The Last Post of The Year
UPDATE: Kurt Sutter’s departure from Mayans M.C. resulted from abusive behavior not white guilt. Potato, patata.
Counting down to the new season of 90 Day Fiance by watching new seasons of 90 Day Fiance.
Half of the movies I’ve seen at the theater this year are based on television shows. The other half I wish were television shows.
El Camino is a feature-length post-credits scene.
Molly of Denali is made by someone who really misses esoteric nineties dramedies.
My first thought upon re-watching The Running Man was that no TV network would ever give away this much content for free.
Netflix have made a holiday special starring The Captain of The Polar Express, Satan, and The Burglar from Home Alone.
The Crown should be re-named Queen Who.
Nonny in Bubble Guppies is either a really good stab at portraying an autistic child or a terrible take on a nerd.
The Mandalorian is an exercise in the art of the end-credit.
Scorsese says Marvel movies are “not cinema” in an interview promoting his latest video-on-demand content.
In the age-old tradition of Star Wars selling old wine in new bottles, The Mandalorian is Have Gun, Will Travel in Space.
Disney + should stick one of those “outdated cultural depictions” warnings on The Phantom Menace.
Standing in the lobby of the Netflix-owned Egyptian Theater in Hollywood performing a live immersive theatre rendition of scenes from The Witcher to the audience for the cinema premiere of the show wondering what television is anymore.
You know you’ve assimilated when your reaction to a TV commercial for a Mac n’ Cheeseburger is: “I suppose it was inevitable.”
In the dark sequel to the Peloton Holiday ad for Aviation Gin, the protagonist plays an in-world Paul from Verizon.
With their Godfather and James Bond marathons, cable television has correctly identified the two major themes of Thanksgiving as immigration and colonialism.
I want to buy a crate of Romulan ale for whomever thought of using Star Trek V: The Final Frontier to extinguish IFC’s 24-hour Godfather Thanksgiving marathon.
With the accusations of racism in the seating of Franklin in A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving, viewers are finally seeing the darker side of this holiday special about a clinically depressed pre-teen boy.
I’m convinced that the “Cut for Time” sketches on Saturday Night Live are removed from the broadcast to ensure that the show’s best writing get a wider audience on the internet.
As Inside The Actors Studio moves to Ovation, Bravo severs its last links to a culture beyond Andy Cohen.
With the return of Dirty John as a true crime anthology series, will we see Eric Bana as a moldering John Meehan hosting the episodes a la Tales from The Crypt?
Those complaining about Rudolph’s acquiescence to his abusers in Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer should remember that this was a cartoon made the year The Civil Rights Bill was signed into law.
Not content with being Reality’s answer to The Sopranos, The Real Housewives of New Jersey is now aping the story structure of the first Godfather movie.
The Irishman does nothing to challenge my long-standing belief that Martin Scorsese should no longer direct anything but documentaries.
That a half-century old period drama such as The Crown remains one of the best documents of contemporary Britain is an indictment of how little we’ve progressed as a nation in the intervening years.
There’s been a noticeable dip in the amount of subtitled dialogue in Fresh Off The Boat, which I’m desperate to believe executes a long-form story arc about assimilation not a network note.
If everyone can get excited about a four-minute sequel to E.T., then why do we need another feature-length Ghostbusters?
I’m now at a point in my life when I turn off Scorsese crime movies and put on British heritage dramas instead of the other way around.
Now that Poldark has ended, spare a thought for the actor playing the local banker who has lost his annual gig telling Ross he can’t give him any more gold.
It seems the latest trend in event television is live broadcasts of musical remakes that ruin childhoods.
John Mulaney having both an adult and family-friendly comedy show featuring kids on Netflix is going to be a stern test of the platform’s algorithm.
The most recent season of The Walking Dead strikes me as the TV equivalent of a deep-franchise horror sequel whose connective tissue to the original movie dangles by a thread.
Merry Festivus and Happy Who’s Here.
Watching TV with Americans 
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