I probably shouldn’t feel this way, should instead relish the amazing technology I have at my fingertips, but most of the time I hate Netflix. Specifically Netflix’s whole instant viewing thing. It sucks me in for hours, days, weeks, and then it spits me back out again when my brain simply shuts down from awesomeness overload. Stupid, effing Netflix.
But the moments when I love it, I really love it. I get all of my British shows, all of my cancelled favorites, amazing entertainment just a click away for a low monthly fee. I can either lose myself in it or keep it on as background noise, but either way, Netflix has become my daily bosom companion, and I resent my relationship with it. Resent it, I tell you.
[Netflix starts packing its suitcase.]
Wait, no! Don’t go. Please. I…I can’t…I can’t live without you. I can’t breathe. Please. Put down the boxer-briefs.
(Because you totally know Netflix wears boxer-briefs. That sexy beast.)
I do, however, appreciate all that Netflix has given me when I can use it as insta-inspiration for blog posts, like this one and like the one I put up over at Wonk-O-Mance today:
When considering our wonk manifesto, you’ll note that we’ve said we prefer heroes and heroines who are strange: physically, psychologically, emotionally, and what have you. After watching a decade’s worth of lusciously accented spies run around diffusing terrorist plots and keeping England safe from all threats, I can tell you I have never watched a show quite so filled with strange. Spies have been given a bad alpha rap, thanks to the arrogantly chauvinistic James Bond; the spooks of Mr. Bond’s brother organization, MI-5, are the most broken band of merry men (and women, though I don’t profile their admitted amazingness here) ever represented on television.
This drama provided grotesque scenes of torture, at one time making waves when actor Richard Armitage agreed to be filmed being waterboarded in the seventh season, in relation to his character’s stint in a Russian prison. It showed various actors suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, in the form of flashbacks, nightmares, and crying jags so intense they ended up heaving over a toilet. Sex is used as manipulation, as reparation, as an expression of grief, desperation, lust, love. These intelligence officers frequently—and understandably—break down, and then they shore themselves back up in order to give everything of themselves in sacrifice to the safety of their country. They watch people die. They die.
They are without doubt heroes, damaged and bruised. They are not James Bond.
There were shout-outs to at least five television series instantly watchable on Netflix in that post. Possibly more. All of which were/are in my queue. And dammit, isn’t that indicative of some kind of sickness?
[Netflix sighs, heads for door.]
No! No, please! Don’t go! I love you! I love you…
[Netflix pauses. An error message pops up, indicating that the browser needs to be refreshed. I manically, frantically restart Google Chrome.]
Yup. Definitely a sickness.