Season 2 of One Piece arrives as a production that has grown into its own skin—bigger in scope, steadier in tone, and more emotionally articulate. As the Straw Hats enter the Grand Line, the series leans into sincerity, spectacle, and the unruly joy of a world that keeps widening.
The Season’s Arc
The new run adapts several major manga arcs—Loguetown, Reverse Mountain, Whisky Peak, Little Garden, and Drum Island—bringing giants, dinosaurs, bounty hunters, and the long‑awaited arrival of Tony Tony Chopper into the live‑action fold. The narrative follows the crew’s first steps into the Grand Line, where the seas are stranger, the politics sharper, and the enemies more organised. Baroque Works emerges as a shadowy antagonist, while Marine Captain Smoker becomes a persistent force on the crew’s heels.
Emotional and Thematic Texture
The season’s emotional register is widely described as more confident and more willing to trust its characters. That confidence shows in three interlocking themes:
The weight of dreams: Each Straw Hat confronts the tension between ambition and vulnerability, giving the season a grounded emotional spine.
Chosen family: The bonds between the crew feel lived‑in now, shaped by shared danger and mutual belief rather than simple camaraderie.
Loyalty under pressure: With Baroque Works manipulating events from the shadows, the crew’s trust in one another becomes a narrative engine rather than a decorative sentiment.
Luffy’s optimism remains the gravitational centre, but the show allows the quieter, more wounded parts of the ensemble to breathe.
Craft, World‑Building, and Visual Scale
Season 2 expands the world with a richer, more tactile aesthetic. Critics note the introduction of new islands, elaborate creature design, and a broader palette of environments—from the icy isolation of Drum Island to the prehistoric chaos of Little Garden. The action choreography is sharper, the humour more natural, and the pacing more assured. The show continues to blend cartoonish energy with grounded physicality, a balance that has become its signature.
Why the Season Lands
The adaptation succeeds because it respects Eiichiro Oda’s universe without being beholden to mimicry. It remixes certain beats to heighten emotional impact, foregrounds sincerity over cynicism, and trusts that the heart of One Piece lies not in spectacle alone but in the fragile courage of people who choose to believe in one another.
Virgin River’s seventh season extends the series’ long‑established commitment to quiet, character‑centred storytelling, deepening its focus on healing, community responsibility, and the emotional labour that underpins small‑town life. Rather than reinventing itself, the show refines its strengths: sincerity, steadiness, and the belief that ordinary lives are worthy of narrative attention.
The Season’s Narrative Shape
Season 7 continues to follow Mel Monroe and Jack Sheridan as they navigate the slow, often uneven process of rebuilding their lives after years of accumulated strain. Their relationship remains the emotional core of the series, but the season resists melodramatic shortcuts. Instead, it allows them to grow through small, believable adjustments—moments of vulnerability, miscommunication, and renewed trust. Mel’s ongoing search for purpose, particularly in the aftermath of personal loss, becomes a central thread. Her work in healthcare continues to anchor her, but the season gives space to her internal recalibration: what it means to care for others without erasing herself.
Jack’s arc remains grounded in the long shadow of trauma and the challenge of imagining a stable future. His efforts to balance emotional honesty with the pressures of running a business and supporting a partner give the season its most grounded moments. Around them, the ensemble cast continues to evolve. Virgin River’s residents face new beginnings, unexpected pregnancies, rekindled friendships, and the perennial tension between staying rooted and seeking reinvention. The town’s familiar rituals—its potlucks, its gossip networks, its instinctive neighbourliness—remain central, but the season acknowledges the frictions beneath the charm.
Themes and Social Undercurrents
🌿 Healing as a Slow Craft
The season treats recovery as a process rather than a revelation. Characters do not “move on” so much as learn to live alongside their histories. This approach gives the narrative emotional credibility: progress is measured in small gestures, not dramatic transformations.
🏡 Community as Comfort and Constraint
Virgin River’s small‑town intimacy remains a source of warmth, but the season also explores its pressures. In a place where everyone knows everyone’s business, belonging becomes both a privilege and a burden. The show touches on the social dynamics of rural life—how communities decide who is welcomed, who is scrutinised, and who is forgiven.
💔 Gendered Expectations and Emotional Labour
Mel’s storyline highlights the invisible labour expected of women in caregiving roles. Her attempts to balance compassion with boundaries form a subtle critique of how communities rely on women to absorb emotional turbulence. This theme resonates across several subplots, giving the season a quiet political edge.
🌲 The Limits of Reinvention
Many characters arrive in Virgin River seeking a fresh start, but the season insists that geography cannot erase grief, addiction, or regret. The town offers solace, not absolution. This refusal of easy redemption strengthens the show’s emotional realism.
🤝 Everyday Solidarity
The season’s warmth comes from its attention to small acts of care—neighbours showing up with food, friends offering quiet companionship, the community rallying around those who falter. These gestures form the moral backbone of the series, suggesting that collective care is built from ordinary acts rather than grand gestures.
Conclusion
Season 7 of Virgin River stands as a confident continuation of the show’s ethos: a belief in slow storytelling, emotional sincerity, and the dignity of everyday life. By allowing its characters to grow beyond archetype and by acknowledging the imperfections of its idyllic setting, the season offers a portrait of rural solidarity that feels both comforting and honest. It is a story about the work of staying—staying with grief, with love, with community—and the quiet courage that such staying requires. The result is a season that feels earned, grounded, and emotionally resonant, a steady flame in a landscape crowded with louder but less enduring stories.
Age of Attraction works best when treated not as a dating show but as a quiet inquiry into how people try—and often fail—to let themselves be known. The series enters a genre usually defined by spectacle, yet it moves with the patience of something more reflective, almost anthropological. Its premise is disarmingly simple: bring together a group of single adults and ask them to build connection without the usual shortcuts of physical chemistry, competitive framing, or performative charm. What emerges is a portrait of modern longing that feels both tender and unvarnished.
The experiment begins with conversation rather than appearance. Participants meet through guided dialogues, vulnerability exercises, and reflective tasks that ask them to articulate who they are when the armour comes off. This inversion of the usual order—emotional intimacy first, physical presence later—creates a kind of suspended space where people speak with a candour rarely seen on television. They talk about the relationships that shaped them, the wounds they carry, the patterns they’re trying to break. The show doesn’t rush these moments; it lets them breathe, allowing silence to do its own kind of narrative work.
As the season unfolds, the emotional groundwork is tested. When participants finally meet face‑to‑face, the question becomes whether the connection they’ve built can withstand the shock of embodiment. Some bonds deepen, others falter, and the resulting tension is not the explosive kind engineered for ratings but the quieter, more recognisable ache of mismatched expectations. The show’s power lies in its refusal to punish vulnerability; even when things unravel, the tone remains compassionate, as if the experiment itself is holding the participants with a kind of moral attentiveness.
What makes Age of Attraction worth watching is its insistence that intimacy is not a performance but a practice. It treats love as something that requires courage, self‑knowledge, and a willingness to sit with discomfort. In a landscape crowded with glossy dating formats, this series feels like a corrective—an attempt to show what connection looks like when people stop competing and start listening. It’s messy, yes, but the messiness is recognisably human, the kind that invites reflection rather than voyeurism.
The show stays with you because it asks a question that extends beyond its own format: what would our relationships look like if we led with honesty rather than impression?
By Chris Storton
Age of Attraction is available on Netflix. Image: Netflix, fair use.
A sharp, grounded Netflix drama, Playmen follows editor Adelina Tattilo as she takes control of a scandal magazine and fights censors, creditors, and bad actors—keeping consent, context, and truth at the centre.
There’s a very specific charge running through MrsPlaymen: that feeling of being inside a newsroom where every headline, phone call, or envelope from the authorities might spell either triumph or disaster. Rather than giving us a single “hero” narrative, the series embraces the logic of the newsroom itself—collective, contested, and combustible. It’s an ensemble piece, and part of its sophistication lies in allowing each character to carry a different facet of Italy’s argument with itself during the 1970s. Moralists, libertines, Fascists, conservatives, feminists, cynics, workers, victims, and opportunists all occupy the same frame, each pulling the story’s moral centre of gravity in a different direction.
This breadth gives Mrs Playmen its richness. Far from being a linear rise-to-power drama, it shows how fragile progress is when surrounded by old systems determined to hold the line.
An ensemble cast shaped by conflict
Carolina Crescentini remains the anchor, playing Adelina Tattilo with that quietly decisive energy of someone who has had to learn her authority the hard way. But the show only works because she is surrounded by a full constellation of characters, each of whom personifies a pressure point of the time.
Francesco Colella’s Saro Balsamo—the husband who appoints her Editor in Chief and then abandons her to avoid legal consequences —represents the vanishing patriarch: all authority in the abstract, none in the moment of need. His storyline cuts straight into the hypocrisy of state “moral guardianship”: the same authorities who eagerly hunt for obscenity in magazines shrug at his domestic abuse. By including him, the show broadens its canvas from editorial battles to the broader culture of male impunity.
Filippo Nigro’s Chartroux, the closeted gay, intellectual (former?) Fascist: a fixer who keeps things functioning, gives the series ballast.
Giuseppe Maggio’s Luigi Poggi, the reckless and ambitious photographer, becomes the exhibition of what happens when creative aspiration slides into exploitation. Francesca Colucci’s Elsa, the young woman betrayed by Poggi’s misuse of her trust, becomes the human core of the show.
But the surrounding ensemble matters just as much:
A feminist critic, Marta Vassalli (portrayed by Elena Radonicich), adds another layer. She is fiercely opposed to Playmen on principle—yet respects Adelina as a woman surviving in a man’s world. Their exchanges are some of the best in the series: tense, challenging, thoughtful. Marta isn’t an antagonist; she’s the moral conscience reminding the viewer that liberation and exploitation often travel in dangerously close company.
This wider cast turns the series into a mosaic—one in which every character represents the Italy Adelina is pushed to navigate.
A world built on pressure
The structure remains the same: we begin in 1975, with Adelina celebrated for reshaping Italy’s conversation, before being yanked back to 1970 to watch her endure the trenches that made that moment possible. But the ensemble deepens the effect. Each secondary character adds their own form of pressure—legal, personal, ideological, or emotional.
Few shows have captured the mechanics of censorship so accurately. Here we see repression not as a dramatic knock on the door but as the dull throb of bureaucracy—seizures, missing shipments, mysterious delays in distribution. What’s powerful is how the ensemble cast mirrors these pressures: each character is another system Adelina must navigate, negotiate with, or resist.
The series also evokes the look and feel of the early to mid‑1970s, the period in which most of the story unfolds exceptionally well. The production nails the era’s visual texture — the cars, the fashion, and the interiors all feel convincingly of their time — from wood‑paneled living rooms and patterned upholstery to period‑correct tailoring, hairstyles and dashboard layouts. Those details do more than decorate the set: they ground the characters and their choices, making the world feel lived‑in and historically specific while quietly amplifying the drama.
Consent as the real battleground
The Poggi–Elsa storyline still sits at the heart of Playmen, but with the expanded cast, the show creates a fuller map of how consent is eroded across the culture.
Chartroux’s struggle with his sexuality adds another dimension, illustrating how the denial of consent (in all its forms—sexual, economic, political) is not isolated but part of a broad pattern of silencing and control.
Adelina’s response is the moral hinge: she insists on context. She refuses to treat women’s bodies as décor or women’s pain as currency. In an industry built on sensation, her commitment to meaning becomes a kind of rebellion. Though at times she falters or mis-steps.
Seven episodes of building—and buying—freedom
The expanded cast makes Adelina’s victories feel earned. She’s not fighting a single antagonist but a culture: the Church, the police, weak men, predatory men, ideological opponents, victims in need of care, and allies who are vulnerable in their own ways.
The effect is cumulative. Each episode broadens the stakes. Each character contributes to the sense that freedom—editorial or personal—is never given; it is constructed, bargained for, and defended daily.
Verdict
MrsPlaymen becomes far more than a period drama. It’s a story about how societies police desire and punish honesty. It’s about who gets to define “public morality” and whose suffering is quietly excluded from that definition. And it’s about the possibility of decency within an indecent system.
The ensemble cast elevates the series: Crescentini leads with quiet steel; Colella embodies the negative partriachal male; Nigro steadies the ship; Maggio exposes the dangers of unchecked ambition; Radonicich’s feminist critic keeps the questions sharp.
Through all of this, the show returns to one principle—Adelina’s principle:
Run the picture. Tell the truth.
In 1970s Italy, that was radical. In many ways, it still is.
House of Guinness is a swaggering, stylish period drama that plunges into the legacy of Ireland’s most iconic brewing dynasty with all the grit, glamour, and generational chaos you’d expect from Peaky Blinders creator Steven Knight. Set in 1868 Dublin and New York, the series opens not with solemn mourning but with a riot: the funeral cortège of Sir Benjamin Guinness is besieged by Fenians hurling bottles and curses, a visceral reminder that the patriarch’s death is as politically charged as it is personally disruptive.
The four Guinness children—each flawed, ambitious, and emotionally combustible—are thrust into the spotlight as the family’s fortune and brewery hang in the balance:
Arthur Guinness (Anthony Boyle) is the eldest, a libertine Londoner dragged back to Dublin with a chip on his shoulder and a taste for excess.
Edward Guinness (Louis Partridge), the youngest, is the brewery’s loyal steward, white-knuckling his way through family dysfunction and public scrutiny.
Anne Plunket née Guinness (Emily Fairn) is the only daughter, married off to a minor aristocrat and navigating the social constraints of her era with quiet defiance.
Benjamin Guinness (Fionn O’Shea) is the overlooked middle child, a sweet-hearted drunk with a gambling problem and a knack for disappearing when things get serious.
The plot pivots on the reading of Sir Benjamin’s will, which awards the brewery and fortune jointly to Arthur and Edward—on the condition that neither can walk away without forfeiting everything to the other. Anne and Ben are written out entirely, sparking a season-long reckoning with power, legacy, and betrayal.
Knight’s signature use of anachronistic music is in full force here, with tracks from The Wolfe Tones, Kneecap, and Fontaines D.C. injecting raw energy and political edge into the 19th-century setting. It’s a technique he famously deployed in Peaky Blinders, and again in SAS: Rogue Heroes, where modern soundscapes underscore historical drama. The show also features Irish-language dialogue, with on-screen translations stamped in bold, a stylistic choice that reinforces cultural authenticity while echoing Knight’s approach in Rogue Heroes.
Visually, House of Guinness is lush and kinetic—rain-slicked cobblestones, candlelit parlours, and the industrial sprawl of the brewery all rendered with cinematic flair. But it’s the emotional stakes and sibling dynamics that drive the drama, as Arthur and Edward clash over vision, values, and the ghosts of their father’s empire.
If Downton Abbey was a slow pour, House of Guinness is a shot of poitín chased with a punch to the gut. It’s Downton Abbey on speed—a riotous blend of family drama, political unrest, and punk-infused period storytelling that leaves you thirsty for more
When Morpheus, the Lord of Dreams, is captured by an occultist seeking power, the world begins to unravel. Without dreams, people fall into eternal sleep or spiral into madness. After decades in captivity, Morpheus escapes and sets out to rebuild his broken realm — the Dreaming — and restore balance between worlds. But the more he tries to reassert control, the more he is forced to reckon with change, memory, and the cost of power.
The Sandman, adapted from Neil Gaiman’s celebrated comic series, isn’t just a fantasy tale. It’s a meditation on how we make sense of life through the stories we tell ourselves — and what happens when those stories break down. At its heart is Morpheus, played with distant intensity by Tom Sturridge. He’s not your typical protagonist. Cold, precise, and seemingly devoid of empathy, Morpheus begins the series focused solely on recovering the tools of his office. But beneath the impassive surface is a god haunted by his own rigidity.
One of the more surprising and affecting parts of the series is the glimpse we get into his past relationships — especially with his former wife, Calliope. Their story is one of love crushed by pride and pain, and though it’s only briefly touched on, it casts a long shadow over Morpheus’s motivations. There’s real regret in the way he looks back — not with sentimentality, but with a deep, unspoken ache. Their estrangement isn’t just tragic; it reveals the emotional cost of Morpheus’s detachment. He can govern dreams, but he can’t easily confront his own.
That emotional distance is mirrored in another storyline — one of the show’s quiet masterpieces — “A Dream of a Thousand Cats.” Told from the point of view of a cat who seeks revenge against humanity, it’s a beautifully drawn fable of uprising and belief. The cats once ruled the earth, we’re told, until humans dreamed it otherwise. Now, one cat tries to gather others to dream a new reality — one where cats reclaim their rightful dominion. The story is simple but pointed: dreams are not idle things. They can shape worlds. It’s both whimsical and chilling, and adds a layer of political charge to the series’ broader themes.
The show’s greatest strength lies in how it handles its metaphysical stakes with emotional intimacy. Morpheus isn’t just restoring a kingdom — he’s learning, slowly and painfully, what it means to be responsible not just for a realm, but for the beings who live within and outside of it. He may begin the series thinking only of order and rules, but by the end, he’s started to see the value of flexibility, compassion, and even forgiveness.
Surrounding him is a cast of cosmic figures and mortals who each test his worldview. Death, warm and grounded, contrasts his chill severity. Desire, ever scheming, forces him to consider the murkier side of power. And Lucifer — played with elegant menace — offers a mirror of pride unchecked by mercy.
The visual style is dark and sumptuous, part gothic horror, part dream logic. From the crumbling halls of the Dreaming to the pale light of an eternal library, each set-piece feels lived-in and mythic without veering into cliché. It looks expensive but never soulless. Every image serves the tone — solemn, sometimes brutal, occasionally tender.
The Sandman is about the struggle to govern a world of stories. It’s about how we live by dreams — of love, freedom, vengeance, salvation — and what happens when those dreams betray us. It asks whether gods can change, whether old rules still serve us, and whether holding on too tightly to a story can do more harm than good.
Morpheus remains, even at the end, an ambiguous figure. He’s not quite a hero. He’s too flawed, too austere. But he is something rarer — a character learning, slowly, what it means to be human. And that, in a show about gods and monsters, is perhaps the most powerful magic of all.
Sirens is a Netflix original drama series that follows Simone (Milly Alcock), a troubled young woman who becomes entangled with Michaela Kell (Julianne Moore), the glamorous but manipulative head of a falcon rescue charity. After a chance encounter, Simone is drawn into Michaela’s rarefied world, where appearances deceive and power is quietly exerted under the guise of care. As Simone begins working at the charity, her sister Devon (Meghann Fahy) grows suspicious, while their estranged father (Bill Camp) forces long-buried family tensions to the surface. Meanwhile, Michaela’s husband Peter (Kevin Bacon) wrestles with his own sense of disillusionment, especially in his fractured relationships with his children from a previous marriage—strained further by Michaela’s cold attitude towards them.
The series unfolds as a slow-burning psychological thriller and character study, exploring themes of control, vulnerability, and emotional inheritance.
Julianne Moore plays Michaela with unsettling charm. On the surface, she is composed, elegant, and philanthropic. But beneath that lies a web of emotional manipulation and covert cruelty. Her falcon rescue charity becomes a metaphor for her life—containing wildness, taming others, and displaying them on her terms.
She is the cold centre of the series. She exudes calm authority and grace, but beneath this surface lies manipulation of the most insidious kind. Moore plays her with unnerving precision, never overplaying but always suggesting something toxic under the polish. Kevin Bacon’s Peter is equally well-drawn—a man too weary to rebel, but too aware to remain comfortable. His guilt over past mistakes, including the breakdown with his children, lingers in every scene he shares with Michaela.
Milly Alcock brings raw vulnerability to Simone, a young woman whose search for direction and stability makes her susceptible to Michaela’s grooming. Her arc is tragic and tense—Simone wants to belong, but at what cost? Her sister Devon, played with sharpness by Meghann Fahy, is more grounded, but no less damaged. Devon’s attitude toward sex is telling: confident yet defensive, shaped by unresolved traumas and emotional neglect. Their father, played with grit and fatigue by Bill Camp, hovers like a storm cloud, reminding us of the toxic legacy both sisters are trying to escape or remake.
Though much of the narrative centres on this dysfunctional triangle of Michaela, Simone, and Peter, minor characters are given careful shading. One in particular, Louis, seems at first peripheral but becomes crucial as alliances shift. His arc speaks to the series’ broader concern with complicity and the moral grey areas people navigate in pursuit of survival or self-preservation.
Sirens succeeds as both class satire and psychological drama. The charity setting provides a fitting backdrop for a show obsessed with image versus intent. The moody soundtrack and precise cinematography echo the show’s themes: cold surfaces, hidden violence. With standout performances from its core cast and sharp, layered writing, Sirens is a compelling examination of emotional power, trauma, and the deceptive appeal of safety.
Here are the Culture Vulture selections on Netflix this October, featuring films that tackle complex social, political, and ethical issues:
Boyz n the Hood (1991)
Available October 1
This gripping drama, directed by John Singleton, follows the lives of three young men growing up in the Crenshaw ghetto of Los Angeles. As they navigate the harsh realities of race, relationships, violence, and limited opportunities, the film offers a searing critique of systemic racism and the cycles of violence in marginalized communities. Singleton’s storytelling highlights the challenges of coming of age in an environment shaped by social inequity.
Elysium (2013)
Available October 1
Neill Blomkamp’s dystopian sci-fi thriller takes place in 2154, where the wealthy elite live in luxury on a man-made space station, while the rest of humanity struggles on a decimated Earth. Matt Damon’s character embarks on a dangerous mission to bring equality to these two polarized worlds. The film raises questions about wealth disparity, class division, and the moral cost of technological advancement, making it a sharp allegory of modern-day inequality.
Jarhead (2005)
Available October 1
Directed by Sam Mendes, Jarhead is a psychological exploration of a U.S. Marine sniper’s experience during the Gulf War. Told from the perspective of a soldier grappling with isolation, boredom, and the disconnect from home, the film offers a critical look at the mental toll of warfare. It dives deep into themes of masculinity, the futility of conflict, and the emotional scars soldiers carry long after the battle ends.
Selma (2014)
Available October 16
Ava DuVernay’s Selma recounts Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s historic march from Selma to Montgomery in 1965, a pivotal event in the fight for equal voting rights. The film masterfully depicts the courage and resilience of the Civil Rights Movement, shedding light on the persistent racial injustice in America. With David Oyelowo’s stirring portrayal of Dr. King, Selma is an inspiring and vital look at the struggle for justice, equality, and social change.
Yintah (2024)
Available October 18
This powerful documentary examines the ongoing resistance of the Wet’suwet’en people against the construction of pipelines on their unceded territory. Directed by Brenda Michell, Michael Toledano, and Jennifer Wickham, Yintah centers on the voices and struggles of Indigenous leaders like Freda and Molly Wickham, exploring themes of environmental activism, colonialism, and Indigenous sovereignty. The film raises critical ethical questions about land rights and the fight to protect sacred spaces.
Be sure to check out these thought-provoking films on Netflix this October!
Counter Culture jumped at the chance to interview comedian and writer Katie Folger. Katie was performing her one woman show, Getting in Bed with the Pizza Man at the 2024 Edinburgh Fringe.
Katie Folger
We talked to her about the show and her future plans.
What inspired you to create Getting in Bed with the Pizza Man?
Well, a number of things! I think the show is a product of an amalgamation of influences on my life over the years. I think a primary one that I like to talk about is when I was 20 and had the fortune of essentially crossing paths with Robert Redford, if you don’t know. At my university and through a very fortunate series of events, he became my mentor for about six or seven years when I was quite young. And Bob actually was, we were sitting across from each other like this at a dinner. And my first dinner I had with him and he was really the driving force encouraging me to write my own work.
Yeah, because I was. I was young. I was you know, charismatic girl, which often, you know, if you have a knack for anything artistic or especially for me and for performance, be an actor, be an actor. And I was, but I was always interested in writing, even as a child. And and he was really like the first major person in my life, obviously, by someone so esteemed and brilliant. And he told me. I know you can act. I don’t even think you act. You’re a genuine person. What I want to hear is your voice. And so that really was the major first part in my desire to make my own work. Then my program at school was also a heavy influence of new work. That was the focus of the program. And so there was like a whole, it was called the New Work Festival. And so it was so special, the university would dump a ton of resources into it. So I was also a part of so many new plays.
And yeah, that was like those were kind of the seeds. And then this I’ve been writing behind the scenes are really my whole life. I have stacks of journals just full of terrible writing. And then eventually, you know, sometimes you hit on something and over the years, of course,
if you write everyday, which I do just for me, you get better. And so I wrote this story. It was it would. I’m very much inspired by a trip that I had taken to Denver, actually. Three summers, or yeah, three summers ago now. It was right during the pandemic and 2021, ’cause the vaccines had just come out, so people were seeing travel again. And I had a really, I think when I first started performing this play, I was a little bit more cheeky about whether it was true or not true. And I think now I’m sort of like later in the life cycle of the show. So like, it is very much based upon a series of events that happened that were quite strange.
And all of the, you know, the end of the show with the pizza ,all of that is like happened. And so when I started telling this story to friends, they were like, You should do something with this.
That was really odd. And so, yeah, I’ve always, as a writer, been most inspired by telling my own stories. I’m not as much of like a, like a fantasy writer or even like, I would say my preferred genre is memoir-style fiction. Just because I would say the main reason for that is because again, a primary influence for my work is sharing my, my uninhibited opinion and perspective from my, from a, from a female perspective. And and within as much detail as possible. And so when I wrote this story, that’s all I was trying to do. I wasn’t really writing a comedy. I just wrote a story. And then when I read it to people for the first time in November 2021, people laughed the wholetime. That was like, interesting. Yeah. So those are kind of some of some of the seeds of influence.
And then I’ve also, I got really excited about solo shows about three or four years ago. Just as a poem, I felt like it seemed scary to me. And I, as a human and as an artist, have always been interested in that, which kind of scared me. Yes. And so, yeah, I wrote this in the short story. I had a best friend read it and she was like, Katie, you’ve always wanted to do a one-woman show. I feel like this could work. And so that’s kind of how it all started.
One of the aspects that I found very impressive was, you know, the physicality of your performance.
Thank you. Yeah.
Do you have some kind of dance background?
Yeah. And what’s funny is, so obviously, as we saw, this show had no tech, no sounds, no lights. The full version of the show, which I think I had mentioned that night, has all of the bells and whistles. Yes. Ihave had this microphone version of the show built for a while just so we could easily travel the show. This wa sthe first time.
Because I had received some feedback. Everybody was like, why don’t you? Because the physicality was not in this version of the show. And I was like, well, if I’m coming to Fringe, it’s one of the people, a lot of people say it’s one of the most enjoyable parts of the show and like surprising. So I built it. I built it into the show, you know, just those shitty theatre chairs on the stage. Like that was a lastminute plan, but.
Yeah, I have a background in dance. I started. I was a dancer well before I was an actor. I started dancing at the age of two and I was primarily a dancer. I mean we were I was in four to five hours of dance after school every day for 14 years. I was on the dance scene.
You can tell.
Thank you. But and then but it’s kept up with me because I’m also so I transitioned from dance. Well, I started acting that kind of took my focus and. But I’ve been doing yoga for like very like I’ve been practicing it very dedicatedly for now. How old? Yeah, 16years. So since I quit dancing, I transitioned onto yoga. And so, yeah, you can kind of see all of those influences in in the show.
I do yoga myself. Oh, nice.
I’ve done it for years. I keep trying it. So it keeps me good.
Yeah. Yeah, it’s very good. It is good.
So, you know, you talk about sort of personal relationships and sexual relationships and it kind of, I suppose there’s a, kind of, a theme of identity there. You know, there were a lot of young women in the audience when I went there.
There were.
What do you think that they draw from the stories?
I think for me, as a young woman, like I said in the show, I think kind of like a main thesis statement is that as a woman, you’re never taught that sexuality or sex is more real, especially in like a more Western conservative mindset, patriarchal society. I think that’s the main part.
I think so many young women in this society and and there’s so many French shows that in their own ways actually talk about these things, which I think only underscores the universal nature of of You know, this theme of of the fact that obviously we’re in a patriarchal society and that, you know, women are objects to be desired. And so if you’re desired, then yes, OK, I show up in this thing and I ain’t getting you what you want. But I think with my show,
I I say this a lot when I talk to people about the show. I have a great friend who says the art that we write is the medicine that we need. And so for me, as you can see, like I was just, I was processing and for years processing these like. these grander themes and trying to flip the script of my own life and and kind of take the reins of my experience. Because really for so many years I was just kind of floating like a feather, just like the character in the show, you know, and and trying to figure out what sexuality and relationships meant to me. And it’s funny, like I feel that This show really helped me process a lot of those things.
And And I really, since I wrote the show, my life has changed quite a bit. And now, you know, I’m in I’m in a really happy relationship. And it’s like now it’s interesting because, like, I feel like the first iteration of this was what are my physical needs? What do I really feel like physically? And now it’s what do I think emotionally? What do I think about marriage? What I think about all of these expectations, what I am to be a woman, emotionally.
So anyway, like it’s constant, constant learning.
Do you journal?
Oh, yes. Yeah. Yeah, every day, pretty much.
I mean, My opinion is that most people aren’t too reflective. about what’s going on in their lives. They’re so busy living lives.
Yeah.
That they don’t have time to pause and reflect on it.
Sure, sure
And I mean, it did come through very strongly that you had taken out time to sort of think about relationships.
Yeah. I came across very strongly. Almost too much time.
And, you know, obviously what you’ve said there, there is a serious theme toit, but your show is also very, very entertaining.
Thank you.
It’s also to a certain extent what an old fashioned word we would use is “racy”. I think that is the word. Yeah, I’d use. Yeah. How do you balance all that and get the balance right in that?
Well, I think a huge piece of finding that kind of like that like. walking that tightrope of, you know, going deep into the core with it, and also staying light is with my collaborator and director of the show, Matrix Kilgore. Matrix really helped shape the really–
Second opinion.
Yeah, so the musicality of the show, and, you know, there are these– They’re honestly my favourite moments, and it’s when when you– like, people laugh when You like totally flip what you were doing. That gets a laugh. So, you know, my favourite moments sometimes when I’m performing are when I’m hanging out in a more serious space with the audience and I can feel like, you know, we’re all, they’re really watching me and I can see everybody’s eyes and then I cut it into a completely different tone and then everybody laughs. That’s really fun. But I think, you know, I think that’s I I think. You know, there is that craft to it. But I think for me as an artist, that is my sweet spot. It’s I’m not just, I’m not a surface level comedian. I’m not like ha ha jokes, jokes, jokes. I’m also not just sort of. I mean, I am funny, but I’m also, I think I’m only funny because it’s just kind of. It’s observational humour.
Yes. Yeah. I think you send that in your review, which I really appreciate it because it is. That’s what I and it’s from your own experience. And obviously if people, I suppose everything’s had certain experiences in their life, but similar if not the same. So, you know, people can relate to it as well.
Exactly. And is this yourfirst time in Edinburgh?
Yes. . Oh, my gosh. I I absolutely love this festival. Yeah, I was. I’ve been kind of saying, I feel like I came on a blind date with friends. Like, I’ve never been. I didn’t know what to expect. I just booked things ahead of time and had people help me. Didn’t even really do that much research because I didn’t have time because I’ve been touring the show in the States all year and in order to even have the funds to come and do this. And there are so many times, ’cause it’s so expensive to come do this. Yes, it’s things. And it continues to be more expensive and little things come up. And there were a lot of times where I tried to talk myself out of doing this, ’cause even before getting here, it’s been a really challenging year, a really rewarding and like successful year for me, but the most challenging alongside that, those wins and like the recognition, it’s been so hard.
To, like, pull this stuff off independently. And so, yeah, there were a lot of times where I wanted to bail on fringe for those tired. Yes. And because I’m also producing the show, I’ve had, of course, help. But I am the primary force that is driving this. It’s not just creative. I’m I’m producing.
And yes. And I’m so glad that I didn’tbail. And I can think, I can completely attribute. the continuation of this to my loved ones and my team. Yeah. My publicist in Austin, my director, my boyfriend, my family, my best friend.
You got them all working.
Yeah, well, they were all like, No, like, you have to go do this. And And my manager too. And so I’m I’m in love with stuff. Like me and my, I have like seven really close friends here and also my boyfriend and he and I just feel like this is one of the most special things we’ve ever done and it’s so inspiring and healing.
Do you think you’d come back next year?
I’m, I’m, yeah, like I’m. I would absolutely consider doing this again. I I think it’s definitely in my wheelhouse. I can also see the benefit of like continuing to come back. Yeah. I think I, now that I’ve done it once, I can, I now know what not to do. Yes. And what to do. I did not know what to do. Like, I made some big mistakes in coming here, namely in where I put my money and where to invest resources that I worked really hard to have and I put them in some of not the best places. So, but yeah, regardless, I think, like, I came here and I’ve achieved what I set out to do. pretty much after the opening night, so I’ve just been having fun ever since.
So, I mean, if you’ve if you’re a writer and a performer, you’ve got a lot of choices about what you might do next.
Yeah.
What are your plans going forward?
Yeah, so I think… I mean, it’s sort of maybe cliché at this point, but a major reason I would even, like Ed Fringe was even on my radar was the Phoebe Waller-Bridge Fleabag. My show is much different than Fleabag. I mean, there are adjacent themes, but it’s really like, I call it the Fleabag model of coming and doing work here, getting some eyes on it, getting some recognition, and taking it to rank a series. And I’ve had a series concepts that I’ve been ideating One for several years and I have a bunch of notes on my iPhone of like, yeah, all of these different episode ideas. It’s a comedy. It’s yeah not quite like maybe I could have an episode that in my it’s a manuscript, but it’s more so the tone and the type of character. And who would she do that with? Yeah, yeah, I so I’m deeply embedded in the often film theme I have been for. I guess, 14 years now. And I have a– I’m such a heart for grassroots development. I think that’s very much within the ethos of the community, largely, I would say, inspired by Richard Linklater, if you’re familiar with him, and all of the people around him. I kind of wrote– those people are kind of like my mentors. Umm I kind of rose up in the scene, like Rank, Linklater, and some other filmmaker. that are in his generation, they were kind of the people that grew me.
And so I’m really interested in kind of carrying the torch of making within the community, but then also like bridging the community into higher earning tiers and also more, more eyes, larger audiences. Austin is very much an indie film scene. Yes. So yeah, I have like I really wish and have fantasized about creating a project that activates and engages my community while also calling in like the dream would be to have a bunch of people within my community cast or working on it, but then also getting key. Yeah, providing work to the community and so on. But then a few higher profile comedians who, and I’ve even been hereat shows this week and watching people, and I’ve been like, oh, that would be a good person. Oh, you’d be a good person to have like write with me or to have in the show.
Yeah. But I have these amazing managers now that I got through the show, and I feel like they came on to my team for one of the main reasons that we can develop this show and sell it, hopefully by next year, and like the actual show,
Would you try Netflix?
Yeah, yeah, like a streaming service would be the goal. Yeah. Yeah
Because they do a lot of comedy.
Yes. And I and I want this one. I I obviously would love to be in it. I want it to be more so about like a community of friends, the actual show. So more than one storyline. Yeah. Iwant it to be like a group of people.
Yeah. Yeah And. What’s the kind of, how would you say the audience have reacted to everything?
You know, I always kind of maybe this is a bit self-deprecating. I’m always like, no one’s ever going to come out to me and tell me they don’t like it.
I know people who would.
Oh, really? OK, good. I will say from my perspective, I’ve been observing my audiences and everybody’s really engaged and leaning in. Nobody’s dragging over their phones. My boyfriend was standing outside of the theatre, like he didn’t go watch the show that night and he was watching people come out and he was like nervous ’cause he was like, and he said that they all were saying how phenomenal and amazing the show was.
Yeah, yeah Thank you very much for this interview. It’s much appreciated.
The Fall of the House of Usher is an American gothic horror drama television miniseries created by Mike Flanagan, released on Netflix on October 12, 2023. This atmospheric and visually striking series consists of eight episodes, each carefully crafted to weave a dark and intricate narrative inspired by the works of Edgar Allan Poe.
Visual and Atmospheric Impact
The series excels in its visual storytelling, using a palette of dark, moody colors to create a sense of foreboding and unease. The production design intricately details the Usher family’s deteriorating mansion, symbolizing the decay and corruption that pervades their lives. Cinematography employs shadowy lighting and dramatic contrasts to enhance the gothic horror aesthetic, making every scene a visual feast of dread and anticipation.
Contemporary Societal Issues and Technological Advancements
Set between 1953 and 2023, The Fall of the House of Usher explores contemporary societal issues such as corporate corruption, the opioid crisis, and the ethical boundaries of technological advancements. Roderick Usher, as the CEO of Fortunato Pharmaceuticals, embodies the unchecked greed and moral decay prevalent in modern-day corporations. The series reflects on the real-world impact of pharmaceutical companies, highlighting how their pursuit of profit often leads to devastating consequences for society.
Complex Characters and Moral Dilemmas
Roderick Usher (Bruce Greenwood) is a deeply flawed protagonist, whose rise to power is marked by ethical compromises and ruthless ambition. His character arc is a tragic exploration of how the lust for power and control can lead to one’s downfall. His sister, Madeline Usher (Mary McDonnell), the COO of Fortunato Pharmaceuticals, is equally complex, depicted as a genius whose intellect is both her greatest asset and her greatest curse. Their dynamic relationship is fraught with tension and buried secrets, adding layers to their characters.
Verna (Carla Gugino), a mysterious and supernatural entity, adds a chilling dimension to the series. Her enigmatic presence and shape-shifting abilities—most notably into a raven—embody themes of death and the unknown. Verna’s interactions with the Usher family reveal deeper truths about their past and their inevitable fate, making her a pivotal character whose motives and origins are shrouded in mystery. Her portrayal is inspired by Poe’s “The Raven,” and she serves as a constant reminder of the consequences of the Ushers’ actions.
Arthur Gordon Pym (Mark Hamill), the family’s lawyer, is another fascinating character. Known as the “Pym Reaper,” he is the fixer who ensures the family’s dark secrets remain buried. His loyalty to the Ushers is unwavering, driven by a complex mixture of gratitude, fear, and perhaps a touch of his own moral ambiguity. Pym’s backstory, including his harrowing experiences during the Transglobe Expedition, adds depth to his character, revealing how his encounters with cruelty and the supernatural have shaped his worldview.
Integration of Social Issues
The series seamlessly integrates contemporary social issues into its storyline, adding layers of relevance and critique. Examples include:
Pharmaceutical Corruption: Roderick Usher, as the CEO of Fortunato Pharmaceuticals, embodies the greed and ethical failings of modern corporate America. The series addresses the opioid crisis, highlighting how pharmaceutical companies prioritize profit over human lives. A powerful scene depicts a press conference where Roderick deceptively assures the public of the safety of a new painkiller, while behind the scenes, victims of the drug’s side effects suffer in silence.
Technological Surveillance: The Usher family’s use of advanced technology to monitor and control their environment reflects current concerns about privacy and surveillance. This element of the plot critiques the invasive nature of modern technology. For example, Madeline’s office is equipped with state-of-the-art surveillance equipment, allowing her to keep tabs on employees and even family members, showcasing the pervasive and intrusive power of technology.
Reflection on Human Nature and Consequences
While the series does not present a straightforward moral lesson, it delves into themes of obsession, corruption, and the blurred lines between reality and madness. Roderick Usher’s relentless pursuit of power and wealth serves as a cautionary tale about the destructive nature of obsession. The series also explores how family secrets and past sins inevitably surface, leading to tragic outcomes.
Characters in the series frequently grapple with their sanity as they confront supernatural occurrences and hidden family truths. This interplay between the psychological and the supernatural challenges viewers to question what is real and what is imagined, creating a rich tapestry of horror and intrigue.
Conclusion
The Fall of the House of Usher is a masterful blend of gothic horror and contemporary drama, enriched by complex characters and moral dilemmas. The series not only pays homage to Edgar Allan Poe’s literary legacy but also reflects on modern societal issues and the timeless consequences of human actions. With its atmospheric visuals, intricate storytelling, and deep thematic exploration, the series leaves a lasting impact on its audience, inviting them to reflect on the dark corners of the human soul and the inevitable repercussions of unchecked ambition.
