These aren’t your parent’s superheroes. Imagine Game of Thrones’ political intrigue, unsavory yet likable cast, constantly shifting narrative creating ambiguity/ambivalence around who the good guys are, shocking bursts of violence (and sex, lots and lots of sex) but replace the knights and dragons with tights and capes and you have The Boys. Antony Starr’s Homelander, the primary antagonist and downright reptilian Superman analogue, oscillates scene to scene from exploitatively cringy and pitiful to jingoistic. He’s great. A-Train is another standout - super high (both puns intended) on ego but also doubts and fears. The show is littered with fully fleshed out characters with real wants, desires and most importantly, satisfying arcs. Real Quick: Karl Urban, a star in his own right, deserves an award for his portrayal of Billy Butcher. His character starts off one-note but becomes increasingly complex over the course of the season.
The Boys is the remedy for superhero fatigue. There is no such thing as bloodless, consequence free violence in this universe. Every capes and tights genre convention we’ve grown accustomed to is flipped, drawn, quartered and blown up in gloriously entertaining fashion. Someone should make a “people or heads exploding” supercut video – it would be a long one. The show overcomes the bleak world it inhabits by leading with heart and being consistently funny. Just as in season one, Homelander steals every scene. It was challenging in the first season to reconcile how a man with the strength to shatter planets, fly and shoot laser beams from his eyes could be so immature and vapid, suffering from the same failings and shortcomings as us normies. Years and years of more traditional superhero fare has programmed us to believe that with great power comes great responsibility. The nuanced and flawed characterization of Homelander and the rest of the consistently fantastic cast leans into the more accurate notion that great power corrupts absolutely and those with power will go to ridiculous lengths to keep it. At one point our primary protagonist, Erin Moriarty’s Starlight, laments that “the good guys don’t win and the bad guys don’t get punished.” Expanding further would enter spoiler territory, but the show is breathlessly entertaining largely due to this type of writing. It’s Aaron Sorkin-like in clarity and believability. The characters always tell us the truth. The arcs of Karen Fukuhara’s Kimiko and Tomer Capon’s Frenchie stand out as particularly touching with the latter transitioning from slimy and untrustworthy in season one to something else entirely. Season Three should be a blast.
It’s not new for the protagonist of a television program to break the 4th wall. Alf did it. Zach Morris did it. So did that kid from Boy Meets World. The star talks directly to us, the narrative pauses, and we are distracted. Distanced. When Phoebe Waller-Bridge winks knowingly at her imaginary audience (a case can be made for which is imaginary, us or her – imagination inception!) or gives us that famous Waller-Bridge glance, it serves to remind us that we are there with her. In those moments we might as well exist in the Fleabag universe – that is how intimately connected the show is to those who watch. As Andy Samberg impersonating Nicolas Cage would say, that’s high praise. Real Quick: Olivia Colman is a standout as the “nasty under a veneer of pathological niceness” Brit.
Much of the appeal of Fleabag is the voyeuristic and relatable execution and tone. The viewer feels personally connected with Waller-Bridge. It’s almost disappointing when she doesn’t acknowledge us at the end of a scene. Lesser shows attempt to create this linkage and miss the mark. Thus, it is mildly disappointing to watch the second season place much of the focus on secondary and tertiary characters even if that is the natural way of things for television. Even still, this season feels ever so slightly like a meandering slog relative to a tightly paced season one. But (and it’s a but that reminds us how much we care about the title character), seeing PWB express confidently to Andrew Scott’s priest that she loves him and to have him not break her heart for it sort of makes it all worthwhile. It’s a shame it appears we aren’t getting a 3rd season. Real Quick: Sian Clifford acquits herself wonderfully as Fleabag’s oft-suffering sister. When she isn’t out and out crying, she manifests a sadness that bubbles unceasingly below the surface. Am I the only one who finds it distracting that the sisters look nothing alike?