro, because they brought back the original TAS opening. That’s the kind of course correction that tells you they weren’t interested in just cashing in—they were trying to realign with the original tone. It was a statement. “We’re back to basics, folks.”

The new designs, though? Mixed bag. Bruce Wayne looks too angular and blocky now—I miss the more grounded, classic TAS look. His Batman suit, however? That stealthy grey-black combo was chef’s kiss. Barbara Gordon, meanwhile, got a glow-up that honestly activated a childhood crush. Sleeker, curvier, and sassier—she traded her wholesome girl-next-door vibe for something more rebellious and sharp-tongued. That black lipstick did wonders.

Design-wise, some other characters got hit or miss treatment. Scarecrow’s redesign is straight-up nightmare fuel (in the best way). Joker’s look? It’s fine, but that original wide-eyed, red-lipped menace still wins. Catwoman lost some personality in her TNBA version, and Mr. Freeze—while still intimidating—feels a little too minimalist now. And Killer Croc turning full gator? Nah. Pass. But hey, Baby Doll got an extra bump in creepy factor, so that’s a win.

What’s cool about TNBA is that, with fewer episodes, the writing tightened up. We got some real psychological depth here. Never Fear gave us a chilling look at Batman without his moral brakes. Double Talk delivered a rare redemption arc that actually landed. Joker’s Millions had the audacity to make the IRS the biggest threat Joker’s ever faced. And Growing Pains? Just tragic, plain and simple. Then there's Over the Edge—an all-timer that hits you like a freight train with its bleak, high-stakes tension and commentary on the emotional cost of vigilantism.

But it wasn’t all wins. Cold Comfort tossed Mr. Freeze’s previous growth in SubZero out the window, like a writer’s room with memory loss. And Torch Song? Yikes. Tonally all over the place, complete with a Britney-era pop star villain and a damsel who flirts her way into Batman’s protection. It felt like Timm was airing some personal pop culture grievances instead of crafting a compelling story.

Still, credit where it’s due—this show leaned hard into the psychological. You could tell the writers were trying to peel back layers, even when the runtime didn’t always give them enough room. TNBA might not have the same cultural shadow as its predecessor, but in many ways, it was just as bold. It was tighter, darker, and more character-focused, and that’s what made it special.

[JacobKyon]

The Venture Brothers
Season 3, Episode 13
The Family That Slays Together, Stays Together, Part Two
https://i.imgur.com/chj0kq1.jpeg
3.5

If Part I of this two-parter was a slow-boiling manhunt wrapped in cartoon chaos, Part II is the inevitable explosion of everything Venture: convoluted plots, retro chaos, and deadpan tragedy—all colliding in a final act of beautiful, baffling noise.

Picking up right after Brock has finished murdering his third would-be assassin—a French-accented, katana-wielding, Kraven-the-Hunter cosplayer who smells like Axe body spray and cherry blossoms—Part II wastes no time in cranking the stakes from “on the run” to “on everyone’s radar.” OSI wants Brock back. The Monarch wants the Ventures dead. And H.E.L.P.eR? He’s the one guy not paid enough for any of this.

What unfolds is a mash-up of acid-dissolving jail breaks, wrist-communicator trash talk, and Molotov showing up in civilian clothes that scream “I am here to sabotage your sense of tone.” The Venture Compound becomes the battleground for a Monarch vs. OSI free-for-all, while the Ventures hide in the panic room like divorced parents avoiding their kids’ birthday party.

The actual Monarch vs. OSI hench-war is probably one of the better staged brawls in the series—chaotic, colorful, and self-aware enough to throw its own rules out the window when it feels like it. And when Hank suggests opening their “Christmas presents early”? That’s the twist that weaponizes the show’s clone gimmick into a weirdly grim, brilliantly Venture-esque moment of self-cannibalizing satire. It’s the most Venture Bros. thing ever: a dozen backup plans turned into cannon fodder because why not end the season with an army of naked clone boys marching to their off-screen doom?

The ending is surprisingly abrupt and undercut with comedy, as you'd expect from a show that treats emotional weight like a novelty item. The fact that a safety feature turned out to be the character's undoing is such on-brand Venture Brothers gallows humor. Brock's decision, on the other hand, feels like the kind of seismic moment the show thinks you’ll care about, but unless you’re deeply tuned into OSI politics and his personal journey, it’s more like “neato” than “noooo.”

The finale doesn’t wrap up much of anything—no Phantom Limb, no real ORB payoff, and no big revelations about the boys’ parentage or Rusty’s arc—but then again, this has never been a show about clean conclusions. It’s more about the ride: messy, referential, and strangely personal. It juggles absurdist gag work with violent set pieces and the occasional emotional gut-punch, all while keeping its characters emotionally constipated and semi-evolving.

The Family That Slays Together is a perfect title for the two-parter. It’s got all the Venture family dysfunction, plus a big kill count and enough chaos to make the season feel complete. Is it coherent? Not really. Is it cathartic? A little. But is it Venture Bros.? Undeniably.

[JacobKyon]

Hannibal
Season 2, Episode 1
"Kaiseki"
https://i.imgur.com/ltU4dNM.jpeg
3.5

After a first season that flirted with greatness but ultimately fell into some familiar network traps—contrived plotting, predictable beats, a clear fear of going too far despite all the blood and antlers—I didn’t walk into Season 2 with a candlelit altar of hope. The show started off strong by subverting the procedural formula, focusing more on psychological unraveling than simple case-of-the-week kills, but that spark started dimming midway through Season 1. Like many network dramas trying to pose as prestige TV, it showed its seams.

That said, I didn’t drop it. I stuck around—begrudgingly, at first—and Kaiseki actually does enough to pull me back in. The season premiere makes a bold choice: it flashes forward to a major confrontation that I won’t spoil, but let’s just say NBC already did in the trailers, and now the episode itself does too. So if you haven’t seen the promo, congrats—you’ll be equally blindsided. And weirdly, that works. Knowing it’s coming gives the episode a sense of dread the rest of Season 1 often lacked.

The title Kaiseki refers to a multi-course Japanese haute cuisine, where every dish is designed to honor the ingredients, the season, and the senses. And that’s a fitting metaphor here: this episode is an appetizer tasting menu for the blood-soaked courses ahead. Hannibal (Mads Mikkelsen, still a glacier in a tailored suit) frames the idea best himself—it’s not just about eating, it’s about the aesthetics of anticipation. Which is what this premiere trades in: mood, setup, foreshadowing. And fish metaphors. So many fish metaphors.

There’s a shift in roles this season that I won’t detail too much, but we get a new dynamic with Hannibal stepping into someone else's old shoes. It's missing a key catchphrase, sure, but it makes for some intriguing contrasts. Meanwhile, Laurence Fishburne’s Jack Crawford is now under scrutiny for his choices last season, which is a nice payoff from what could’ve been brushed aside as a plot convenience. Accountability on network TV? What a concept.

The murder of the week, such as it is, remains part of the show’s appeal. The victims here may not be as iconically grotesque as the “flesh angels” of Season 1, but the tableau still carries that disturbing art-gallery-of-doom vibe Hannibal is known for. Creepy. Clinical. And yeah, definitely Buffalo Bill-coded—though if you're hoping for a Silence of the Lambs tie-in, don’t. NBC didn’t get the rights, hence characters like “Kade Prurnell” stepping in as a legally distinct but thematically familiar bureaucrat.

Also, I’d be lying if I said the ending didn’t give me Jeepers Creepers vibes. Seriously. Once you see it, you’ll get it. That final visual swings from surrealist horror to B-movie energy in seconds, but it’s just campy enough to be memorable.

Overall, Kaiseki works better than it should. It doesn’t solve all of the show’s issues—there’s still that overly poetic, sometimes clunky dialogue, and the pacing could tighten up—but there’s enough here to stay seated for the next course. Let’s just hope NBC doesn’t keep watering the wine.

[JacobKyon]

Firefly
Season 1, Episode 1
"Serenity"
https://i.imgur.com/86Hm1zC.png
4.5

As I've mentioned in the past, my switch from film buff to TV-binger began with wanting to catch up on three ‘90s TV classics I missed: The Simpsons, The X-Files, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. That was maybe two years ago, maybe longer. Now in 2025, after having finished Buffy and Angel last year, it felt only fitting to finally dive into that one piece of the Whedonverse I had ignored all this time: Firefly and its sequel movie, Serenity.

Released in September 2002—around the same time Buffy was on its final lap—Firefly was Whedon’s post-Buffy detour into the kind of grungy, character-driven sci-fi that stood in stark contrast to the polished space operas of the ‘90s. Inspired by The Killer Angels and post-Civil War reconstruction stories, Whedon wanted to follow the losers of a war—not the idealistic rebels, but the jaded survivors, wandering a new frontier, just trying to make rent. It was a Stagecoach story in space, but with less glory and more grime. A kind of proto-Guardians of the Galaxy before that became a billion-dollar blueprint. But unlike the polished, utopian sheen of most '90s and even modern sci-fi, Firefly was designed to be tactile and dirty—closer to Mad Max than Star Wars. Think Guardians without that family-friendly and shareholders-approved polish.

Unfortunately, it also had to survive the asteroid belt of Fox execs, who insisted the characters came off like a bunch of losers and demanded a flashier start with more pew-pew, less introspection. So they tossed the actual pilot to the very end of the season and aired the episodes out of order, refusing to trust in the strength of the show or Whedon's worldbuilding.

From the get-go, however, Whedon had already laid down a stylistic tone that set Firefly apart from most sci-fi of its time—rusty ships, fringe planets, shadowy governments that root the cast in a grimy tone of moral ambiguity. What makes this pilot shine is how confidently it handles character introductions. Whedon does a much better job introducing characters here than he did in the pilots for Buffy or Angel. You get both clear narrative shorthand for everyone onboard the ship and the hints of deeper complexity beneath the surface. He didn’t just give us cardboard tropes with snappy dialogue (okay, there’s a bit of that too), but instead planted seeds of conflict, relationships, history. You feel like you’ve known these people for a long time after just one episode, which is more than I can say for most modern sci-fi and fantasy ten hours deep.

Captain Malcolm Reynolds (Nathan Fillion, in a role he was genetically engineered to play) is a great example of such character complexity. He isn’t your clean-cut Starfleet idealist or your quippy Marvel rogue. He’s cynical, bitter, and barely holding things together under the boot of the corporate Alliance, running petty jobs in the outer rim just to keep the lights on. But Fillion threads it with charisma repressing unsaid trauma, enough that you get why people follow him—he’s not a hero, he’s a guy who’s already lost everything and is just trying to keep the rest from slipping through his fingers.

With that kind of resume under his description, the fact that Nathan Fillion never got to play Nathan Drake in a full Uncharted feature film is a crime against casting. He literally is the character. Same name. Same smirk. Same rugged Han Solo charisma. We got robbed.

Perhaps the greatest example of Firefly's moral complexity that separates itself from the cowboy heroics of similar shows is the character of Jayne Cobb, played by Adam Baldwin, whom I only knew from Independence Day and The X-Files. It was a real surprise seeing the heroic Major Mitchell from ID4 become this toxic and aggressive alpha male with his casual misogyny, who's basically every sexist HR violation wrapped in muscle and smug. Modern shows would either sandblast his edges into an incompetent idiot or make him a cartoonish villain with lazy alpha male characteristics. And yet here, he's somewhat compelling, a meathead merc who’s always one paycheck away from betrayal, but also reliable in a gunfight and surprisingly loyal—for now. What undoubtedly impresses me the most is that he acts like an actual person instead of a caricature, someone who can feel loathsome and possesses likable traits at the same time, perhaps more than villains from other well-written genre shows I've seen lately whom I either detest or respect, rarely both.

Then there’s Inara Serra (Morena Baccarin), the “Companion” who's treated with both dignity and agency. It’s hard to imagine modern TV letting a courtesan be this composed and this respected without shoving a trauma arc down her throat, or allow her natural feminine beauty to shine without irony or shame. While she offers her services to various men, what’s striking is how little obscenity the show attaches to her profession despite the Mal's derogatory term used on her.

And yet, that little off-color exchange with Mal might have a deeper context there that was coming more from the Captain's frustration with Inara choosing a career that's beneath her, for he thinks that she could do better than that. As opposed to shaming her for her life choices, it's almost a projection of his own feelings of selling one's dignity for survival during the war. It's a rather nuanced relationship and characterization that's hard to incorporate into modern narratives, where women's agency are infantilized and treated with kid gloves rather than the complex realism that makes for compelling storytelling.

We also have other interesting characters to round out the ensemble cast, such as the enigmatic Shepherd Book, who clearly knows more than he lets on, and whose soft-spoken interaction with Inara might be one of the more surprisingly tender moments in the pilot—two characters from vastly different worlds recognizing something graceful in each other without judgment. Then there’s Hoban “Wash” Washburne (Alan Tudyk), who brings sardonic charm and genuine levity—think Joker from Mass Effect, but with a plastic dinosaur obsession. His dynamic with Zoe, his wife and the ship’s no-nonsense second-in-command, is a highlight. Zoe (Gina Torres, AKA the goddess Jasmine from Angel) doesn’t get as much solo focus in the pilot as I would’ve liked, but she’s clearly competent, loyal, and carries herself as Wash's affectionate partner. Kaylee Frye (Jewel Staite), the ship’s female mechanic, is the obligatory ray of sunshine in a crew full of storm clouds that's a bit too chipper for my taste at times, but I'm hoping I'll get to see more of her development down the road.

The show's difference in tone isn't just restricted to its protagonists, of course, but also this universe’s most disturbing antagonist yet. As opposed to being genocidal supervillains in capes or bureaucratic despots, the Reavers are pure nightmare fuel—depraved, feral, and unsettlingly believable in a universe where mental collapse and cruelty have no limits. There's a particularly unsettling presence when Zoe explained their existence to Simon, describing how they would commit the kind of grotesque violence that would make the Klingons and Yautja blush. I particularly love that their ship’s arrival in the episode, backed by that pounding war-drum score, has a similar vibe as the Collector Ship in Mass Effect 2. There's no glossy villain monologue here, just existential terror barreling toward you at full speed.

If there's one chink in the armor I could point out in this pilot, it's perhaps Whedon's "diverse" use of the Mandarin language. Watching Firefly as a Chinese speaker gives me the rare and glorious opportunity to laugh with a show instead of at one. The crew peppering their lines with mangled Mandarin is hands-down one of the most unintentionally hilarious aspects of the pilot. It's not just mispronounced—it’s warped, butchered, and then force-fed back through a rusty translator, often sounding like someone trying to order dim sum after taking a boot to the head. And yet, there's something oddly endearing about it. It adds to the scrappy charm of Firefly, and frankly, I appreciate any chance to hear my language turned into space gibberish if it means I get to laugh this hard.

Overall, Firefly might just be one of the rare shows that turns a genre I normally find dull into something gripping. I’ve never been big on westerns or even space westerns as I found the aesthetic rather dull and monotone, but Firefly's sharp writing and layered performances provide something refreshing that keeps me engaged nonetheless. I have high expectations for the rest of the series, and I hope to be brought on a unique journey across a new frontier in the Whedonverse.

[JacobKyon]

Xena: Warrior Princess
Season 6, Episode 1
"Coming Home"
https://i.imgur.com/EGJ7lZN.jpeg
3

It's been a long road, not going to lie. It feels like just yesterday when I first revisited Hercules: The Legendary Journeys, that nostalgic itch from childhood that led me straight into the world of Xena: Warrior Princess. I wrapped Hercules last January in 2025, and now, here I am, standing at the doorstep of Xena’s final season. End of an era, start of another. Let’s do this.

Much has been said about Xena’s twilight years—specifically how things went a bit... let’s say theologically ambitious starting in season 5. Personally, I didn’t mind the whole biblical detour. There was something fun and grandiose about tossing angels and even God Himself into a Greek mythos soup. But the cracks started to show fast—Chi storylines that felt like a budgeted Star Wars lightshow, dream episodes with Gabrielle as a mermaid (yes, that happened), and an overall dip in quality that couldn’t be denied.

So how does this season 6 premiere hold up? Does it promise smoother sailing for Xena’s final lap? Ehh... not really.

After last season’s apocalyptic god-slaying finale, this episode starts off with Xena repaying a personal debt to Ares, who, in a rare moment of unselfishness, gave up his immortality to save Eve. And while I’ve always enjoyed Ares as a dangerous, morally murky frenemy, he’s become noticeably more pathetic in the Twilight of the Gods era. That said, this episode at least remembers that his feelings for Xena are messy and human in the worst ways. There’s still a bitter little spark between them, even if his swagger’s been dialed way down. Their dynamic here feels like a messy but fitting footnote—especially considering this episode recycles a deleted scene from last season’s finale. Yep, the kiss wasn’t even originally meant for this episode. Still works though.

Then there’s Eve (or as my brain keeps yelling, “I'M LIVIIIIA!”). She gets her own redemption arc now, Xena-style, and... it’s fine. But it really leans hard into that late-‘90s vibe of “forgiveness solves everything,” even when “everything” includes stuff that makes Wanda Maximoff look like a rookie. I’m all for second chances, but Eve’s sins aren’t just abstract philosophical baggage—they’re war crimes that dehumanized the Amazons in a horrific way. I get that Xena sees her own past in Eve, but I’m pretty sure even Xena didn’t do what Livia did. Honestly, the Amazons are 100% justified in wanting blood. Redemption arcs can be powerful when done right, but this one steps over so many moral lines it practically backflips over them.

And then there’s the Furies. Oh boy. Let’s just say there’s a chakram moment that makes a boomerang look like NASA-grade technology. It’s cartoonish even by Xena standards, and that’s saying something. I was waiting for the writers to at least wink at the absurdity, but nope. Straight-faced nonsense.

Fun fact: This episode was penned by Missy Good, a well-known fanfic author in the Xena fandom who got the rare chance to write for the actual show. And you can feel it—not just in the freewheeling tone and loose plotting, but in the spicy little beats between Xena and Ares. Honestly, I don’t mind that part. It’s fan servicey, but hey, at least it’s entertaining.

Overall, it’s a watchable opener with some decent character moments and nostalgia-soaked charm. But the loose threads and baffling logic are hard to ignore. If this is the tone we’re kicking off with, it’s clear this final ride is gonna be bumpy. Hold onto your chakrams.

[JacobKyon]

Seinfeld
Season 7, Episode 1
"The Engagement"
https://i.imgur.com/WohP33A.png
3

At 35, I'm not married. Hell, I haven't even been laid. Not exactly a badge of honor or some incel anthem—just a quiet comfort in the lifestyle I’ve built. Relationships? Sure, they come with companionship, shared joy, someone to split the Uber bill. But people are messy, and I’ve got the social adaptability of a broken vending machine. Also, my teeth are kind of a horror story. Let’s not talk about that.

So when The Engagement kicks off season seven of Seinfeld with Jerry and George pondering whether it’s time to grow up—dreaming about companionship and the meaning of caring for someone—you can see the show gently poking at that societal script. The kind that suggests we’re all supposed to be looking for someone, settling down, building a life. And I get it. I’m not anti-relationship by any means; I can see the appeal of having someone who truly values your worth as a person and invites you to do so in return. But if you’re someone like me—or like Jerry—who’s built a lifestyle around habits, solitude, and a certain emotional detachment, then the idea of upending all that for the unknown (even if I do somehow get lucky enough to meet someone) can feel more like social obligation than personal desire.

And that's the tension this episode toys with in the typically Seinfeldian comedic ways. Jerry's hang-ups get the best of him again, while George stumbles blindly into “adulthood” through his typical unrestrained id. And the results are predictably disastrous.

On Jerry’s side, it’s a typical sitcom gag that only works if you completely ignore the existence of something we humans called talking about it. His issue with his girlfriend is something that could’ve been solved with a simple “hey, this thing you do kinda bugs me,” but of course, Jerry would rather eject himself from mild discomfort than risk a real conversation, which tracks for someone that neurotic. He’d rather preserve his perfectly controlled lifestyle than deal with the chaos of connection—and that’s part of what makes him both relatable and hilariously pathetic.

George, on the other hand, overcorrects so hard he veers off a cliff. Watching him spiral from proposal euphoria to regretful couch blob within 48 hours is both sad and exactly what you’d expect. You can tell the writers remembered this is a show with “no hugging, no learning” and just went full tilt into the tragic clown of it all in this season premiere. After a brief flirtation with growth back in season 5, he’s now cartoonishly regressed to his original Costanza mannerisms—dropping misogynistic chess metaphors, fumbling through impulsive decisions, and walking straight into a relationship he’s clearly unfit for. Watching him try to act like a grown-up while visibly squirming in his own skin? Pure karmic punishment gold.

I guess that it is meant to be funny that someone like me with limited social finesse could think of several ways to mediate some of these situations the sitcom characters constantly run into. You want to watch different shows? Split the nights, alternate picks, do anything but let it rot into resentment. But I suppose that's where the appeal of these characters lies—they’re not supposed to be wise. They’re emotionally stunted, chronically self-sabotaging, and comfortable in their dysfunction, which provides that comfort for being just a little smarter for recognizing the easy fix they’ll never even consider. But it is still a little annoying because, once again, a little communication goes a long way in breaking TV drama and comedy cliches.

Of course, that's where the episode falls a little flat in terms of challenging the characters' perspectives, because both Jerry and especially George's situation reinforces Kramer's incel-flavored views that marriage is a prison. But to be fair, he’s less a woman-hater and more of a libertine Luddite—he doesn’t want to be tied down to anyone or anything. Richards plays that commitment-phobic chaos with such bizarre enthusiasm that it swerves into a kind of free spirit philosophy. He’s not angry at women—he’s just allergic to structure and these social obligations we keep boxing ourselves in.

Meanwhile, there’s a B-plot involving Elaine, a sleepless night, and an extremely American problem: a neighbor’s yappy dog. I’m from Singapore, where barking laws are real and enforced, so this subplot just read like an anxiety dream set in Brooklyn. That said, Newman’s disgust for dogs and Kramer’s wildly irresponsible solution make for a few funny moments, especially if you’re a fellow cat person who’s been ambushed by one too many tiny bark machines during my part-time job distributing leaflets.

In the end, The Engagement isn’t one of the series’ top-tier episodes, but it sets the tone for a season that might actually pretend to challenge its characters—until, inevitably, it doesn’t. I don't mind having the comfort food of familiarity, but man, it was kinda nice having the illusion of subversion and clever plotting for a moment. Ah well.

[JacobKyon]

Seinfeld
Season 7, Episode 2
"The Postponement"
https://i.imgur.com/6OGAN8l.png
3.5

Following the male-centered neurosis of “The Engagement,” The Postponement tries to shift to a more female perspective, dragging Elaine into the emotional splash zone for once. But while it technically balances the screen time, it doesn't quite balance the substance. Instead of exploring a woman's relationship dysfunction in the same way George and Jerry get theirs aired like laundry in a hurricane, the episode mostly turns her into collateral damage for a gag about gossip, which is a shame, as it would have been interesting exploring the dynamics from the other end.

The premise—Elaine confiding in a rabbi who turns out to be the nosiest mouthpiece in the building—is funny in that classic Seinfeld "watch a situation spiral until someone cries" way, but it leans more on setup than character. Elaine’s not doing much; she’s being done to. And for a show that built its reputation on dissecting the petty flaws and fragile egos of its leads, that’s a missed opportunity. We know Elaine is capable of wild self-sabotage. Why not give her a stage to trip on her own shoelaces like the guys do?

Meanwhile, Susan Ross (Heidi Swedberg) continues her strange run as sitcom fiancée-shaped furniture. She gets to speak, sure, but her main role is to act as an immovable wall for George to bounce his insecurities off of. She’s not mean, not exactly, but she exists solely to challenge George's cowardice—and by extension, provide the setup for yet another unflattering Costanza maneuver. It's funny. It works. But it also pushes her toward that dreaded “shrew” zone, where female characters in comedies go to die when no one bothers writing them with interiority.

That said, George's whole arc here works brilliantly in terms of comedy. I couldn't imagine being married to someone who probably dislikes you as much as you loathe her. Clearly, "opposites attract" is a myth, because as Jason Alexander would later observe, he and Heidi lack the kind of chemistry to make their relationship believable. This isn’t the slow rot of a long-term marriage; they’ve been engaged for what, an episode? And it’s already dead on arrival. And look, I’m not anti-relationship, but watching disasters like this really does make me grateful I’m not dealing with the hassle of being with people. It’s all just so much work.

Also—minor side note, but kind of a hilarious one—George’s pick for his postponed wedding date, the so-called “Spring of Rebirth”? Yeah, that’s literally my birthday. March 21st. Fitting, considering my free agent lifestyle and this man's attempt to delay his doom with the emotional equivalent of a Hallmark slogan.

But instead of dealing with his relationship mess maturely, George of course picks up all the wrong lessons from an insensitive jerk at Monk's, and then further learns yet another morally confused lesson during his second attempt (this episode) to break off with Susan. For a show that’s famously against its characters learning anything, it often makes for great comedy watching them take away the worst possible interpretation of a situation and dig their own graves with it.

Not Kramer though, as he is doing whatever the hell he wants in his own plot dimension—this time revolving around caffeine, betrayal, and karmic exemption. The man preaches loyalty like a mobster, then folds the moment the rules threaten his own comfort. It’s vintage Kramer: moral elasticity meets physical comedy, plus a side of delusion. You can’t argue with the formula—mainly because he won’t be around long enough to hear it.

Overall, The Postponement remains another decent one, but doesn’t quite reach Seinfeld’s upper tier, not even close. Perhaps the peak is long gone by this seventh season. Ah well.

[JacobKyon]

Community
Season 2, Episode 1
"Anthropology 101"
https://i.imgur.com/ouoB2yo.png
4


“Shirley, since you have clearly failed to grasp the central insipid metaphor of those Twilight books you devour, let me explain it to you. Men are monsters who crave young flesh, the end.”


Let me start with a story you might have read before in my other reviews—because, frankly, this episode hits that particular nerve just right. Valentine’s Day. Secondary school. I was crushing hard on the kind of girl who had the whole résumé: student prefect, volleyball captain, way out of my league. So, mustering every ounce of courage, I went old-school romantic: flowers, chocolates, the works.

Things went downhill fast. I ended up giving her the gifts in class—a result of escalating events beyond my control. She looked uncomfortable, possibly repulsed (I was somewhat of a delinquent who was held back two grades), my best friend nudged me to push through, and she—clearly under pressure in front of all our classmates—told me to just say whatever I had to say. She turned me down, and the whole thing was a car crash of embarrassment. For both of us. Over time, I realized she was put on the spot. I was humiliated, sure, but she was cornered, pressured by the public setting. Rejecting me made her look like the villain, even if she was just being honest. No right move.

And watching this Community season premiere, I saw that moment play out all over again—but with Britta and Jeff. It's a bold, subversive statement on double standards in our gender roles. Britta becomes the underdog goddess, praised by the entire school for having the courage to confess her feelings, while Jeff gets turned into the villain for saying nah, this isn’t it. But here’s the kicker—Jeff didn’t actually do anything wrong. At least not in that moment. Maybe kissing Annie was inappropriate and ill-advised, but he had enough respect for himself and Britta to turn her down. That was honesty. That was healthy, if anything.

But the narrative doesn’t reward healthy. It rewards performative vulnerability. Britta becomes an icon because the school needs one, and Jeff becomes the antagonist because someone has to be, never mind what actually happened.

It reminded me of what someone once told me after that Valentine’s Day disaster: the cruelest way to reject someone is to be nice about it, as it makes it harder for them to let go. Jeff's direct rejection, though harsh, was perhaps the kinder route. Stringing Britta along would have been more toxic in the long run, potentially dragging both of them along in a mismatched relationship.

Structurally, “Anthropology 101” plays like a spiritual sibling to “Investigative Journalism” and “Romantic Expressionism.” You get the reintroduction tour with a fantastic Wes Anderson style pan—each character reestablished in their familiar group dynamics for the benefit of fresh eyes. It has a very endearing warmth of seeing characters you haven't seen in a while, like reuniting with your old classmates. And then just as you're settled in, boom, that sudden pivot into emotional landmine territory around the study table. Old wounds resurface. New barbs get thrown. It’s familiar ground, but that’s kind of the point. These characters don’t grow the way you expect. They repeat, relapse, and clash in ways that feel painfully real. Because that’s what dysfunctional families do—they argue about the same five things for ten years. It feels fresh, thanks to Chris McKenna's writing, and it reflects the group's evolution and lingering tensions, especially between Annie and Britta over their shared history with Vaughn.

But what really locked this episode in for me wasn’t the structure—it was the commentary. The Jeff-Britta showdown becomes a commentary on the commentary. The school’s reaction, the group’s chaos, the performative relationship drama—all of it skewers our obsession with romantic narratives. These two don’t get closer out of affection; they get closer out of spite for having pushed each other into the public spotlight. They’re not reconciling—they’re retaliating. And it’s hilariously depressing, with Dan Harmon highlighting the absurdity of public expectations to the show's shippings.

And yet, I’ll say it—I still ship them. Jeff and Britta are dysfunctional, neurotic, and wildly self-absorbed, but they’re also human. Their relationship isn't a simple "good girl fixes bad boy" narrative. Britta’s not some untouchable moral compass, and Jeff isn’t just a smirking narcissist. They challenge each other in ways that feel honest, even when they’re at their worst. There's an underlying old-school sitcom romance between them but one that's written with more layered personalities, but given that Harmon’s show is all about subverting tropes, this ship was probably doomed from the start. Nevertheless, I still find it more compelling than any safe, sanitized pairing the internet might’ve preferred. And fine, I'll admit that I might have my own silly little crush on spunky, morally righteous heroines with an attitude.

My fictional crushes aside, there’s fun chaos in the rest of the episode—Betty White playing a deranged anthropology professor. She's unhinged yet captivating, delivering one of the episode's most memorable moments. Dino Stamatopoulos as Star-Burns was also repulsively misogynic when he was discussing Jeff's misadventures with Annie and Britta in class, but instead of defending their honor by punching him out, Jeff used it as a moment to reflect upon his own mistakes and lack of respect. It was a nice character moment where Joel McHale didn't need to say much, merely let the story context and his nuanced performance do the work.

Bottom line: I thought this was a solid opener for the season and merely reinforced my belief that Community is a comedy that stands out from your typical American sitcoms by having something more meaningful to say than just clever jokes. And if the show keeps pulling off episodes like this? Yeah, I’m sticking around, season after season.

[JacobKyon]

Community
Season 2, Episode 2
"Accounting for Lawyers"
https://i.imgur.com/HEbaSdB.png
3

I'll be honest, I'm not a big fan of comedies. I'm a fan of clever writing. That’s why Seinfeld still slaps—it’s got the kind of cynical detachment that kicks sitcom sentimentality in the teeth. Episodes like “Anthropology 101” or “Contemporary American Poultry” work because they play with structure, subvert expectations, and don’t trip over themselves trying to deliver a moral. “Modern Warfare” was basically peak Community for me—not because it was funny, but because it was clever, stylized chaos. This one? Not so much.

Let’s be fair: getting a peek into Jeff’s old stomping grounds—his “homeworld” of slick legal backchannels and moral compromise—is kinda fun. The episode paints it like the Nar Shaddaa of Community: all suits, smarm, and soul-for-sale energy. Or maybe more like Illium from Mass Effect 2, if you prefer your dystopia with fewer closing arguments and more renegade interrupts. Either way, it’s nice to be reminded that Jeff was once terrifyingly competent, even if he’s buried that under layers of smug apathy. I’ve always had a soft spot for hyper-competent protagonists using sharp minds over brute force, so watching Jeff fall back into his old rhythm didn’t bother me. If anything, I kinda missed it.

But as for Alan Connor (played with the usual Rob Corddry slime-factor)? You can see his whole arc telegraphed five minutes in. And yeah, I accidentally saw a spoiler image in the Community wiki—but it didn’t ruin anything because the episode practically hands you the twist on a silver platter. The plot’s a straight line from Point A to Lesson Learned, with just enough sentimentality baked in to make Larry David hiss through his teeth.

What mildly saves it is the way the legal slime starts infecting the rest of the group. Britta’s self-worth suddenly gets cheapened by beachfront property. Shirley goes full Judge Judy on her marital history. Annie—sweet, innocent Annie—goes full chloroform assassin. It’s ridiculous, but at least it drives home the idea that Greendale, for all its nonsense, somehow keeps these deeply broken weirdos grounded. Or maybe just less broken.

The Ocean’s Eleven-style infiltration sequence should’ve been a home run, but honestly, I found it all a bit too Austin Powers for my taste. It’s that kind of zany-for-the-sake-of-zany energy that Community can sometimes overplay, where the jokes feel like they’re winking at themselves before they’ve even landed.

Also worth noting: Chang. His subplot was another weird delight, even if it barely connects to the A-plot. The man’s desperation to get into the study group is slowly evolving from creepy nuisance to tragic punchline, and I’m here for it. From last episode’s Gollum bit to this week’s fever-dream fantasy of finally belonging, there’s something genuinely funny about watching him flail with that sweaty intensity. If they keep pushing it into full-on deranged territory, it might become my favorite recurring gag.

Overall, this wasn’t the worst episode, just one that played things a little too safe for a show that’s supposed to be about blowing up sitcom conventions. There’s enough character work to keep it from being a total wash, but I’m definitely crossing my fingers for something sharper next week.

[JacobKyon]

Invincible
Season 3, Episode 1
"You're Not Laughing Now"
https://i.imgur.com/0gEo67v.png
3.5

It’s probably never not a nightmare to write a season premiere. First episodes of a new season often feel like a narrative balancing act—trying to reestablish the characters’ status quo, reset the emotional chessboard, and still offer a hint of what’s coming without blowing the whole plot wide open. Invincible doesn’t escape that trap, but it at least stumbles into it with purpose.

“You’re Not Laughing Now” is a solid enough start—nothing earth-shattering, but it gets the gears turning again. We’re back with our bruised and blood-soaked teen demigod, Mark Grayson, now knee-deep in training for the inevitable Viltrumite conflict barreling toward Earth. He’s stronger, faster, and still emotionally navigating everything with the precision of a toddler trying to defuse a bomb using a juice box. Idealism is great, but Mark’s is dipped in concrete.

That purity is on full display in both his romantic and professional relationships, and predictably, it’s not going well. His interactions with Eve? Yeah... that’s the kind of young adult fumbling that makes you want to fast-forward out of secondhand embarrassment. The man means well, but bless him, he’s got all the subtlety of a flaming billboard. If there’s one takeaway here, it’s that maybe, just maybe, there’s a better way to bring up uncomfortable truths than bulldozing straight into “hey, remember that deeply uncomfortable thing I probably shouldn’t mention?” An adult would have known better by taking on the responsibility of living with your tainted conscience if it means not hurting someone, but Mark's no adult.

Same vibe with his boss, Cecil Stedman, a man who looks like he hasn’t slept since the Reagan administration. This episode leans into their ethical tension, and ironically, it reminded me of something like Full Metal Daemon Muramasa—a story that utterly condemns the idea of noble killing for the greater good, which made it all the more hilarious that I found myself siding with Cecil here. He is walking that fine line between Nick Fury’s pragmatism and Amanda Waller’s ruthless efficiency, and unlike Waller, you get the sense that he hates every awful thing he does. Not enough to stop doing it, but enough to grimace politely afterward. Which, hey, in this universe? That’s practically humanitarian.

I get where Mark’s coming from—his trauma runs deeper than most swimming pools—but at some point, the kid’s gotta realize that not every compromise is a betrayal. Sometimes it’s the only move left on the board. If anything, this episode makes a good case for Mark needing to zoom out a bit. Not every moral dilemma has a clean solution, and trying to slap a black-and-white worldview on a blood-red canvas isn’t going to end well.

We also get some wholesome (and slightly ominous) Oliver Grayson moments. The kid’s growing fast—like, suspiciously fast—and it’s clear he’s inherited both the power and the enthusiasm that made early-season-one Mark so endearing. It’s cute. It’s light. It’s also got a countdown timer on it because this is Invincible, and we all know nobody stays untouched by the meat grinder of consequence forever. That wide-eyed Tim Drake energy? Better enjoy it before the disillusionment arc kicks in like the way Bruce Timm kicked Tim's face in with the Joker.

On the action front, things are… competent. The fights are serviceable, but there’s a noticeable lack of the kinetic chaos that made earlier seasons feel so visceral. A few sequences feel stiff, maybe even underbaked. The brutality’s still there—blood flies, bones crunch—but some of the snap, the weight behind the hits, is missing. Still, even at a lower throttle, Invincible handles combat better than most animated shows. It just might be time for the animators to get a raise or some caffeine.

There are a few dangling threads teased throughout the episode—classic Invincible setup: cosmic tensions, shady figures in the background, fractured partnerships waiting to implode. And yes, a familiar duo in the background makes a small reappearance, offering some levity amidst the angst (thanks, Seth Rogen’s voice). No spoilers here, but it’s enough to remind you that there’s still a galaxy of hurt—and humor—on the horizon.

Bottom line: It’s a functional premiere. Nothing groundbreaking, but it keeps the emotional arcs alive, drops enough plot breadcrumbs, and plants a few intriguing seeds. The action could’ve hit harder, the animation felt a bit stiffer than usual, and some of the pacing leaned on the “As you know, Bob…” side. But overall? Not a bad kickoff. A slow burn with promise—just don’t expect fireworks. Yet.

[JacobKyon]

Barry
Season 1, Episode 1
"Chapter One: Make Your Mark"
https://i.imgur.com/J9FeTza.png
3.5

I haven’t seen much of Bill Hader’s work outside of a few stray appearances. Being from Singapore, Saturday Night Live was never exactly staple programming. I vaguely remember him from IT: Chapter Two, and I guess Tropic Thunder if you really stretch the memory. I also found out he voiced characters in Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs and both Inside Out films—all of which I did watch—but to be honest, nothing he’s done ever particularly wowed me. Maybe it’s my general detachment from western comedy. It just doesn’t always hit.

So how did Barry end up on my radar? Mostly through my past hunt for shows that portray anxiety and depression with some kind of sincerity. Having lived through both (the anxiety's still hanging around like an unpaid intern), and being someone who liked Dexter—well, the first four seasons—I figured Barry might be worth a shot. People spoke of it like it was a hidden gem. The premise seemed quirky enough, even if I walked in with a raised eyebrow.

Now that I’ve seen the pilot, let’s just say… that eyebrow’s still hovering.

There’s definitely something relatable about Barry’s situation. He’s numb. Drained. Going through the motions. That part, I get. I’ve worked clerical jobs for two decades. They paid the bills, but slowly chipped away at everything else. Being single on top of that just turns the existential silence into a full-blown stadium echo. Barry, a hitman, might technically have more blood on his hands, but the emotional erosion? That’s painfully familiar.

When he wanders into an acting class mid-hit and experiences a spark of purpose? That part works. There’s something powerful in expressing yourself through art. Even when it’s mediocre, fumbling, overly theatrical—which there’s plenty of in that acting class—it’s still yours to own, and it can be particularly cathartic when that little piece of the world you created is validated by others, even if those people are just as painfully average as you. It’s a weird, touching little truth, buried inside a show about a guy who kills people for money.

That said, for the gag of the contradictory premise to land—for us to believe that Barry is drawn to something he’s a complete amateur at, over something he’s allegedly a professional in—we first have to buy that he’s a professional killer. But I don’t buy it.

The show tries to sell it, sort of. There’s an off-screen kill early on that’s supposed to set the tone—but the guy was asleep in bed, so not exactly John Wick. Everything else Barry does feels half-hearted, borderline sloppy. He leaves messes. He lets things escalate. He doesn't seem careful, tactical, or even that experienced. So when the episode starts laying out the stakes for what might happen if he keeps derailing his assignments, it doesn’t feel like a sharp turn—it feels like the natural result of his own amateur hour.

I get that it’s intentional—he’s burned out, slipping, running on fumes. But wouldn’t it have been more impactful if we’d seen that he was once competent, once terrifying, before the decline? Instead, the pilot skips the rise and jumps straight to the fall, which makes its subversive anti-glorification of violence in antihero crime drama feel more academic than engaging. Conceptually clever, sure. Visually? A little muted. A little “the idea of tension” rather than actual tension.

Still, I’ll give the show credit for at least nudging at genre expectations. There’s a layer of self-aware commentary on the contract killer trope, even if it doesn’t cut too deep. There’s just enough narrative propulsion to keep me around—for now. But let’s not pretend it’s brimming with insight. It’s about as intellectually stimulating as your average 2025 episode of SNL, which feels fitting, since Barry basically grew out of Hader’s own burnout from that very machine.

So yeah, I’ll keep watching. But I’m watching with one eye open—and a finger near the eject button. Let’s hope Barry doesn’t burn me out faster than it burned him.

[JacobKyon]

The Sopranos
Season 6, Episode 1
"Members Only"
https://i.imgur.com/srbej7B.png
4.5

OHHH! It's good to be back, folks. Every time I start a new season of The Sopranos, it has that prestige TV flavor that hits differently from anything else I have lined up (except The Wire, of course, which was a goddarned masterpiece that's compelling on every watch)—yes, even Mad Men and Breaking Bad, both of which are undeniably great. But there’s a certain comfort in The Sopranos, a deep, heavy assurance that whatever happens, I’m about to watch something real—even when the cracks started showing back in season 5.

And speaking of cracks, let's get this out of the way: as amazing as the season opener is—with William S. Burroughs reading his grim little death thesis from The Western Lands while the camera swings over the cast—it’s not exactly breaking new ground thematically. I've read plenty of AV Club reviews (I like second opinions; sue me), and one thing they hammer home is how The Sopranos often circles the death of the American dream, especially as we wade deeper into the post-9/11 swamp of disillusionment. So even though this episode executes its theme of hollow dreams collapsing beautifully, it’s still familiar territory.

And you know what? There’s poetry in that. It’s not about reinventing the tragedy. It’s about showing you that even when you know better, you still fall for the facade of calm.

But let’s peel back that facade and look at the rot underneath, shall we?

The Burroughs montage at the start sets the tone perfectly. Using ancient Egyptian myth about the "seven souls" escaping the body at death, we’re dropped into a slow funeral march for the whole world of these characters. And it's not subtle: the camera picks them off one by one, each tied to some ancient, inevitable fate. Death is coming—but the death of what? Bodies? Dreams? Legacies? You can see the delusions crumbling everywhere you look.

Take Vito for example. Slimmer, flashier, playing spokesman for a weight-loss group like he's reinvented himself. But if you catch it—a sly little moment—he’s pilfering a snack from Chris’ fast food haul like an old habit he can't quite kick. Vito’s new image is a lie built on self-denial, one he’s already losing to muscle memory.

Carmela's role in the thematic symbolism is probably the most obvious this episode as she literally has an unfinished house built with inferior lumber. She is all sunshine and real estate optimism, throwing herself into her stalled-out dream home project as she thinks she's starting anew with a far brighter future with Tony. But underneath the smiles, you can feel the compromise still rotting the foundation. She might brag about independence, but she's leaning heavier than ever on Tony’s dirty money. Even the little pleasures—dinners out, friends bragging about their good fortune—are coated in a sheen of cognitive dissonance she’s too invested to wipe off.

Bobby Baccalieri, bless his doughy heart, has found refuge in the ultimate escapist fantasy: model trains. He’s not even confronting anything anymore—not Junior’s dementia, not Janice’s manipulations, not the slow rotting of their little family unit. Just throwing hands and giving up as he works on his little loops of perfect, orderly fantasy while the real world burns around him.

As for our big boy protagonist Tony? He believes he’s riding the high after successfully dodging the Feds last season, laughing it up over sushi, thinking he can juggle everything: his marriage, his business, his weight, even taking care of Junior. For about five minutes, he almost buys into the illusion that he's got it all under control. that these will be good times ahead like it's the start of season two again—before the ship starts leaking rats and the dream, predictably, collapses on his head.

And finally, our focus of the episode, Eugene Pontecorvo. Without spoiling anything, let's just say that of all the characters clinging to their lies, his crash back to earth hits the hardest, as his scenes are some of the most brutal examples of what happens when a man finally realizes the house of cards he built doesn’t have any doors out. For all the dreams he shares with his wife, Deanne, regarding their bright future ahead, the world of Sopranos ruthlessly tears them all down again back to reality as our golden days of romanticized good times come to an end.

Layered over all of this is the not-so-cold war with New York, still simmering after Johnny Sack’s arrest last season. Phil Leotardo, once a snarling underboss, is now suddenly behaving like a reasonable diplomat. But if you think that’s going to last, like Johnny tries to convince himself behind bars, you haven’t been paying attention. The tension between the two families is like a bad wire sparking behind the walls: you can ignore it for now, but like all the delusions of this episode, something’s gonna catch fire eventually.

Each character this episode clings to something—weight loss, real estate, family dinners, early retirement—and one by one, we watch their hands slip off the ledge. They aren’t living the dream; they’re acting out its funeral. It's a rock-solid season premiere—brimming with death, disillusionment, and some legitimately shocking surprises, and yet still leaning back into familiar beats with comfortable confidence.

The Sopranos is back, baby. It’s swaggering toward the finish line, bloodied, bitter, and more confident than ever. And if this premiere’s any indication? The end's not gonna be pretty—it's gonna be explosive.