Happyend

Neo Sora’s Happyend, about a friendship between a group of high schoolers and more intimately about two boys who have known each other for years but are now threatening to grow apart, is one of the most compelling portraits of individuals living through the ascent of fascism. It is set in what feels like a very near future: everything except some minor advancements in (surveillance) technology looks the same as it does now. Connected by a passion for music, especially EDM, these teenagers hunt for the exhilarating experience of sound wherever they can find it, even if it lands them right in the middle of a police raid on an underground concert. Their passion is palpable, the sheer joy of sharing these moments, but the overbearing forces of state control intrude on it already before the true horrors have even begun. Worse, the signs of what will ultimately divide them is already visible in how their stakes differ: Yuta (Hayato Kurihara) is Japanese, and the police pass over him after a quick face scan, but Kou (Yukito Hidaka) is only a resident, even though his family has lived in Japan for four generations, and falls under additional, terrorising scrutiny that will follow his throughout the film. 
It begins with a prank. The film establishes the stakes, the context, through videos of a Japanese Prime Minister thirsting to use the threat of a predicted big earthquake as a thin excuse to establish a totalitarian state, raising fears about migrants to justify an escalating surveillance regime, utilising fear for his political aim of gaining more power. These little snippets are like background noise: they happen on ever-present screens, but the reality for these teenagers is still the small world of their high school, where they get to follow their passion for music in the music lab, where the visible regime of control isn’t the greater political apparatus, but the small-minded little dictator of a principal who parks his ridiculous yellow sports car for all to see. The morning after the aborted concert, Yuto dares Kou to topple the car. The result looks like a piece of sculptural art, eagerly filmed by the students. It is a prank, but in the context of the world these kids now live in, the principal, furious, misconstrues it as an act of terrorism that justifies his institution of a surveillance system in the school that automatically deducts points for any infringement. Something as small as not wearing the correct uniform – one of their friends likes wearing a skirt instead of trousers – results in demerits, creating an atmosphere of fear that no longer allows for expression of individuality. 

While the surrounding world becomes increasingly erratic, dominated by pro- and anti-government protests that are met with violence from the security forces, the smaller world of the high school begins mirroring those wider conflicts. Kou, more affected by the open racism where whether or not he is required to carry his residency card on him has become irrelevant because there are no limits to the power police can exert, begins to think of the wider picture, spurred on by Fumi (Kilala Inori), a politically active student who is trying to find ways to push back against their principal, who insists on fighting back against the intolerable even if it comes at a personal cost. She advocates for her non-Japanese fellow students who are being increasingly marginalised, and the general apathy in the student body that stays quiet in the face of the escalation, or even accommodating. Yuto remains as he always has been, pursuing his passion for music, but otherwise politically naive. The gap between them widens up to a point where Kou wonders if they would even be friends if they met now, but the film never falls into the despair of an irretrievably broken friendship: instead, they come back to one another, even as their graduation puts them on separate courses in life and Yuto, realising that there is less at stake for him personally than for his friend, steps up to protect him. 

All of this makes Happyend an incredibly prescient film to watch in these first weeks of 2026, where the limits of tolerating the intolerable are becoming more and more clear. 

2024, directed by Neo Sora, starring Makiko Watanabe, Yukito Hidaka, Ayumu Nakajima, Arazi, Shina Peng, Kosuke Tanaka, Kilala Inori, Hayato Kurihara, Shirô Sano, Yûta Hayashi.

Chan hang rawang rao (Flat Girls)

I don’t know what a good entry point for writing about this film is: it hit me as a complete surprise, the kind of quiet story that gets stuck in your brain and just keeps growing in significance as it bounces around in there. It’s a small, slice-of-life tale that covers maybe a year of life in a run-down, lively Bangkok apartment block: a place that has a communal badminton court where the lights keep breaking, where the apartments units don’t seem to have enough space for the people they contain, where there is a constant worry about the future, the precarity of making rent. Downstairs, there’s a place reserved for secret, illegal gambling, where much of the misery that follows some characters around is magnified. 
The film follows two teenage girls who have grown up together, are best friends, and are both struggling to figure out if what they feel for each other goes beyond friendship. The two girls may live in the same place, but otherwise their situations are different enough that the gulf threatens the core of their relationship. Ann (Fatima Dechawaleekul) is the overburdened older daughter of a woman with a gambling addiction. Her father, a police officer, has died on the line of duty, threatening the family’s right to remain in this apartment block reserved for serving police officers. She is helping her mother by caring for her siblings, taking on small jobs. There seems to be no way out for her: as much as she dreams of being a stewardess, she knows that in the end, her economic circumstances determine her path in life, and the realistic way out is either joining the police herself, or marrying. Jane (Fairy Kirana Pipityakorn) is the only child of the woman who collects rent in the apartment complex and has enough pull and influence to advocate for others when they fall behind on their payments. Her family is considering purchasing a house and leaving – for much of the film, Ann fears losing the safety of having a roof over her head while Jane struggles with having to leave everything she knows behind for a place that is more luxurious and allows more space and safety. 
Then, the film throws policeman Tong (Boy Pakorn Chadborirak) into the mix. He’s in his thirties, but recruited by Jane’s forever-body-shaming mum to help her daughter lose weight. It’s a point in the film where things could go different, where a grown man enters the established routines of two teenage girls and proves to be a predator, but instead, there’s a tenderness in how he begins to truly care for both Ann and Jane, how he fits into their dynamic and provides them with a kind of freedom (mostly through his access to a car) while respectfully stepping back when he knows he should. If he upsets the dynamic, it’s by accident: the film doesn’t explicitly talk about Jane’s relationship to gender but there are enough hints here that something is going on. She wears a binder, and her growing relationship with Tong exists on a spectrum between admiration and attraction that can’t quite decide if she wants or wants to be. The question of the nature of the relationship between Ann and Jane is similarly subtle, as the growing financial pressure on Ann’s family muddles things. When they kiss, Jane pretends that it affects her less than she thought it would, but Ann is the one who seems radically changed, to have realised something about herself that she can’t quite afford to put in words. In any case, Ann argues, love if for people who have money, and as much as Jane supports her dreams, Ann knows they are tragically unattainable. 
The second half of the film becomes more complex, with the film once again refusing to clearly spell out everything for the viewer, leaving it to interpretation. Tong may genuinely have feelings for Ann or be driven by an instinct to help in the only way that he is allowed to. In any case, he fades into the background as Ann’s mother’s gambling addiction puts her family into peril, as the inevitable moment of separation arrives. Still, the thing that will stay with me is Tong’s insistence on treating others with kindness, of telling Jane that happiness is a more worthwhile pursuit than riches, especially in a place where other adults seem to be constantly locked in a fight for survival, seem to be too selfish to see their daughters as people with their own ideas about what they want their lives to be. 


2025, directed by Jirassaya Wongsutin, starring Fairy Kirana Pipityakorn, Fatima Dechawaleekul, Boy Pakorn Chadborirak.

Affeksjonsverdi (Sentimental Value)

I wrote it for you. You're the only one who can play it.

So with the house empty and the doors locked and the mattresses rolled round, those stray airs, advance guards of great armies, blustered in, brushed bare boards, nibbled and fanned, met nothing in bedroom or drawing-room that wholly resisted them but only hangings that flapped, wood that creaked, the bare legs of tables, saucepans and china already furred, tarnished, cracked. What people had shed and left -- a pair of shoes, a shooting cap, some faded skirts and coats in wardrobes -- those alone kept the human shape and in the emptiness indicated how once they were filled and animated; how once hands were busy with hooks and buttons; how once the looking-glass had held a face; had held a world hollowed out in which a figure turned, a hand flashed, the door opened, in came children rushing and tumbling; and went out again.

Virginia Woolf: To the Lighthouse

This house in Joachim Trier’s Sentimental Value, my favourite film of his since Oslo, 31. august, holds generations of a family, memories going back decades, a century. People have been born and have died in this house. It made me think of how the rooms of my grandparents’ house in which I spent summers are inscribed in my brain more than any place that I ever actually lived in: built by my grandfather, it held something more than the suburban home of my childhood, and it appears often in my dreams, years after it has been sold and therefore lost to me forever. 
Trier uses this house to tell the story of his characters: Gustav Borg (Stellan Skarsgård), an aging and well-respected film director who hasn’t finished a project in a long time, spent his childhood there, witnessed his mother’s suicide, then moved away, and later raised his two daughters Nora (Renate Reinsve) and Agnes (Inga Ibsdotter Lilleaas) there with his wife, until a divorce and an abandonment that sits at the centre of the film like a bleeding wound. The house itself has a literal crack in it, a foundational fault, one that feels like it symbolises the pain and hurt that has existed in the family: in Nora’s childhood, she once did a project on a house that imagined it as a living being with preferences, for being full, or maybe empty and silent, lived in, for holding life, but the crack in the wall made it feel like the house had been slowly collapsing ever since it was built, threatening to take its inhabitants with it, suspending them in a slow fall towards the ground. 

 

At the beginning of the film, Gustav is about to return to Oslo, and his children are packing up the decades of memories, all the keepsakes that have filled the house, readying it for a potential sale. It’s the kind of task that makes it impossible not to ruminate on what has happened in the past. Agnes, now a historian, is investigating the family history, specifically a first wound. Gustav’s mother, arrested during the German occupation for anti-Nazi activities, was tortured in prison – we see her flicking through the horrifying pages of the re-enactment, imagining the grandmother she never met and how she would have returned carrying that trauma into Gustav’s childhood. Gustav has written a script, his most personal yet, and wants his daughter Nora, who is now a successful stage and television actress (with horrifying stage fright), to play his own mother. The script is written for her, but she can not forgive that he left them in childhood, and every interaction these two have with each other is terse and ends in an argument. Gustav does not value the theatre (he dislikes that she acts in centuries-old plays – he likes her acting, but not the format), he thinks television is too small for her. He does not show up for her premieres. Nora turns him down because she cannot be around her father for too long. Gustav only knows how to express himself through writing, but his profession, his obsession with his art, was the reason for his leaving: he could not figure out how to be an artist and a father at the same time, he could not show up for his family and create at the same time. Even with his grandson, he only connects through (profoundly age-inappropriate) films: for Christmas, he gifts a parcel full of DVDs, including Haneke’s The Piano Teacher of all things (“to help him learn about the maternal instinct” he explains, luckily Agnes does not have a DVD player). He loves and is proud of his daughters but the only way he knows to include them, to be around them, is to make films with them. We see a retrospective film screening of a movie he made 20 years ago with Agnes, the younger daughter, that must have been close to the last thing he completed before he left them. Agnes is fantastic in it but she did not become an actress, as if something about the experience deterred her.

 

Instead of Nora, Gustav casts Rachel Kemp (Elle Fanning). He is charmed by her adoration for him and his films, and her involvement means funding – from Netflix, of all places, an arrangement that seems doomed from the start for a director who has such a clear conception of complete artistic freedom and disdain for economic constraints. It reminded me of Olivier Assayas’ 2022 Irma Vep show, a thinly veiled satire about the director making a series about his own film, made by HBO – as much about film production conditions in the 2020s as it was about his personal life. They work on the script together in the house. Gustav is deliberately elusive about how much of this story is truly his, about what is authentic and what isn’t – in one scene claiming his mother used a footstool to hang herself that his daughter, in on the joke, identifies as being from IKEA. Rachel is excited for the project but realises soon that she is only a second choice. Gustav asks her to die her hair the same colour of Nora, and meeting her, she realises that she is a stand-in for someone else, an obvious approximation because she is forcing this personal story of Gustav’s childhood trauma – his mother hanging herself in the house when he was seven - to be translated into English. There is a conflict here, an alienation and mis-translation: hoping to bridge it, she practices a fake Scandinavian accent so that the difference between her and the other actors in the film won’t stand out too much, but it becomes obvious immediately that this is a fundamentally flawed undertaking that threatens to undermine the film. Rachel is genuine and passionate enough about the project to drop out in time. 

Gustav’s script, once Agnes reads it, hesitant to allow her own son to perform the role of Gustav in it, appears several times throughout the film: Gustav carries it around in a plastic bag, Nora refuses to read it because reading it would be a concession to her father, or it might reveal something about him she isn’t ready to face. In reading it, Agnes realises that it is a love letter to Nora more than Gustav’s mother: it may have been written about Agnes’ grandmother, but it was written for Nora, with Gustav, who they think unaware of Nora’s own suicide attempt, managing to write about it like it indirectly through his mother’s death. It’s like the crack in the house, persisting through the decades, unavoidable, a repeating pattern in their family history. The film is about the terse relationship between the two sisters and their fathers, but it is at its most moving when it shows how Nora and Agnes survived their childhood together, and especially, how Nora made the kind of childhood for Agnes that allowed her to thrive, and eventually make her own family, because she was not alone and had someone care for her when her parents didn’t. “I had you”, Agnes says in the pivotal scene of the film. Gustav’s insistence that life irritates art so much that he had to leave to continue making films is undermined: instead, what the house held in all those years was the two sisters and love for each other. In the end, the house itself is transformed, completely stripped of its history by a pre-sale transformation that turns it into the kind of indistinguishable canvas of every 2020s trend in interior decoration. Grey surfaces, new floorboards, empty surfaces, undistinguishable furniture, the crack presumably plastered and painted over, it has died, in a way, become separated from its history and how it intertwines with the Borgs. Instead, Gustav is finally filming his film on a sound stage which through the presence of the actors and the story alone becomes authentic. It’s not a home that has ever held people, but it is ready to hold their lives regardless. transposed into the present tense, with Nora in the leading role and her nephew acting alongside her, the story loses none of its poignancy, because it is about the people that Gustav, in his own lacking way, loves. 

2025, directed by Joachim Trier, starring Renate Reinsve, Stellan Skarsgård, Inga Ibsdotter Lilleaas, Elle Fanning, Anders Danielsen Lie, Øyvind Hesjedal Loven. 

A dangerous precedent

 “The Secretary-General is deeply alarmed by the recent escalation in Venezuela, culminating with today’s United States military action in the country, which has potential worrying implications for the region,” said a statement issued by UN Spokesperson Stéphane Dujarric.
“Independently of the situation in Venezuela, these developments constitute a dangerous precedent. The Secretary-General continues to emphasize the importance of full respect - by all - of international law, including the UN Charter,” the statement continued.
“He’s deeply concerned that the rules of international law have not been respected.”

 

UN News: US actions in Venezuela ‘constitute a dangerous precedent’: Guterres, January 3, 2026

 

"Concerns over the future of the territory resurfaced after Trump's unilateral use of military force against Venezuela on Saturday to seize its President Nicolás Maduro.
The Trump administration says Greenland is vital to US security. Denmark says an attack would end the Nato military alliance.
"If the president identifies a threat to the national security of the United States, every president retains the option to address it through military means," Rubio said on Wednesday.
"As a diplomat, which is what I am now, and what we work on, we always prefer to settle it in different ways - that included in Venezuela."
Earlier in the day, French Foreign Minister Jean-Noël Barrot said Rubio had "ruled out the possibility of an invasion" of Greenland in a phone call with him. 

 

BBC: US says it will discuss Greenland ownership with Denmark next week, January 7, 2025 

 

The Guardian: Months in planning, over in two and a half hours: how the US snatched Maduro, January 5, 2026
Atmos: The US Just Bet on the World’s Dirtiest Oil, January 7, 2026

Reuters: Greenland belongs to its people and has full EU support, EU's Costa says, January 8, 2026

Daedosiui sarangbeob (Love in the Big City)

 

Starting this new year with a film that I knew nothing about before watching it has been a genuine joy and surprise. I was motivated by falling down a rabbit-hole that should have started last year, when Kim Go-eun delivered her unforgettable performance in Pamyo, but it’s taken until her appearance in the thriller series The Price of Confession to want to dive into a filmography defined by interesting choices. 

Daedosiui sarangbeob is about two outsiders who find each other and share a life through their twenties and early thirties. In the beginning, there is loneliness: Heung-soo’s (Steve Noh, Pachinko) hiding and isolation because he is afraid to come out as gay in a society that is still deeply homophobic, to a mother who has devoted herself to Church after catching him with another boy, and Jae-hee’s (Kim Go-eun) solitude because she is ostracised as a weirdo, mainly for not confirming to preconceived notions about how she is meant to act as a woman. When Jae-hee first notices Heung-soo, it feels like she is lit up by the mutual recognition of having something in common. They become friends – as the years pass, they move in together, are the closest relationship each of them has in their life, even as their diverging ideas about romance cause chaos. Closeted Heung-soo doesn’t allow himself love even when it persistently shows up in his life, fearing what it would mean to commit, or to have to reveal himself to the world. Jae-hee falls into relationships with men who inevitably fall on a spectrum from ridiculous to useless to violently jealous, never really conceding that she deserves so much better because she’s been told too often that she doesn’t. Heung-soo is arrested in his career because he doesn’t commit there either – he’s been writing forever but he seems incapable of making choices that aren’t prescribed for him. Jae-hee lands in an office job where she is undervalued and suffers from misogynistic power structures. 
The film is carried by their love and care for each other: a relationship that grows as they do. Noh and Kim Go-eun have the kind of undeniable chemistry that feels magical on screen – Jae-hee’s fearlessness and energy shine even more against Heung-soo’s reservedness and restraint. This is a beautifully filmed and acted portrait of friendship. 

2024, directed by Eon-hee Lee, starring Kim Go-eun, Steve Sanghyun Noh, Kim Chae-eun, Kwak Dong-yeon, Jang Hye-jin. 

Das Lied zum Sonntag

 Yellow Fang - สบายสไตล์ (Yokee Playboy cover)

Shows of the Year

Best new show:

 

The Pitt

 

I was a bit hesitant about starting The Pitt and waited a few weeks before catching up. I must have watched ER daily for years - the way that Austrian TV worked, new episodes of US TV shows would air every weekday, so this was my post-school ritual. Noah Wyle - here a veteran doctor leading the ER - is at the centre of the ensemble cast whose 15-hour-shift we are following, hour by hour. The format is interesting, because it limits our POV, with the only escape being PTSD flashbacks to COVID times (that also don't leave the ER). And the show originally airs week-by-week, meaning that it requires the viewers to remind themselves that only an hour has passed (and at the same time, the sheer pace and propulsion of the show makes it difficult to binge without feeling overwhelmed). The doctors treat case after case, many hang around, many things go deeply, emotionally horrifyingly, wrong. It's like watching human beings accrue psychic damage while still trying to do their jobs in the best and most humane way possible. At the same time, it's clear that this is also a furious indictment of mixing healthcare with a profit motive, of the ill-suited and dangerous managerial language used by hospital leadership with little care for employees and patients. 

 

Pluribus 

 

Hal and Harper 

This is a showcase of Lili Reinhart and Cooper Raiff's acting - they play the children of a deeply damaged father (Mark Ruffalo) who were forced to grow up too quickly after a traumatic event in their childhood. Reinhart (a revelation here) is stoic, carrying everyone's grief on her shoulder, Raiff is arrested in his development, and they are dangerously co-dependent on one another. Some of the most moving scenes of the series place the adult actors in the past, acting out the childhood of their characters (Raiff does brilliant work as the overenthusiastic and exuberant child version of Hal), always awkwardly standing out against the backdrop of the children surrounding them. A beautiful show. 

 

Long Story Short 

A Thousand Blows

 

It's such an astonishing coincidence, or perhaps just the outcome of great artists supporting each other into new projects, that Erin Doherty delivers one of the best performances of the year in A Thousand Blows only to then follow it up with another one in her singular outstanding episode of Adolescence, written by her co-star Stephen Graham and Jack Thorne (whose work I've been following since he wrote Naomi's episode of Skins). This is also an interesting companion piece to Dope Girls, which is more experimental in its approach - set in Victorian London, two newly arrived Jamaican friends (played by Malachy Kirby and Francis Lovehall, both great) navigate their way through the East End Underworld, and intersect with an all-women gang of thieves (the Forty Elephants) led by Doherty's Mary Carr, who has a great coup in the works. They also butt up against the Goodson boxing brothers (James Nelson-Joyce and Stephen Graham) - and this is very much not the "gentleman" version of boxing, but bare-knuckled struggle, sometimes to death.

 

Dope Girls

 

After WW1, with soldiers returning from the front, the women who have stepped up in their absence are relegated back to being wives and mothers, but the world has changed radically, and nothing is as it was. The first season of Dope Girls documents the dual rise of two women in spheres previously closed to them. Julianne Nicholson's Kate Galloway, left to raise her daughter (Eilidh Fisher) on her own after the suicide of her husband, ends up entangled in the Soho nightlife. A series of unfortunate events brings her on a collision course with an Italian gang and into possession of a different kind of nightclub, in which dancer Billie Cassidy (Umi Myers) wants to perform her transgressive art free from outside control. At the same time, Eliza Scanlen's Violet Davis is trying to become one of the first ten women police officers and doesn't hesitate to snitch on anyone to get what she wants. She's sent undercover by her boss. Dope Girls has been compared to Peaky Blinders, but I was much more reminded of Babylon Berlin, which takes place a bit later in history (but also in a melting pot of conservatism and transgression) but has a similarly visually stunning style, and uses music to propel the story forward.

 

Best one-season show:

 

Dying for Sex

 

I don't even have words for this show. Michelle Williams shines in every way, which is not surprising (she's been killing it in Kelly Reichardt movies for years, and she was so beautifully drily funny in Showing Up), but it's literally every one in this show: Jenny Slate, devastating as the best friend who takes care of her dying life partner (she fucking floored me). Esco Jouley, who is such a discovery, as the care counselor who is with her the whole way. Rob Delaney, Kelvin Yu, Sissy Spacek, Paula Pell in a small but impactful role (Girls5Eva will be so missed). The non-judgemental approach to sex, the meaning-making about death (and the direct approach to both), this will stay with me for a very long time.

 

Apple Cider Vinegar 

 

I had a genuinely difficult time to get through Apple Cider Vinegar, which is in no way a reflection on how good the show was: the fantastic cast, for one, with Kaitlyn Dever's rare accomplishment of pulling off a fake Australian accent that lets you forget she's not Australian, at the head of a cast of up- and coming and well-established Australian actors (Aisha Dee and Alycia Debnam-Carey returned from their beginnings in US television, Tilda Cobham-Hervey in a heartbreaking role, the great Susie Porter and Mark Coles Smith). While this was probably originally produced because it fits into the recent trend of bringing well-known female con women to the screen (The Dropout, Inventing Anna), Dever's performance is a step above, and the tone is very much removed from the satire of its predecessors. Debnam-Carey and Porter, as a mother and daughter who are dying of cancer and yet have bought into the ideology of self-healing so much that they do not seek adequate medical help, are the emotionally devastating core of the story (especially Porter, who refuses medical help out of love and support for her daughter's ideology). 

Adolescence

 

Just four episodes, all filmed in one continuous shot, to follow the arrest of a thirteen-year old boy (played by newcomer Owen Cooper in his first ever performance, to start off what is certain to be a great career) for a horrific crime against a female classmate. There are no answers here about what to do about the radicalisation of young men and boys, only the grief and horror of the fall-out. The show itself acknowledges what its one shortcoming is - centering the story of Owen and his family, rather than the girl he killed, who never appears on screen alive and who is grieved by a best friend who rages against what happened. The second episode captures the unbridgeable generational gap that makes the actions so difficult to decipher - a whole new language of symbols, closed off to parents and the investigating detectives. The third episode is the stand-out: Erin Doherty plays a psychologist tasked with assessing Jamie, trying to "understand his understanding" through a precarious series of questions that elicit his attempts at humour, charm, but also outbursts of rage and violence, where he oscillates between childishness and threatening adolescence, from making himself as small as possible to looming over her and enjoying her attempts to control her fear.  

 

Death By Lightning 

 

Best show:

 

Severance

 

The Newsreader

 

Yellowjackets

The Last of Us

 

Slow Horses 

 

Saddest Goodbyes:

Andor

 

The Wheel of Time 

 

There were moments during The Wheel of Time's third season where I couldn't believe the collection of fantastic actors that the show had managed to assemble: at one point, political arguments unfolded between characters played by Olivia Williams, Shohreh Aghdashloo, and Sophie Okonedo (all supporting actors - it's hard to believe how enormous this ensemble cast is, led by Rosamund Pike). This season also fully embraced the idea that going all in on beautiful visuals is back: The Road to the Spear is a whole episode of stunning beauty. It's incredibly sad that this third season will be the last, that the show will not be given the opportunity to end on its own terms - but much in line with the worrying trend of queer and female-led shows ending prematurely. 

Poker Face

 

I've been looking forward to this second season of Poker Face with the same delight in which I greet each new season of Only Murders in the Building: I know it's going to be a joy to check in each week, and with Poker Face in particular, one of the greatest assets is Rian Johnson's ability to have a roster of excellent guest stars. The specific joy of this season has been seeing how a high concept show finds way to be creative without abandoning its roots completely, and I almost like this version of the story, where Charlie Cale is unbound from the through-line of running from the Mafia, better. The best two episodes of the season are twists: one has no human victim (but instead a gerbil, a friend, that is more grieve-able than some of the previous victims), but a horrifyingly scary bad seed child at the helm, the other changes around the timeline, with Charlie entering the story months after the crime has occurred instead the days before. 

 

The Handmaid's Tale

 

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