All good shows resemble each other, but every bad show is bad in its own way. A year later I barely remember anything about the remarkable reservation dogsbut I know that the only chapter I tolerated from Fair: the darkest light will stay in my mind until rigor mortis. Of The time traveler’s wife I was intrigued by the ruthless criticism, a guarantee of an unforgettable experience, as well as to see how they were going to deal with the story of a man who suffers from a genetic disorder that leads him to travel through time in an uncontrolled manner, which means that when he meets his future wife he is a grown man (and naked) and she is six years old. This is the uncomfortable germ of a supposedly moving love story, but even if you manage to avoid the naked adult elephant in the room, everything in the HBO Max series is theatrical, corny and weird as a José María Cano ballad.
The feminicide of the luminous, produced by and starring Elisabeth Moss. As good series resemble others, it is overflowing with clichés: there is a journalist with oily hair who drowns his demons in tequila, —Wagner Moura with that basset hound look that he already put at the service of Pablo Escobar in Narcos—and the umpteenth murderer apparently indestructible, but everything is redeemed by Moss who puts his unlimited talent at the service of a thriller metaphysical with multiple layers. There is a fantastic element, yes, but it is not a fantasy series. What he shouts about are time jumps, but what he talks about in whispers is re-victimization, how the daily nature of violence against women makes them invisible and the difficulty of completing a vital puzzle when you are picking up your own pieces. It could already be fantasy.
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