Today would have been the 77th birthday of the great John Belushi.
I was planning on watching and reviewing The Blues Brothers today but that was before the winter storm hit. Instead, here’s Belushi on Saturday Night Live in 1976, talking about the weather. John was 25 here and it’s hard to believe that, in just 6 years, he would be gone.
“There are things within a soul that can never be unleashed… They would consume us. We would cease to be, and another would exist in our place, without control, without limits.” — Vanessa Ives
Penny Dreadful remains one of the more distinctive horror dramas of the 2010s, its three-season run on Showtime from 2014 to 2016 offering a rare blend of lush literary homage, character-driven tragedy, and outright Grand Guignol spectacle. Expanding the lens season by season clarifies how the series evolves from a moody, experimental monster mash into a full-blown gothic epic, while also highlighting the structural flaws and uneven pacing that prevent it from being universally accessible, even as standout performances from its ensemble elevate every frame. What emerges is a show that grows richer the more time it spends with its characters—particularly through highlight turns like Eva Green’s ferocious Vanessa Ives, Rory Kinnear’s soul-wrenching Creature, and the magnetic supporting work from Timothy Dalton, Josh Hartnett, and Billie Piper—rewarding patient viewers even as its narrative sometimes strains under the weight of its own ambition.
Season one of Penny Dreadful functions as an origin point and a proof of concept, introducing viewers to a haunted ensemble bound together by secrets, sin, and supernatural forces, with performances that immediately set a bar for emotional and physical intensity. The central plot—Sir Malcolm Murray and Vanessa Ives recruiting American gunslinger Ethan Chandler and tortured scientist Victor Frankenstein to rescue Malcolm’s daughter Mina from a vampiric master—serves less as a conventional quest and more as a framework to explore broken people clinging to purpose, anchored by Timothy Dalton’s commanding Sir Malcolm, whose gravelly authority and haunted eyes convey a lifetime of imperial regrets and paternal failure. Eva Green’s Vanessa is the undeniable highlight here, her ferocious intensity in episodes like Séance and Possession—where glossolalia, contortions, and violent ecstasy erupt—turning demonic outbreaks into raw expressions of guilt, repression, and spiritual crisis, earning her a Golden Globe nomination for a debut season that demands Oscar-level physicality and vulnerability. Josh Hartnett’s Ethan Chandler provides a grounded counterpoint, his brooding sharpshooter evolving from reluctant hero to tormented beast with subtle shifts in posture and gaze that foreshadow his lycanthropic reveal.
The first season also lays the groundwork for the show’s thematic fascination with duality and monstrosity, especially through Harry Treadaway’s brittle Victor Frankenstein—whose twitching desperation humanizes god-like hubris—and Rory Kinnear’s breakout as the Creature, a shambling horror who quickly reveals literate eloquence and bitter pathos, his scarred visage and rumbling baritone making every plea for connection a gut-punch that redefines “monster” from the outset. Season one’s pacing can feel deliberately slow, even theatrical, as it lingers on candlelit rooms, whispered confessions, and philosophical exchanges, and some viewers may find this emphasis on mood over plot progression alienating. Yet that same deliberation allows the show to build a cohesive emotional atmosphere in which every prayer, séance, and bloodletting feels weighted with meaning, amplified by Dalton’s authoritative gravitas and Green’s transcendent torment. Critics generally responded favorably to this opening run, praising these performances and the atmosphere while noting that its heavy tone and self-seriousness would not be to every viewer’s taste.
Season two represents Penny Dreadful at its most confident and cohesive, expanding the mythology while tightening the emotional focus around Vanessa’s confrontation with a coven of witches led by Evelyn Poole, with Helen McCrory’s serpentine Madame Kali emerging as a highlight villain whose purring malice and intimate manipulations steal scenes. By reframing the central antagonist from a shadowy vampire figure to this fully articulated witch—who weaponizes intimacy, religious iconography, and psychological terror—the show raises the stakes, and Green’s Vanessa responds with even greater ferocity, her possession battles now laced with backstory from Patti LuPone’s earthy, heartbreaking Cut-Wife, whose single-episode arc showcases LuPone’s unparalleled ability to blend folk wisdom with maternal ferocity. This season’s central conflict positions Vanessa as the battleground for Lucifer’s desire, giving the main cast a unity of purpose that the first sometimes lacked.
Character work in season two deepens significantly, with Josh Hartnett elevating Ethan into a moral savage whose lupine rampages in No Beast So Fierce blend raw physicality and soul-searching remorse, while Billie Piper’s evolution from fragile Brona Croft to the defiant Lily Frankenstein becomes a revelation—her steely monologues on patriarchal violence delivered with fiery conviction that rivals Green’s intensity. Rory Kinnear’s Creature reaches new pathos pleading for a mate, his rejection scene opposite Treadaway’s increasingly unhinged Victor one of the series’ most devastating showcases of mutual ruin. Reeve Carney’s Dorian Gray adds hedonistic shimmer, though his arc pales next to these powerhouses. Moments like the group’s desperate defense of Sir Malcolm’s home or Ethan’s transformations achieve a rare balance of gore, suspense, and lyrical resolution, with Dalton’s weary patriarch holding the emotional center. Critics frequently cite season two as the show’s peak, with 100% Rotten Tomatoes scores reflecting near-universal praise for these heightened performances and tighter narrative.
Season three is where the series’ strengths and weaknesses collide most dramatically, as it scatters the core ensemble geographically and mythologically while hurtling toward an abrupt conclusion, yet the actors rise to the challenge with career-best work. Eva Green’s Vanessa deepens into despairing isolation, her therapy sessions with Patti LuPone’s returning Dr. Seward (a chilling pivot from folk healer to clinical cutter) and tender courtship by Christian Camargo’s suave Dracula yielding some of her most nuanced work—balancing fragility, resolve, and erotic pull in a finale self-sacrifice that cements her as TV’s ultimate gothic heroine. Josh Hartnett’s Ethan, now grappling with Apache mystic Kaetenay (Wes Studi’s dignified gravitas a welcome addition), delivers visceral Western showdowns that showcase his action-hero chops alongside soulful reckoning. Timothy Dalton’s Sir Malcolm, questing in Zanzibar, brings imperial weariness to poignant closure, his highlight a raw confrontation with past sins.
Standouts continue with Billie Piper’s Lily rallying a feminist uprising, her ideological fire clashing gloriously with Dorian’s jaded ennui in scenes of revolutionary fervor and betrayal that highlight Carney’s subtle decay. Harry Treadaway’s Victor, partnering with Shazad Latif’s oily Jekyll, spirals into ethical abyss with manic precision, while Rory Kinnear’s Creature—rediscovering his identity as John Clare—delivers the series’ most quietly devastating arc, his family reunion a masterclass in restrained grief that rivals Green’s flashier exorcisms for emotional wallop. These performances salvage the fragmented plotting, infusing global detours with humanity even as resolutions feel rushed.
Evaluated across all three seasons, Penny Dreadful delivers a rich, if imperfect, journey elevated by its highlight performances: Green’s transcendent Vanessa as the tormented soul; Kinnear’s Creature as the rejected heart; Dalton’s authoritative patriarch; Hartnett’s brooding beast; Piper’s fiery avenger; and LuPone’s dual folk icons—forming an ensemble that turns gothic pulp into profound tragedy. Season one constructs a dense foundation; season two refines it into peak artistry; season three reaches for epic finality with power even in haste. The end result succeeds more as character-driven gothic poetry than tidy thriller, its actors ensuring unforgettable resonance for horror fans craving depth. In a landscape of sanitized scares, these performances make Penny Dreadful a dark, enduring achievement.
“So, for our daughter, you would kill millions of people. Billions of people. Other-other mothers just like you. Other daughters just like our daughter!” — Copper Howard
Episode 6 of Fallout season 2, titled “The Other Player,” ramps up the tension as the series dives deeper into the messy origins of the apocalypse and the fragile illusions of control in its aftermath. This installment centers on power dynamics—who pulls the strings before the bombs fall, who grabs them afterward, and who dares to cling to ideals like justice in a wasteland that mocks them at every turn. It delivers some standout moments for key characters like Barb and Lucy, blending corporate horror with personal reckonings, though a few subplots in the irradiated wilds feel like they’re just treading water ahead of bigger payoffs.
Barb’s storyline takes the spotlight early, peeling back the pre-war curtain to reveal Vault-Tec’s chilling machinery of doom. Picture her navigating a day packed with boardroom horrors: pitches for vaults rigged to fail on purpose, exclusive escape routes for elite clients, and slick strategies to polish the end times into a marketable package. The satire bites hard, but things darken when she brushes up against the shadowy layers beneath the corporate facade, including a tense encounter that exposes the ruthless leverage being used against her family. By the time she’s cornered into advancing the nuclear launch herself, her shift from confident insider to reluctant pawn feels raw and human—someone who glimpses the abyss but steps closer anyway.
This arc shines because it doesn’t paint Barb as a cartoon villain or a blameless dupe; she’s stuck in that gray zone of complicity, making choices under duress that echo through centuries. Her eventual clash with Cooper, where he probes just how deep the rot goes, hits with real weight, forcing her to confront the fallout of her inaction. When she aids in a high-stakes extraction involving Hank, it’s a flicker of atonement laced with disaster, underscoring how good intentions in this universe always curdle. The episode leaves her arc hanging in a compelling limbo, hinting at ripple effects that could redefine loyalties as the Enclave’s shadow looms larger.
Lucy’s journey mirrors this theme of fractured morality, thrusting her into a reconstructed slice of her Vault 33 life that’s equal parts nostalgic trap and dystopian experiment. She stirs in a familiar setup, only to spot the mind-control collars on patrolling guards—Hank’s twisted vision of order, where impulses are leashed to forge a “civilized” society from savages. True to form, Lucy opts for due process over vengeance, collaring her dad for a trial back home, betting on the vault-bred rules that have crumbled around her. It’s a stubborn spark of optimism that the show handles with nuance, never letting it tip into naivety.
As she prowls Hank’s operation, Lucy witnesses the eerie results: former killers and cannibals reshaped into mundane workers, content in their programmed bliss. Her bid to liberate them backfires when some admit they’d rather stay subdued, posing the gut-punch question at Fallout‘s core—is peace worth the chains if it’s chosen? The episode’s visceral demo drives it home: a restrained brute turns feral, brutalizing a captive in a frenzy of violence until Lucy flips the override switch, transforming rage into rote camaraderie. Hank’s philosophy—that curbing free will is the ultimate mercy—creeps under the skin, challenging Lucy’s worldview without fully vindicating him.
Hank embodies the franchise’s archetype of the self-righteous tyrant, framing his atrocities as paternal duty. Shackling himself for “accountability” feels like calculated theater, a nod to Shady Sands’ destruction wrapped in protective bluster. Their father-daughter standoff crackles with unresolved pain, elevating what could be talky scenes into emotional tinder. He doesn’t dodge blame entirely, but his rationalizations muddy the waters just enough to keep Lucy—and viewers—wrestling with the cost of survival.
The wasteland threads, by contrast, deliver flashes of grit but lack the same punch. The Ghoul kicks off skewered and desperate, his radiation-fueled rasp devolving into pleas about lost family as he fights for his gear. A massive super mutant swoops in for the save, channeling that gravelly lore vibe with a uranium “cure” and whispers of an anti-Enclave uprising. It’s a thrilling nod to the games’ icons, yet the sequence fizzles by sidelining the mutant’s deeper motives and knocking Ghoul out cold too soon—cool on paper, but it whets the appetite without satisfying.
Maximus and Thaddeus fare worse, stuck in nomadic chit-chat mode. Ditching the traceable armor leads to debates over hawking their prize or gifting it to some vague “greater good,” laced with buddy-cop quips around the campfire. It’s breezy filler that humanizes them amid the heavier drama, and their eventual Ghoul rendezvous teases convergence, but it drags compared to the vault intrigue. These beats keep the ensemble breathing, yet they underscore how the episode prioritizes cerebral clashes over explosive action.
Down in the vaults, bureaucratic farce provides lighter relief: a support group devolves into snack-hoarding chaos until the overseer axes it over budget cuts. Reg’s defiant munching on pilfered treats captures that petty vault defiance, a microcosm of resistance against soul-crushing routine. Still, this undercurrent ties loosely to the topside stakes, feeling more like world-building seasoning than plot fuel.
Clocking in as a character-driven pivot, “The Other Player” excels at unpacking ethical quagmires—Barb’s pre-war slide, Lucy’s moral tightrope, Hank’s paternal authoritarianism—while teasing Enclave escalation. The super mutant tease and wasteland wanderings underwhelm in execution, marking time until the ensemble collides, but the thematic heft carries it. Season 2’s back half feels primed for chaos, with these personal fractures promising a powder keg payoff amid the radiation storms. If it balances the introspection with more wasteland fury, this episode will slot neatly as the calm before the irradiated storm.
Fallout Season 2 Episodes
Welcome to Retro Television Reviews, a feature where we review some of our favorite and least favorite shows of the past! On Mondays, I will be reviewing Miami Vice, which ran on NBC from 1984 to 1989. The entire show can be purchased on Prime!
This week, the British are coming!
Episode 5.11 “Miami Squeeze”
(Dir by Michelle Manning, originally aired on February 17th, 1989)
There’s a new drug lord in Miami. He’s a British dandy named Sebastian Ross (Robert Joy) and it’s impossible to take him seriously as a legitimate threat. The show continually tells us how dangerous Sebastian is. When the son (Daniel Villarreal) of anti-drug Congresswoman Madeleine Woods (Rita Moreno) attempts to double-cross Sebastian, Sebastian blackmails the Congresswoman and also tries to make Castillo look like a dirty cop. Castillo ends up getting shot, all as a result of Sebastian’s schemes.
And yet, despite all of that, it’s impossible to take Sebastian seriously. He’s just a ridiculous character, a drug dealer who dresses like an Edwardian gentleman and who carries a can and who speaks with a remarkably bad British accent. (Robert Joy is himself Canadian. I should mention that Joy is also a very good character actor. He’s just miscast here.) As a character, Sebastian threw off the entire episode. When you include Rita Moreno acting up a storm, this episode almost felt like a self-parody.
Joey Hardin (Justin Lazard), the undercover cop from Line of Fire, returned in this episode. Sonny recruited him to go undercover in order to infiltrate Sebastian’s organization. Considering that Joey was a returning character and that there was a lengthy scene of Sonny asking if Joey felt confident enough to put his life on the line, it was kind of surprising that Joey didn’t really do much in this episode. One got the feeling that perhaps this was meant to be a backdoor pilot for a show featuring Joey as an undercover cop who could pass for a teenager. There’s nothing wrong with that, of course. Who wouldn’t want to keep a franchise going? But Joey ultimately felt like a red herring and a bit of a distraction.
This episode was a misfire.
“If pain and suffering were the kisses of Jesus, then he kissed the living fuck out of my mother.” — Roderick Usher
The Fall of the House of Usher delivers Mike Flanagan’s signature blend of gothic dread and modern moral reckoning, reimagining Edgar Allan Poe’s tales as a savage family implosion tied to corporate excess. This Netflix miniseries unfolds over eight taut episodes, framing the confessions of a pharmaceutical tycoon as his bloodline meets grisly, poetic ends. It balances sharp satire with emotional undercurrents, though its heavy-handed messaging and repetitive structure occasionally blunt the impact.
Roderick Usher, now a hollowed-out patriarch, recounts his empire’s collapse to a relentless prosecutor in the crumbling family mansion, flashing back to decades of ambition, betrayal, and supernatural intervention. His twin sister Madeline, the brains behind their Fortunato Pharmaceuticals fortune, shares equal narrative weight, their pact with a enigmatic figure sealing a curse that claims each heir in turn. The setup echoes Poe’s original story but explodes it into a sprawling anthology, with every installment riffing on a different work from the author’s macabre catalog. This structure keeps the momentum high, turning personal flaws into fatal traps, yet it risks formula once the pattern of vice-reveal-demise becomes predictable.
A standout early episode channels The Masque of the Red Death, where a debauched heir’s orgiastic gala spirals into carnage, blending excess with infectious horror in a sequence that’s equal parts thrilling and grotesque. Later, Goldbug skewers influencer wellness culture through a sibling’s pyramid-scheme downfall, its tech-glitch kills inventive and on-theme. These Poe-infused vignettes shine when they lean into visceral spectacle—impalements, immolations, animalistic frenzies—elevating routine family feuds into something operatic. However, weaker entries, like those fixated on lab accidents or courtroom paranoia, feel more procedural than poetic, diluting the supernatural menace amid procedural tangents.
Flanagan’s direction thrives in the atmospheric details: opulent sets that rot from within, shadows pooling like guilt, a score that swells with mournful strings underscoring inevitable doom. Performances anchor the excess, with Carla Gugino’s shape-shifting Verna stealing scenes as a devilish facilitator—charming one moment, apocalyptic the next. Bruce Greenwood lends Roderick a defeated majesty, his monologues on greed and legacy landing with gravitas despite their length. Mark Hamill’s fixer adds gravelly comic menace, a cold pragmatist navigating the Ushers’ moral sewer. The younger cast fares variably; some heirs pop as vicious caricatures—the coke-fueled playboy, the ruthless scientist—while others blur into interchangeable privilege.
Thematically, the series wields Poe’s obsessions—entombment, madness, retribution—against Big Pharma’s sins, drawing parallels to real-world opioid scandals without subtlety. Roderick and Madeline’s rise from rags via a addictive painkiller mirrors ethical shortcuts in pursuit of immortality, their “house” both literal estate and dynastic delusion. Verna embodies karmic balance, not mindless evil, her interventions exposing how wealth insulates sin until cosmic debt collectors arrive. This critique bites, especially in rants decrying humanity’s commodification of suffering, but preachy asides can halt the dread, turning horror into TED Talk territory. Flanagan fans will recognize his grief motifs, here twisted into generational poison rather than personal catharsis.
Pacing falters in the midsection, where flashbacks to the Ushers’ origin drag against the ticking present-day trial. The frame narrative, while elegant, withholds twists too long, making early hours feel like setup over payoff. Gorehounds get inventive set pieces, from pendulum blades to heart-pounding pursuits, but scares prioritize irony over outright terror—less Hereditary shocks, more Final Destination comeuppance. For a one-season arc, it wraps tightly, circling back to Poe’s raven as a symbol of unending loss, though the finale’s revelations feel more intellectually tidy than emotionally shattering.
As adaptation, it honors Poe’s spirit over fidelity, cherry-picking motifs from tales like The Tell-Tale Heart, The Black Cat, and The Pit and the Pendulum to fuel a contemporary revenge saga. Purists might chafe at the liberties—Poe’s claustrophobic intimacy traded for ensemble sprawl—but the result captures his misanthropy, updating crumbling aristocracy to cutthroat capitalism. It’s Flanagan’s angriest work, swapping supernatural melancholy for gleeful vengeance, yet retains his humanism: even monsters get poignant final beats, hinting at redemption’s flicker amid ruin.
The Fall of the House of Usher polarizes like much of Flanagan’s output—loved for audacity, critiqued for indulgence. Its ensemble and kills draw praise, but detractors note tonal whiplash between camp and sincerity. For horror enthusiasts craving literary flair over found-footage tropes, it’s a feast; casual viewers may tire of the lectures. Compared to Flanagan’s Hill House or Midnight Mass, it’s less introspective, more punitive, trading tears for dark laughs at the mighty’s tumble.
Ultimately, the miniseries succeeds as pulpy prestige, a bloody valentine to Poe that indicts modern excess without fully escaping melodrama’s clutches. Its highs—Gugino’s tour de force, baroque deaths, thematic ambition—outweigh the bloat, making it binge-worthy for gothic fans. In Netflix’s crowded horror slate, it stands out for wit and wickedness, a flawed but ferocious reminder that some houses, and legacies, deserve to fall.
Welcome to Late Night Retro Television Reviews, a feature where we review some of our favorite and least favorite shows of the past! On Wednesdays, I will be reviewing 1st and Ten, which aired in syndication from 1984 to 1991. The entire series is streaming on Tubi.
This week, the playoffs continue.
Episode 2.9 “A Family Affair”
(Dir by Burt Brinckerhoff, originally aired on January 13th, 1987)
A playoff game against Denver is approaching. Denver is coached by a former protegee of Denardo’s and Denardo is obsessed with winning. He’s so obsessed that he alienates the players and Coach Grier (Stan Kamber). Grier is tempted to take a job as Houston’s head coach. Denardo says he doesn’t care until Diane reveals that Grier has turned down several other jobs out of loyalty to Denardo.
As for the other assistant coach, T.D. Parker (OJ Simpson) has problems of his own. His youngest son is acting out and the only thing that’s kept him out of juvenile detention is the fact that the cops are all fans of T.D. and the Bulls. T.D. tells his son that he’s not allowed to leave the house. When T.D.’s wife says that she thinks T.D. is being too strict, T.D. tells her to back off. T.D. gets really mad in this episode but none of it is convincing because OJ Simpson was too amiable an actor to really come across as being threatening. That’s something that would prove helpful to OJ in the years to come.
Meanwhile, the players all invest in the stock market. The stock doesn’t do well. The player who recommended the stock is chased out onto the field before the start of the big game against Denver. Ha ha, those players are all broke now. Good luck dealing with life after the game.
This show, I never know what to make of it. Is it a comedy? Is it a drama? Why is it so oddly edited? How many scenes were cut for syndication? Why do storylines start and then just disappear? For that matter, why do characters suddenly vanish? Dr. Death was a huge part of the show during the first half of the second season but I haven’t seen him during the second half. Did he get traded? Did he get injured? Seriously, what’s going on with this show?
I have no idea. Football’s a confusing sport.
Welcome to Retro Television Reviews, a feature where we review some of our favorite and least favorite shows of the past! On Wednesdays, I will be reviewing the original Love Boat, which aired on ABC from 1977 to 1986! The series can be streamed on Paramount Plus!
This week, Doc Bricker gets a surprise!
Episode 7.3 “Bricker’s Boy/Lotions of Love/The Hustlers”
(Dir by Jerome Courtland, originally aired on October 8th, 1983)
Doc Bricker has a son!
Well, actually, it’s more a case of David (Timothy Patrick Murphy) claiming to be Doc’s son. It turns out that David’s mother was one of Doc’s ex-girlfriends. By the end of the cruise, Doc has fully accepted David as his son but then David admits that he’s been lying the whole time. Doc is not his father. However, he wishes that Doc was his father. So, Doc — who has got to be the most understanding guy on the planet — adopts him. Vicki has a crush on the loser and Captain Stubing seems to be okay with that, despite the fact that David is a liar who took a cruise without even bothering to buy a ticket. Seriously, I’m kind of worried about Vickie at this point. She’s so bereft of friends her own age that she falls in love with every teenage boy who boards the ship.
While Vicki is busy making a bad decision, gigolo Gary Thomas (Ted McGinley) is traveling with his employer, Arlene (Vera Miles). Gary falls for Fran (Constance Forslund), who is traveling with her sugar daddy, Roy (Chuck Connors). Luckily, Arlene falls for Roy, which frees Gary up to date Fran. Wow, what a sleazy story! I mean, it’s probably as close to real life as this show ever got but still….
Finally, advertising executive Andy O’Neal (Brodie Greer) works on a perfume campaign and ends up falling in love with his client’s flighty daughter (Lydia Cornell). Good for them!
Yeesh. I usually love The Love Boat but this sure was a bland episode! Not even Ted McGinley pretending to be a gigolo could liven this one up. I will say that Bernie Kopell once again proved himself to be far better than the material that he had to work with. But otherwise, this episode was pretty dull.
How coked up was Julie? Obviously nowhere near enough.
“Where I come from, which is America, the House always wins.” — Robert House
Episode 5 of Fallout Season 2 (“The Wrangler”) is the point where the show stops flirting with heartbreak and finally commits to it, using a brutally inevitable betrayal to crack open its core relationships while quietly escalating the bigger myth arc in the background. It is not the flashiest hour of the season, but it is one of the most emotionally coherent, and that focus is both its biggest strength and its main limitation.
Most of the episode’s weight lands on the dynamic between Lucy and The Ghoul, and the writers lean hard into that “we knew this was coming” tension without turning it into a cheap twist. The Ghoul’s choice to hand Lucy over to Hank in exchange for the continued survival of his cryo-frozen family feels properly miserable: the kind of decision that is logically defendable and morally ugly at the same time. Watching Lucy slowly clock that she’s been a bargaining chip this whole time, right after she and Coop finally seemed to be in sync, gives the betrayal some sting beyond the spectacle of her Power Fist launching him out the window and onto a pole. The performances sell it; Ella Purnell plays Lucy’s hurt as a mix of disbelief and exhaustion, while Walton Goggins lets just enough regret bleed through the monster façade to make it clear that this is hurting him, too, even as he pulls the trigger on the plan.
Structurally, the episode benefits from narrowing its scope to a few intersecting tracks instead of trying to cover the entire wasteland at once. On the Strip, Lucy’s Buffout fallout continues, sending her hunting for Addictol and instead into a mess involving price-gouging, a fake Sonny, and a very dead real Sonny in a bucket. That sequence walks the line between dark comedy and horror in a way that fits Fallout nicely, turning a simple “go buy meds” errand into a reminder that every familiar storefront can hide a fresh corpse and a new trauma. In parallel, The Ghoul drifts toward his fateful deal at the hotel bar, framed as a guy who has been running for two centuries and finally hits a wall he can’t brute-force his way through. The pacing is patient without feeling sluggish, and the way these threads converge in the final act makes the ending feel earned rather than engineered.
The big lore bomb this week is less about who’s shooting whom in New Vegas and more about who actually ended the world and what Vault-Tec was really doing. Mr. House’s scenes with pre-Ghoul Cooper ramp up the paranoia by suggesting that Barb may not be the one who actually pushed the apocalypse over the edge, hinting at “another player at the table” tied to the creation of Deathclaws and bigger, unseen forces. It is classic Fallout conspiracy energy: corporations within corporations, shadow projects like FEV and “Future Enterprise Ventures,” and a corporate end-of-the-world plan that feels less like a singular villain’s choice and more like the outcome of a lot of self-interested people nudging the same disaster. The episode does not over-explain any of this, which is smart; it plants a few specific clues—like Norm’s discovery that Vault-Tec’s phase two revolves around genetic testing and forced evolution—and then lets your mind connect it to everything from Deathclaws to the vault experiments we have already seen.
Norm’s storyline, which could easily feel like a cutaway from the “real” show, actually rebounds this week by giving the corporate plot teeth. His trip with the defrosted junior executives to Vault-Tec HQ mixes bleak humor—finding Janice’s corpse still at her desk, complete with coworkers sniping about her work ethic—with genuine dread as he starts to piece together that FEV is basically a “gene-altering agent for organism supercharging.” It is not subtle, but it works, especially when you realize how neatly it dovetails with what Hank is doing with that head-device in New Vegas: mind control, memory wiping, and turning humans into tools that fit Vault-Tec’s objectives better than their original personalities ever would. Norm getting choked out just as he starts to get real answers is a little on-the-nose as a cliffhanger, yet it keeps his thread from feeling aimless and promises that his office snooping will matter more than it might initially seem.
On the spectacle side, the episode plays a funny trick: it teases what looks like a huge Deathclaw set piece on the Strip and then has Lucy and The Ghoul do what any sensible player has done in the games—run like hell and load into a different area. For anyone hoping for a full-on Deathclaw brawl, it is bound to be a letdown, especially since three of them are staged as this major escalation and then promptly sidestepped. That said, the choice is thematically on point; the show leans into the fear of the creatures rather than the mechanics of fighting them, and seeing The Ghoul genuinely terrified ties nicely back to his first encounter with one in Alaska two centuries ago. New Vegas itself feels more alive here, with Freeside looking busier and the Strip more dangerous, even if the action is more about near-misses and quick exits than big choreographed battles.
The humor is hit-and-miss but usually lands on the right side of weird. The Snake Oil Salesman’s return, only to be drafted as Hank’s “voluntary” guinea pig for a head gadget that can pop skulls or wipe memories, leans into the show’s nastier comedic streak. His eagerness to forget a life full of sleaze says a lot about him in a single, darkly funny beat, while also underlining how casually Hank treats human minds as raw material. Not every gag works—some of the junior exec bits feel like they are chasing a joke about tech-bro sociopathy we have already seen before—but the episode keeps the comedy tightly woven into character and plot instead of dropping in random skits.
If there is a legitimate knock against this episode, it is that the emotional gut-punch between Lucy and The Ghoul is so strong that almost everything else can feel like setup by comparison. The supposed “answer” about who dropped the bombs is really more of another mystery box, and viewers looking for a clearer reveal may feel strung along. The Deathclaw fake-out also risks feeling like the show talking a big game and then refusing to spend the budget to pay it off, even if the character beats that replace the fight are strong. And while Norm’s storyline is finally paying off, it still sometimes plays like a slower, less visceral series running parallel to the one in New Vegas, which might frustrate anyone hooked primarily on Lucy and The Ghoul’s arc.
Still, as a midpoint episode, this is exactly where Fallout needs to hurt. The Ghoul’s betrayal is painful precisely because the show has spent so much time making Lucy good for him, setting her up as the one person who makes his humanity flicker back on—and then forcing him to choose the ghosts of his past over the partner standing right in front of him. Episode 5 might not deliver the biggest action of the season, but it gives the story a necessary emotional crash-out, sharpens the larger Vault-Tec conspiracy, and leaves nearly every character in a worse, more interesting place than they started.
Fallout Season 2 Episodes
Welcome to Late Night Retro Television Reviews, a feature where we review some of our favorite and least favorite shows of the past! On Tuesdays, I will be reviewing Pacific Blue, a cop show that aired from 1996 to 2000 on the USA Network! It’s currently streaming everywhere, though I’m watching it on Tubi.
This week, Lt. Palermo has a lot to deal with.
Episode 3.10 “Only In America”
(Dir by Charles Siebert, originally aired on November 9th,1997)
Lt. Palermo has a lot going on in this episode.
When we first see Palermo, he’s playing basketball near the beach. As has been established in the past, Palermo, a middle-aged white guy, is apparently the best basketball player in all of Santa Monica. In this episode, he discovers that he’s now the second best. Jamal Rasheed (Elimu Nelson), who has just moved to town and who spends most of his time sitting in the stands and reading, turns out to be an even better player than Tony Palermo! Palermo is enthusiastic about Jamal until he discovers that Jamal is a former college player who was suspended when it was discovered that he was shaving points to pay for his drug habit. Jamal claims that he’s now clean and that he’s taught himself to read. Palermo isn’t sure that he trusts Jamal …. and if you’re asking how this is any of Palermo’s business, you’re having the same reaction that I had while I watched this episode.
Palermo is also concerned about a young, roller-blading Romanian named Dimitri Radu (Nathan Anderson), who keeps committing crimes and declaring that he has diplomatic immunity. It turns out that Dimitri wants to exchange his diplomatic immunity for political refugee status. Palermo discovers that Dimitri’s father is a big time arms dealer and that his former partners are looking to take out both him and his son. He also learns that the U.S. government is going to give Dimitri’s father citizenship in exchange for him testifying against his partners. Palermo is outraged!
And again, Palermo — you’re a bicycle cop! You wear those stupid shorts every day. Nobody cared about your opinion, dude!
This episode featured some truly horrendous acting on the part of the guest cast. It also featured a shoot-out in which Cory killed one of the arms dealers. Usually, an officer involved shooting would lead to the officer being on desk duty while the shooting is investigated. Instead, Cory hops on her bicycle and continues to look for Dimitri. This was a pretty dumb episode but it’s Pacific Blue so I wasn’t expecting anything different.
Oh, how happy I’ll be when I finish this series.
Welcome to Retro Television Reviews, a feature where we review some of our favorite and least favorite shows of the past! On Tuesdays, I will be reviewing the original Fantasy Island, which ran on ABC from 1977 to 1984. The show is once again on Tubi!
It’s time for one last trip to Fantasy Island.
Episode 7.22 “Surrogate Mother/The Ideal Woman”
(Dir by Don Weis, originally aired on May 19th, 1984)
All things must come to an end. For the original Fantasy Island, the final episode of the seventh season was also the final episode of the series.
The show didn’t get a grand finale. Instead, it was a typical episode with two fantasies. In one fantasy, Charo — yes, Charo — played a woman who had been hired to be a surrogate mother for a childless couple (John Saxon and Juliet Mills). In the other one, Ben Saunders (Shea Farrell) tried to win back his ex-fiancee (Mary Kate McGeehan) while judging a Fantasy Island beauty pageant. (How many pageants did Fantasy Island host?) Two men (Don Galloway and David Sheiner) demanded that Ben pick their girlfriends as the Ideal Woman. (Both of the girlfriends materialized on the Island, one from a painting and one from a block of stone. It was a weird fantasy.) Ben picked his ex, declaring her to be the “ideal woman.” Neither fantasy was great, though I will say that Charo gave a surprisingly sincere performance and it was nice that frequent Fantasy Island guests stars John Saxon and Juliet Mills appeared on the last episode. It was an okay trip to the Island, particularly when compared to some of the other season 7 episodes. Still, the whole thing felt a bit tired.
I have to admit that it’s hard for me to believe that I just reviewed the final episode of the original Fantasy Island. I started reviewing Fantasy Island on September 6th, 2022. It was one of the original shows that I picked for Retro Television Reviews. Now that I’m finishing the show up in 2026, The Love Boat is the only one of my original picks that I still have episodes left to review. I’ll be reviewing The Love Boat for a while.
(To be honest, I’m stunned that I’ve stuck with these reviews. I don’t think anyone was expecting me to get all the way to end of Hang Time, let alone Fantasy Island.)
My thoughts on Fantasy Island? I loved the first four seasons. The fifth season, with its introduction of Julie and it’s frequent side-lining of Tattoo, was when the show started to go downhill. The biggest mistake that the show made was, needless to say, not agreeing to pay whatever was necessary to get Herve Villechaize to come back for season 7. Season 7, the season without Tattoo, felt odd from the start. Christopher Hewett and Ricardo Montalban never had the right chemistry and the stories themselves were largely recycled from earlier episodes. The perfect ending for Fantasy Island would have been the season 6 clip show.
What’s next? On television, Fantasy Island was revived twice. In the 90s, Malcolm McDowell played a version of Mr. Rourke. And then, more recently, there was an attempt to revive it on Fox but, after an enjoyable first season, that show became a self-parody. I may review both of them in the future. For now, though, I’m still considering several shows to start reviewing next week. I’ll reveal my pick next Tuesday!
For now, let us say goodbye to Fantasy Island. Thanks for the laughs, the tears, and the fantasies!
Through the Shattered Lens 