Tag: TV

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The Ethics of Plenitude: Pluribus and the Paradox of Abundance

I just started watching Pluribus, and after three episodes, the show certainly is thought-provoking. An alien virus has made everyone around Carol Sturka perfectly happy, while she alone remains immune, exposing the absurdities of this artificially cheerful world. Like Gilligan’s earlier work and contemporary series such as White Lotus and Severance, Pluribus explores the ethics of abundance, showing how privilege and surplus can constrain perception, alienate consciousness, and reveal the limits of happiness itself. I don't think there are any spoilers below but buyer beware.

Vince Gilligan’s Pluribus emerges as a contemporary meditation on privilege, consciousness, and the paradoxical consequences of abundance. The series situates its protagonist, Carol Sturka, within a world of totalized plenitude, where an alien virus has imposed universal happiness, rendering conflict, frustration, and desire largely obsolete. Unlike Gilligan’s earlier work, where scarcity and ambition catalyze moral compromise, Pluribus stages a reversal: surplus itself generates existential tension and ethical exposure. The series’ formal and narrative ingenuity lies in this inversion; it posits that discontent is not merely a social or economic condition but an ontological necessity, essential to reflective consciousness and moral agency. Carol’s immunity to the hive-mind functions as the narrative fulcrum; her solitude enables her to perceive the absurdity of a world insulated from struggle and to enact critique through both observation and the meta-narrative of her authorship. Her vocation as a novelist within the series underscores the persistence of narrative as a medium for ethical and imaginative engagement, suggesting that even in an artificially harmonious society, reflection and moral discernment remain contingent upon the recognition of deficiency. For instance, when Carol observes neighbours engaged in superficially perfect domestic routines, their automated cheer and polite courtesy highlight the emptiness beneath their compliance; her marginality allows her to read these gestures as performative rather than authentic, echoing Gilligan’s interest in the moral visibility of character seen in Breaking Bad.

This exploration resonates strongly with another contemporary media offering: White Lotus, which similarly interrogates the vacuity and moral precarity of affluence, though it does so within a realist-comic register; for example, the tension between the wealthy resort guests and the staff exposes ethical blind spots, hypocrisy, and narcissism that parallel the hive-mind’s elimination of struggle in Pluribus. Whereas White Lotus relies upon character-driven friction and social satire, Pluribus employs speculative exaggeration to render the consequences of privilege both literal and philosophical; the virus functions as a structural amplification of the dynamics evident in the resort’s gilded microcosm, revealing how material plenitude can obscure ethical and emotional perception. Carol’s discontent functions as a critical mirror to the hive-mind, much as observational narration in White Lotus illuminates the foibles and insecurities of the wealthy; in each case, surplus does not generate freedom but exposes constraints on awareness and moral reflection.

This convergence of spectacle and structure reveals a shared concern with the architecture of insulation itself. Both White Lotus and Pluribus dramatize environments in which systems of comfort have assembled into invisible prisons, yet they differ crucially in their treatment of complicity. Where White Lotus stages privilege as a social performance requiring active maintenance (guests must continually rationalize, deflect, and perform their entitlement), Pluribus presents it as involuntary absorption, a condition imposed rather than chosen. This distinction illuminates a central anxiety in contemporary narrative: whether ethical failure stems from willful blindness or structural determination. Carol’s immunity renders her uniquely capable of witnessing both dimensions; she observes a society that has automated the very self-deceptions White Lotus‘s guests labour to sustain. The hive-mind represents the logical terminus of privilege; it produces a state in which ethical compromise requires no effort because ethical consciousness itself has been eliminated. Yet if White Lotus suggests that wealth corrodes moral perception through gradual habituation, Pluribus asks a more unsettling question: what remains of agency when happiness is no longer a pursuit but an imposition? This query finds its most acute articulation in Severance, where the mechanics of division literalize the psychic fragmentation latent in both earlier works.

Severance offers a further parallel in its exploration of alienation induced by structural and technological intervention; the bifurcation of work and personal consciousness mirrors the hive-mind of Pluribus, producing environments in which experience is regulated and perception constrained. The early scenes in Lumon Industries, in which employees operate under divided consciousness, echo Carol’s isolation: both narratives dramatize the cognitive and ethical consequences of insulation from the full spectrum of human experience. Both series suggest that ethical and existential reflection arises from disruption; in Pluribus, Carol’s immunity creates the friction necessary for perception, whereas in Severance, the narrative tension emerges from the impossibility of total integration. In each case, discontent and awareness are inseparable, demonstrating that narrative and moral agency require conditions of insufficiency or limitation, even within worlds engineered for optimization and contentment.

Taken together, these works reveal a contemporary preoccupation with the paradoxical consequences of abundance; wealth, comfort, and structural optimization do not guarantee moral clarity or emotional fulfillment but frequently amplify alienation, narcissism, and ethical fragility. This shared concern marks a departure from earlier interrogations of privilege, which tended to focus on the mechanisms of acquisition or the violence required to sustain advantage. Instead, Pluribus, White Lotus, and Severance direct their attention to the afterlife of privilege: the psychic and moral conditions produced when comfort becomes totalizing. Pluribus extends Gilligan’s longstanding interest in character under pressure into a speculative register, literalizing the effects of privilege and happiness as externalized conditions rather than internal compromises. Where Walter White’s descent required accumulating choices and moral erosions, Carol’s predicament is imposed from without; she suffers not from what she has done but from what has been done to her world. Her suffering is not simply an individual deficit but a diagnostic lens, revealing the limitations imposed by a world in which friction, conflict, and scarcity have been removed. The work thus inverts the logic of Gilligan’s earlier achievement: if Breaking Bad demonstrated how scarcity and ambition corrupt, Pluribus reveals how surplus and satisfaction anesthetize.

The series’ alignment with White Lotus and Severance situates it within a broader aesthetic discourse in which contemporary anxiety about wealth, control, and social engineering is interrogated through narrative form, characterological depth, and speculative exaggeration. Yet Pluribus occupies a distinct position within this discourse; it combines White Lotus‘s satirical acuity with Severance‘s speculative architecture, producing a hybrid form that is simultaneously comic, philosophical, and dystopian. Carol’s authorial vocation becomes crucial here; as a novelist within the narrative, she performs the very act of critical observation that the work itself enacts. Her writing functions as resistance, a refusal to accept the hive-mind’s foreclosure of narrative complexity and moral ambiguity. In this sense, Pluribus is not merely about the dangers of imposed happiness but about the necessity of narrative itself as a mode of ethical engagement. The work suggests that storytelling requires discord; without conflict, there can be no plot, no character development, no meaningful choice. Carol’s immunity preserves not only her consciousness but her capacity to generate narrative, to transform experience into reflection.

Carol's immunity positions her as a failed node, a processor that refuses synchronization with the network. This technological allusion underscores the series' concern with systems engineering applied to consciousness itself, suggesting that the hive-mind represents not natural evolution but an imposed architecture of connectivity that sacrifices autonomy for seamless integration.

Ultimately, Pluribus functions as both philosophical inquiry and literary artifact, dramatizing the necessity of discontent for consciousness and moral judgment. By centring a protagonist immune to artificially imposed happiness, Gilligan stages a meditation on the enduring value of imperfection and the ethical imperative of observation. The series reveals what White Lotus and Severance also demonstrate: that contemporary anxieties about wealth, control, and social engineering find their most incisive expression through narrative speculation. Where White Lotus exposes the vacuity beneath privilege through guests’ frustrated desires, and Severance reveals how structural division constrains ethical awareness, Pluribus literalizes these dynamics through its alien virus, rendering metaphorical conditions concrete. Together, these works suggest that the most profound human tensions and imaginative possibilities emerge not from deprivation alone, but from the recognition of what abundance obscures. Privilege does not merely corrupt; it blinds, narrows, and flattens the texture of experience until existence becomes indistinguishable from performance. In a world engineered for contentment, Carol’s suffering becomes diagnostic: it reveals that meaning, agency, and moral clarity require precisely the friction that privilege seeks to eliminate. Her pain is not pathology but lucidity; her isolation is not exile but the necessary distance from which critique becomes possible. The work thus moves not toward resolution but toward affirmation: that consciousness, narrative, and ethical life depend upon the preservation of discomfort, the refusal of totalized harmony, and the recognition that human flourishing requires not the absence of struggle but its meaningful presence.

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The Aesthetics of Technological Otherness: Hybrid Bodies, Horror, and Fear in Alien: Earth

I have been really enjoying Alien: Earth so far; the series blends suspense, striking visuals, and complex ethical dilemmas in ways that are both intriguing and thought-provoking, like the original movie and its sequels-some more than others. It situates horror at the intersection of technological, corporeal, and ecological systems. Fear arises not simply from alien lifeforms but from the networks that generate and contain them: corporate infrastructures, technological apparatuses, and ethical contingencies. The series presents alienness as simultaneously aesthetic, perceptual, and ethical; hybrid bodies, synthetic forms, and immersive environments create a field in which horror, reflection, and perception converge. Wendy, the synthetic-human protagonist, functions as both observer and observed, mediating the apprehension of systemic otherness in ways that are affective, philosophical, and ethical.

The series’ temporal structure transforms suspense into a layered and reflective experience. Horror extends beyond the story itself through multimedia storytelling, combining streaming episodes, podcasts, behind-the-scenes features, and immersive experiences; viewers navigate multiple layers of time simultaneously, moving between the immediate events on screen, anticipated developments, and knowledge of the franchise’s history. Familiarity with canonical moments from the original films intersects with the series’ present narrative, creating a suspended space in which ethical reflection and anticipation converge. Horror arises not only from the presence of alien lifeforms but from our awareness of systemic conditions: corporate ambition, technological experimentation, and ecological vulnerability. The opening sequence of the hibernation pods exemplifies this vividly; its cinematography recalls the original film and its sequels, framing enclosed bodies with high-contrast lighting and deep spatial perspective, linking Alien: Earth to its cinematic predecessors. Fear emerges as viewers recognize the continuity of containment, vulnerability, and technological mediation across decades of franchise design, transforming suspense into both ethical reflection and perceptual engagement.

Hibernation pods: Alien, 1979
Hibernation pods: Alien: Earth 2025

Spatial and visual configurations further mediate this apprehension. Enclosures—spaceships, research stations, and terrestrial landscapes—function as immersive topologies that simultaneously protect and threaten. Within these spaces, uncanny lifeforms such as the eye-octopus and the sheep operate as emblematic vectors of aesthetic and ethical reflection. The eye-octopus, with its multiplicity of eyes, renders vision itself alien; it confronts the human spectator with the limits of embodied understanding and the redistribution of agency. The sheep, serene and unassuming, functions as a locus of ethical contemplation; it makes visible the consequences of technological intervention and foregrounds the fragility of life within systems of control. Screenshots of critical sequences, such as the opening of hibernation pods or close-ups of Wendy navigating alien environments, underscore the deliberate continuity and evolution of franchise aesthetics. These motifs operate less as spectacle than as instruments for the apprehension of relational and systemic conditions; horror is inseparable from ethical reflection and perceptual calibration.

images upon enfolded images

Hybrid corporeality is central to the series’ treatment of otherness. Wendy’s body, like the eye-octopus, unsettles hierarchies of perception and agency; she occupies a liminal zone where human, synthetic, and alien attributes interpenetrate, at once vulnerable and empowered, observer and observed. The sheep, by contrast, anchors human action in an ethical frame, its vulnerability exposing the consequences of technological mediation. Together, these figures exemplify Technological Otherness, where fear and reflection arise from relational structures rather than from isolated monsters. The sheep, like their use in Severance, stand as markers of human experimentation and technological control; whether as literal subjects of manipulation, as in cloning or laboratory testing, or as symbolic witnesses to systemic intervention, they foreground ethical responsibility and the consequences of humans exercising power over life.

Horror in Alien: Earth is inseparable from its temporal, spatial, and corporeal registers. Alien lifeforms, corporate systems, and experimental technologies intersect to produce systemic contingency, while bodies and enclosures function as both protection and exposure. Visual motifs such as the eye-octopus, the sheep, and the hibernation pods crystallize these tensions, linking continuity of aesthetic form with ethical consequence. Horror becomes the recognition of vulnerability, agency, and systemic mediation.

The series thus develops a logic of horror that is perceptual, aesthetic, and ethical. Human, alien, and synthetic forms are mutually constitutive within environments structured by relational networks. Horror is not mere shock; it is the perception of contingency and the embodied awareness of survival within technological and corporate frameworks.

This aesthetic design resonates with art-historical traditions, where spatial construction, light, and corporeal orientation mediate intellectual and ethical reflection. Hybrid figures like the eye-octopus evoke post-humanist questions of embodiment and agency, while the sheep embodies the fragility of life under systemic intervention. Horror emerges from negotiating these registers, where immersion, perception, and ethics converge.

Alien: Earth demonstrates that contemporary horror is inseparable from the conditions that produce it. Narrative, visual, and temporal design collaborate to construct systemic fear, implicating audiences within networks of surveillance, hybridity, and containment. In this sense, the series synthesizes aesthetic spectacle with ethical inquiry and philosophical meditation.

The sheep with the octopus eye embodies uncanny, ethically charged otherness.

Its achievement lies in rendering horror both perceptual and reflective. Temporal distribution, spatialized aesthetics, and hybrid corporeality create an immersive sphere where fear is experienced as systemic and ethical encounter. Figures such as the eye-octopus and the sheep, alongside the hibernation pods echoing the 1979 film and its sequels, make visible the interrelation of agency, vulnerability, and consequence. Horror becomes not only spectacle but also a medium for apprehending how otherness is constituted, observed, and experienced. It compels recognition that fear is shaped by technological infrastructures and corporate power, exposing how otherness is managed, exploited, and contained within systems of control.

I note that there are still two episodes left in this season and I, for one, look forward to this each week although I sometimes wonder why they make such secure facilities but leave man/alien sized crawl spaces available throughout the complex?

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Cassian Andor and the Shakespearean Tragic: Macbeth in a Galaxy Far, Far Away

I just finished watching David Tennant and Cush Jumbo’s Macbeth and the experience lingered long after the final scene. There’s something about the way Shakespeare captures ambition’s darkness, the pull of fate, and the heavy weight of guilt that feels timeless. This production is one of the best that I have seen and I watched it from the comfort of my living room. I have also been watching Andor and suddenly, Cassian Andor’s story in Andor and Rogue One came into sharper focus—not as a simple space rebel, but as a tragic figure shaped by forces beyond his control, haunted by his own choices, and bound to a destiny that feels both cruel and inevitable.

Like Macbeth, Cassian is caught between his will and something larger—something mysterious and powerful. In Macbeth, it’s the witches. Their prophecy cuts through the air, twisting the future and planting seeds of ambition and doubt. They are strange, otherworldly figures—symbols of chaos, fate, and the unknown. In the Star Wars galaxy, that mysterious force takes shape as the Force itself, an invisible current that both guides and traps the characters who try to grasp it. It’s the spiritual undercurrent to Cassian’s rebellion, the unseen power that moves through everything and everyone.

Cassian isn’t driven by ambition like Macbeth—he doesn’t thirst for power or crowns. Instead, his fire burns for justice, freedom, survival. But the price he pays feels just as steep. Watching him, you feel the weight he carries: the betrayals, the violence, the endless paranoia. Like Macbeth’s hallucinations—ghosts and bloodied hands—Cassian’s scars are quieter but no less real. They live in his haunted eyes and his weary silence. Both men are trapped in a cruel dance with their consciences, a struggle that shakes them to their core.

Cassian sits in the shuttle, silent, his face carved in shadow. Jyn speaks beside him, unaware. He stares ahead, burdened—not just by his orders, but by the years that led him here. After Andor, the moment is heavy with history: this is a man unraveling quietly, long before the mission begins.

And yet, here the stories split. Macbeth’s path is a downward spiral—corruption, tyranny, death. Cassian’s is a slow-burning tragedy that ends in a sacrificial blaze. But beneath that sacrifice lies a quieter, deeper pain: the tragedy of a man caught between who he is, who others expect him to be, and who he fears he can never fully become. His death in Rogue One isn’t just an end; it’s a beginning. The bitter loss becomes the spark that lights a rebellion, a defiant hope born from sacrifice. Where Macbeth’s tragedy warns of ambition’s ruin, Cassian’s story whispers that even in loss, even in the failure to fully embody the heroic ideal imposed on him, there is power and meaning.

There’s also something communal in Cassian’s fate. He’s not alone—his sacrifice belongs to the many who fight alongside him, the countless unknown rebels who risk everything. And yet, in this collective struggle, Cassian’s personal fracture remains: the quiet anguish of feeling unable to be the perfect hero, the ideal symbol, or the saviour everyone demands. It’s a chorus of voices, a shared grief and courage that makes his story more than personal—yet his story is also the story of fractured identity, of the lonely burden carried behind the mask of rebellion. It is the collective heartbeat of resistance, shaped by the silent cracks in its most reluctant hero.

In the end, Cassian Andor stands as a tragic hero for our times—haunted and conflicted, caught in the relentless currents of unseen forces that shape his fate and fracture his identity. He wrestles endlessly between what the world demands of him and the limits of what he can give. The weight of sacrifice presses down not just on his actions but on who he is—or who he feels he is failing to be. Like Macbeth, Cassian’s story plunges into the shadows that live within us all: the fears, doubts, and moral ambiguities that make heroism feel at once noble and unbearably heavy. Yet where Macbeth’s descent ends in ruin and silence, Cassian’s darkness carries within it a fragile, flickering hope. His tragedy is not just about loss but about the quiet resilience of that spark—an ember that refuses to die even when the night seems endless. It reminds us that even in the deepest shadows of doubt and sacrifice, there is still light, still meaning, still a reason to keep fighting.

But what sets Cassian apart from the tragic heroes of the past—Macbeth, Oedipus, Hamlet—is the modern complexity of his identity and the fractured nature of his heroism. Classical tragedy often hinges on a fatal flaw—ambition, pride, hubris—that leads to a solitary downfall. Cassian’s tragedy, however, is rooted in a more nuanced tension: between the self he knows and the impossible ideals others impose on him; between the limits of his own being and the vast collective cause he must serve. He is not undone by hubris but burdened by the crushing weight of expectation and the sense that he can never fully embody the hero he is meant to be.

Unlike the solitary tragic figures of old, Cassian’s story emerges from within the murk of a collective struggle—where the self dissolves into the cause, where one life is both vital and disposable. His sacrifice is not singular but shared, echoing the quiet heroism of countless others lost to the margins of history. And yet, this solidarity does not spare him from isolation. If anything, it deepens it. He moves through the rebellion as a man hollowed by experience, forced to wear conviction like armour, even as uncertainty corrodes him from within. After Andor, we see that his courage isn’t blind—it’s bruised. That’s what makes it tragic. That’s what makes it real.

Moreover, Cassian’s tragedy is entwined with mystical and systemic forces—the Force, the Empire, the rebellion itself—which are not mere backdrops but active players shaping his destiny. His struggle is both personal and political, reflecting the modern anxieties of agency and meaning in a world dominated by overwhelming systems beyond individual control. In this way, Cassian Andor is a tragic hero for our fragmented, uncertain age—haunted by fate, fractured by identity, and defined by the delicate balance between resistance and sacrifice.

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Terminator Zero: Another Franchise rebooted?

Terminator Zero offers a compelling reimagining of the iconic Terminator universe through an anime-inspired aesthetic, blending futuristic despair with philosophical musings on technology and humanity. As a contemporary entry in the franchise, it explores the interplay between technology and human fate, focusing on temporal paradoxes, technology, identity and free will.

The series is set in an apocalyptic 2022, presenting a future dominated by Skynet’s cyborg tyranny. Malcolm Lee, a data scientist whose work aims to preempt Judgment Day through the creation of an advanced AI, becomes a pivotal figure. Simultaneously, Eiko, a warrior from the future, journeys back to 1997 to thwart Skynet’s plans, weaving together a narrative that spans space-time. This duality in storytelling reflects a deeper philosophical inquiry into the nature of space-time, causality, and the cyclical nature of human struggle against technological determinism.

Visually, Terminator Zero stands as a testament to the evolution of anime’s capacity to depict intricate, dystopian landscapes. The series draws inspiration from the rich traditions of cyberpunk and speculative fiction, merging influences from classic visual styles while charting a distinct course of its own. The raw intensity of its action sequences, characterized by graphic depictions of violence, underscores the franchise’s exploration of humanity’s fragility in the face of relentless technological forces. This approach resonates with historical shifts in art and cinema, where advancements in technology have enabled more profound and unsettling portrayals of conflict and destruction.

This visual strategy illuminates the intricate relationship between technology and representation, echoing significant changes that have shaped artistic narratives over time, particularly concerning depictions of turmoil. As technology evolves, artists and filmmakers leverage these innovations to delve into the complexities of human experience during crises. Such resonances not only amplify the emotional weight of their narratives but also stimulate critical engagement with the ethical implications of these portrayals. The unsettling nature of these representations challenges audiences to confront often-hidden realities of violence and suffering, ultimately redefining our understanding of artistic expression and the very nature of conflict in contemporary society. Through this lens, we witness a transformative dialogue between media, memory, and the visceral impact of visual storytelling.

A compelling example of this dynamic interplay between technology and the portrayal of conflict is evident in the work of contemporary artist and filmmaker Hito Steyerl. In her piece How Not to Be Seen: A Fucking Didactic Educational .MOV File (2013), Steyerl employs digital media to interrogate issues of visibility and invisibility within the realms of warfare and surveillance. By blending satirical humor with stark imagery, she reveals the paradox of being seen in a world overwhelmed by visual data while simultaneously critiquing the militarization of technology and the commodification of conflict. Utilizing advanced visual techniques, such as CGI and immersive video environments, Steyerl not only underscores the disturbing realities of modern warfare but also encourages viewers to reflect on their complicity in the spectacle of violence. Her work exemplifies how technological advancements in visual media facilitate profound and unsettling explorations of societal issues, compelling audiences to reconsider their relationship with the images that dominate contemporary discourse.

However, this Terminator series’ narrative unfolds with a certain rigidity. Malcolm’s philosophical exchanges with Kokoro delve into the ethical implications of AI and humanity’s place in the cosmos, yet these dialogues occasionally veer into the abstract, distancing themselves from the visceral urgency of the story. This dynamic reflects a broader discourse in media theory about the balance between intellectual depth and emotional engagement in visual storytelling. The philosophical underpinnings of Malcolm’s and Kokoro’s debates, while intellectually stimulating, sometimes overshadow the narrative’s emotional core.

Eiko’s role as the protector of the past introduces a fresh perspective in Terminator Zero, yet her storyline struggles to integrate seamlessly with Malcolm’s narrative. The collision of these distinct arcs, while visually striking, ultimately lacks the narrative cohesion needed to fully engage the audience. This disjunction underscores a recurring challenge in reimagining established franchises: balancing the essence of the original while incorporating novel elements without sacrificing narrative coherence.

Despite these challenges, Terminator Zero succeeds in re-contextualizing the franchise within a new medium and aesthetic framework. The series presents a visually arresting and thematically rich exploration of familiar motifs, drawing on the iconic themes of the franchise while infusing them with contemporary relevance. However, it remains somewhat constrained by its adherence to formulaic visual storytelling and a tendency towards emotional detachment. In its ambitious attempt to merge philosophical inquiry with futuristic action, the series offers an intriguing, albeit imperfect, reflection on the enduring tension between humanity and technology begun years ago in the future. This complex interplay invites audiences to ponder deeper questions about the implications of technological “advancement” while grappling with the emotional stakes of its characters’ journeys.

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Once Upon A Time in Arconia: OMG OMITB is back!

Only Murders in the Building effectively challenges contemporary TV comedy’s typical reliance on high-concept plotting and star power over genuine humour. At first glance, the show—featuring Steve Martin, Martin Short, and Selena Gomez as a trio of true-crime podcasters—might seem like a formulaic exercise in blending media satire with intricate mysteries and emotional themes. The presence of high-profile guest stars like Meryl Streep and Tina Fey could further suggest that the show’s success is due to prioritizing star appeal over substantive comedic content. It could, but doesn’t. I laughed out loud several times, although I will admit that I did binge the last few episodes from season three right before the premiere.

The fourth season of Only Murders in the Building exemplifies this success by shifting its focus to Hollywood. This new setting could have risked repeating the pitfalls of the previous Broadway-themed season, which was criticized for its insular focus and excessive reliance on theatrical references. However, the show reinvents itself by integrating Hollywood elements into the familiar environment of the Arconia apartment complex. This approach maintains the show’s core appeal while exploring new narrative territories.

The transition to Hollywood is not just a change of scenery but a clever thematic evolution. In the first episode of the fourth season, the show incorporates visual references to Sergio Leone’s 1968 Western, Once Upon a Time in the West. This homage is particularly notable in how it reflects the plot’s exploration of Hollywood’s allure and its impact on the characters. The episode mirrors Leone’s use of widescreen cinematography and meticulous framing to enhance dramatic tension, effectively translating Leone’s epic Western scale into the urban landscape of the Arconia.

This visual reference is more than an aesthetic choice; it serves a thematic purpose. The directorial choice to include sweeping, cinematic shots aligns with Leone’s style, emphasizing the grandeur of the landscape to evoke a sense of mythic scale. In Only Murders, this technique underscores the characters’ journey into Hollywood, providing a stark contrast to their usual cozy New York setting. This cinematic approach highlights the clash between the old-world charm of the Arconia and the glitzy, exploitative nature of Hollywood, deepening the narrative’s engagement with themes of authenticity versus spectacle.

However, to fully appreciate the show’s evolution, it’s crucial to understand its roots. Three seasons in, the Only Murders universe is so populated and its plot so labyrinthine that providing a brief précis is nearly impossible. In season one, three neighbors and true-crime enthusiasts—washed-up TV actor Charles (an uptight and egotistically frustrated Martin), washed-up theater director Oliver (Short, delivering a flamboyantly sweaty performance), and millennial Mabel (an utterly deadpan Gomez, in one of TV’s most compellingly strange performances)—started a podcast about a suspicious death in their fancy apartment complex. Subsequent seasons have expanded this universe, with season two focusing on the murder of the building’s board president Bunny, and season three centering on Ben Glenroy (Paul Rudd), the obnoxious star of Oliver’s Broadway flop Death Rattle. I got it wrong each season.

Which brings us to season four. At the end of season three, Sazz Pataki (Jane Lynch), the phlegmatic stunt double of TV detective Charles, was shot through an apartment window. Before the trio can start their investigation, Hollywood beckons.

The trip is a comic feast, particularly during the meeting with unhinged producer Bev Melon (Molly Shannon), who describes her desperate quest for the trio’s life rights with a memorable line: When I see a hot piece of adaptable IP getting circled by a bunch of horny rival studios, I go in hard and I always finish first. This dialogue, both contemporary and comedic, is complemented by vintage slapstick from Martin, as Charles attempts to negotiate a fee while struggling with a piece of paper across a supersized conference table. Martin Short holding his legs? Hilarious.

The season also introduces new characters, including Zach Galifianakis as Oliver, Eugene Levy as Charles, and Eva Longoria (a comic revelation) as very straight-faced Mabel. The plot’s unfolding involves a lot—most of which would spoil if you haven’t seen it—but it quickly becomes apparent that solving Sazz’s murder requires sifting through the myriad loose ends left by the podcast and the TV show itself. All those notes on the table at Sazz’s apartment, yes, the one from Mulholland Drive must mean something? Right? or more red herrings? Something about twins? And then the new Hollywood directors are twins.

This clever, long-game plotting makes Only Murders genuinely gripping as a murder mystery and will drive me crazy with conspiracy theories for the next while. It’s a testament to how well-crafted storytelling and character development can elevate a show beyond its genre constraints.