Tuesday, May 28, 2013

It all began with a series of posters. Bold, orange, clever pieces that promoted the new season of Arrested Development, available exclusively on Netflix. I’ve managed to resist Netflix up until this point, innoculating myself against their ads strewn across the Internet, but my resolve began to buckle with the release of House of Cards, their first foray into original content. This was the tipping point, and I finally relinquished my credit card number for a free trial yesterday night, along with 32 minutes of crushing disappointment.

Posters aside, I think I was particularly enamored with the meta-story: a fantastic series cut short in its prime by Fox, now resurrected by a sponsor who presumably could grant the creators more artistic latitude. Same cast, same writers, but a fresh chance. All the ingredients were in place, ready to combine in delicious concert. And while it’s certainly possible to procure these episodes through illicit channels, this was a creative endeavor I wanted to support. So I prepped. Rewatched seasons one through three to remember. Bided my time to make the most of my monthlong trial.

I can’t recall any laughs during the season opener. At minute five, I was waiting for a punchline–any punchline. At the 10-minute mark, the grim realization that this might be a slog, rather than a treat, crept into the periphery. Right around the halfway point, I was wondering if I had hit the halfway point. And when the credits finally rolled, regret. Whereas the original series was breezy, sure, and scalpel-sharp, this revival was like watching a fat kid attempt a triple Lutz–an uncomfortable scene, to be sure, yet a spectacle nonetheless. Such are the trials of a first-world existence.