Dave and I just finished watching The Black Donnellys.
I hate what you’ve done to me.
I hate what you’ve done to my life.
I’d really like to rip your throat out.
I know, I know. It’s not your fault. It’s the network. It’s the ratings. The show was too far ahead of its time. Blah. Blah. Blah. All of this is true. Totally and completely true statements. But you know what, Mr. Paul Haggis? You knew it wouldn’t last more than a season by the second half of the first episode. You knew you had a limited amount of time to tell this story. And you knew it would be rediscovered.
Yet you did it anyway. You ended it on that note. Left us all just hanging, meting out the barest of minimal details for us to haphazardly piece together some semblance of resolution, in the very leanest definition of the word.
It’s almost a hate crime on the psyche of the American viewing audience. I feel violated. You violated me, Mr. Haggis. You took my interest and my time, made me care – deeply – for those Donnelly brothers, shoved it all in a blender, and smeared the resulting concoction on the soles of your feet before dancing a jig on broken glass.
How dare you, sir. How dare you.
J, your most reluctant, ravenous fan.
P.S. That whole “rip your throat out” part was an exaggeration, if only slightly.
P.P.S. In case you couldn’t tell, Reader Dear, this is a rousing recommendation. You should totally watch this show. I mean it. Right now.