
Murderbot: Episodes 1-2: Review. By Christopher Patterson.
Siri, break up with your boyfriend.
From the first few minutes, I sensed a unexceptionably stale, milk and water production. It’s rather something we have become accustomed to, but regardless, I find needlessly onerous to newer filmmakers: flat lightning, background, effects, costumes, and the la résistance raging against artistic freedom. Simple doesn’t reciprocate bestowed, and I wish our visionaries would gobble the memo. A cheap aesthetic is no aesthetic, it’s unsanitary vandalization of substandard skill. If you’re dish can be best served cold with corporate mediocrity, what does that say of your œuvre.
I can’t recall much of the vaunted Murderbot series, but science fiction chiefly provides the virus. Many so-called writers drink the Kool-Aid and believe a decent story supplements for painful prose, but this entitlement only reaches old fans, never brand-new, incredulous spectators. If you’re show must look like an Apple production rather than by the creators of “American Pie,” then there is no creator, rather those involved. Never has a title (“Murderbot”) been more equitable. Like publishers who get a pagan, moralizing exultation silencing and re-directing the plebeian artist. And I find little to pleasure myself in seeing corporate vapidness. Coup de grâce, Murderbot.
Before the stupendous arrows of mighty brio fall, I am no expert nor am I blue-collar. I am rather a common viewer expecting a more-than common experience. And this is where Murderbot miscarries. I distress that my initial sentiments are feasibly, un-essentially odious and may reflect on my choice of character rather than that of the insipid creators, but I’m sticking to my guns. More effort calls for more respect, and if Murderbot can’t possess this infinitesimal caliber, it has a poor and necessitous bed to lie in. Nevertheless, my hesitance is firmer than my unmitigated resolve. I recognize what it is to be stifled by rugged expectations and being overly and inadvertently demanding, and the show hasn’t even finished serialization. Yet, I want to differentiate this cautious crudeness from the greatest indifference, as I am no confused detractor, nonpartisan, or autocratic practitioner. With gaiety, I follow this cardinal principle: “To value praise or stand in awe of blame we must respect the source whence the praise and blame proceed, and I do not respect an inconsistent critic” (Charlotte Brontë). But when I speak of weekly episodes, I fear the “hypocrisies of the thinker” will get mixed up with the “average development of a constant mind.” We often change our views so opprobriously and swiftly, and entrusting the reader to note to themself without needing a strong notice of indication or vindication of that said fact is crucial.
This is quite far-fetched, but I am compelled to perceive how my opprobrium of Murderbot is eerily interchangeable to my quaint merriment of Jane Austen. Her books, naturally favorites of mine, but as Brontë pointed out, are “a carefully fenced, highly cultivated garden, with neat borders and delicate flowers; but no glance of bright vivid physiognomy, no open country, no fresh air, no blue hill, no bonny beck.” This is not a scratch as, like Dewitt’s The English Understand Wool, a nice little slice of cake hasn’t harmed but a fly. Except when you have too much, then you arrive at a Apple TV production.
While story-telling in television certainly has become more convoluted, notwithstanding its staggering defects, their sets, on the other hand, appear to think low-priced and impecunious is vastly superior. So you will have sci-fi flicks subscribe to every-other, with no consideration of artistic integrity. Murderbot, from a look above the fence, is another undistinguished piece of fantastical space dross. While viewing the two present episodes, one can’t help but find the ghastly robot designs paradoxical to temps itself. How art thou materialize lesser than “I, Robot”?
But, for sanctified fanatics of the novels, I stand unresolved. Albeit, there is lots to love, love and I will admit to a thwarting imperfection of prejudice towards outwardly cheap attractions. If I feel like I am walking in on a production that takes the slogan “who you know, not what you know” in its hiring contract, I stand a little less nepotastic. And it’s hard for me to believe Murderbot was made by the most qualified candidates, given how much it feels like a deft, haut monde executive gave their nephew a imposing deal. But I will rest with the jabs and grievances. And God only knows, I might be wrong. In a couple months, while I find this quote inadequate in its context, it could become amusingly factual: “every case the adverse judgement merely reveals the special limitations or eccentricities of the critic, leaving Jane Austen relatively untouched” (A. Walton Litz). Replace Austen with Murderbot and rename ‘critic’ with yours truly.
To conclude and aspout my abiding word of voluminous venom towards Murderbot, it’s like the unmeritable genre that birthed it and the inferior format it is entering. An acidic baggage of forgetful stomachache. Requires no adequate principals or skill to go in, and intends to merely or ‘nicely’ take your money and leave. It’s superfluous to say it stems from the pukish, puckish, have-your-cake-and-eat-it bag of literature that believes in never galvanizing the reader, but regardless it must be noted and hopefully better noticed. Be the magistrate if it’s worth your time, if you will. It’s too docile to fight for the answer or gusto itself.
But let’s go on to where Murderbot is able. Nobody in the cast took me out of it, so they did the least required of them. No note-worthy dialogue, and reflects a recurrent issue noticeable in that awfully artful awful book of shambles Martyr! last year. It contained, to fight for its repellant relevance here, no authenticity. Everyone spoke like social media, so it lost the respect of my time but not my time itself. Trying to appeal to a contemporary audience by delivering quotes enjoyable to modern delicacies, rather than what you can imagine, is not merely a turn-off but an indication of the “objective” excellence that creative can bring. If you can’t think of simple things, how do you imagine receiving smaller prizes? I can envision they hired someone to make the negligible dialogue “appropriate” and in turn light-weight, but that’s, in all likelihood, exclusive to the books. I recall the word ‘fluff’ appearing in my mind as I turned those pages.
VERDICT
But alas, I delineate back on unreserved singular condemnations and arbitrary inferiorities. Consequently, as there is two episodes only out, my details I’ve reserved and pledged for a later time, hopefully on a more pragmatic occasion where I can be more succinct, benevolent, and premeditated.
2/5
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