Ten months in, I have yet to watch the box sets of Kurosawa and Kobayashi that a friend kindly gave me, or to subscribe to Criterion to catch up on a treasure trove of art films and director interviews. The few features I’ve watched have quickly faded from memory, pushed out by the corona virus, the election and its horrific aftermath, and the loss of several friends (to cancer, not Covid19). Increasingly, I find serious films, even those I'm interested in—“Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom” for example—watchable only in segments. Anything sad or traumatic is consumable in small doses only.
I’ve done better with series on Netflix, Amazon and Hulu, but for every quality show like “The Crown” and “The Queen’s Gambit”, there have been a slew of dubious ones. Conspiracy theories, true crime and, the holidays are now my jam. My high-minded former self would be dismayed. Sometimes during mediocre French cop show or a German or Norwegian Christmas rom-com, my current self wonders: why am I watching this?
This week during “Bridgerton”, a show I had previously vowed to ignore, I’ve wondered what am I watching? What seemed a modernist Regency rom-com has quickly morphed into a sexually explicit bodice-ripper about a couple whose only common trait is their dullness, whether they’re naked or dressed. Yet “Bridgerton" gives me something to glance up at while doom-scrolling and playing Words With Friends, so it stays on.
Fortunately, there are far better shows that offer me respite from reality. “Killing Eve” lets me imagine being a psychopathic hit woman, while “The Durrells in Corfu” transports me to Greece between the Wold Wars. “Seaside Hotel” boasts a historical setting—coastal Denmark from the mid-1920s to the eve of World War II—and a charming group of guests who arrive every summer for another round of adventures. As a bonus, the hotel serves impressive food. There’s also the foreign language aspect: after four seasons of “Seaside Hotel" (and another show “Rita”, before it), I now understand some Danish.
Just before New Year’s, I was startled by the unexpected 8pm arrival of a man charged with repainting the street number on my curb. “Gosh, I called weeks ago,” I said, having nearly forgotten about it. “It’s the pan-demic, Ma’am,” he said, an explanation that sums up my viewing choices.