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But here we are, decades later, settled in like fond relatives, familiar with all of the show’s tropes and gambits, its Mytharc and occult symbology the lore ore of amateur and academic study, its opening theme strumming the chords of nostalgia.The flesh and spirit—theirs, ours—hang heavier and there's no going back to the debutante ball.I’m all for fun and have the Hawaiian shirt to prove it, but I thought it was only spottily amusing and by the end a flapping nuisance, stuck in its own pastiche as if to flypaper.Everything about it seemed tackily overdone and distended, from the taxidermy decor of that Bates Motel/ lodge to Mulder’s spazzy snapping of his phone camera to the Kolchak lizard man’s origin-story monologue, which had all the impact of an impacted molar. Yes, the tackiness was part homage to B-movie studio backlot monster tales (you could practically see the zipper or seam on the back of the lizard outfit as it high-tailed into the woods), but once imbued classic horror with the menace and dread of something bigger brooding and breeding behind the dank walls.It would be the same if Joss Whedon were to convene the gang for a is some dashing disappointment or demoralizing letdown.It isn’t, and perhaps the next three episodes will lift the nose of the plane and send it into another miniseries run.
Its original spell, its enveloping narcotic pull, was an unrecoverable, unrepeatable compound of the pre-9/11 jitters, Mark Snow’s machine-tooled whistling theme music, the often mist-hung, melancholic Vancouver locations, the inspired partnering of two contrasting characters played by two smart, attractive actors—David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson—who didn’t trail of heavy associations into their roles and evolved as the series evolved, a blessed conjunction of writing and directing talents steered by series creator Chris Carter’s vision.If a space beam of light projected from the final three episodes this go-round bleach my brain and make me an apostate, a reborn believer, I will recant in a follow-up post.resurrection mini-series with a look of amused stupefaction, not an easy look to master, even for someone who trained at Comedie Francaise, until they winkled out that I wasn’t officially “enrolled.” The online consensus, that cloudbank of congealment, was that the debut episode of Chris Carter’s reunion reboot, “My Struggle,” was a clanger of overexposition and -emoting (with this I concur); episode two, “Founder’s Mutation,” was an improvement (agree, but only by comparison, otherwise it was a routine churner); and the third, “Mulder and Scully Meet the Were-Monster” (a very Abbott & Costello title), the best thus far.Not just the best, but one that redeemed the revival series, a fun throwback to the glory days of FBI agents Mulder and Scully’s questing partnership, full of Easter eggs and fond echoes (Mulder’s credo “I want to believe” said with a plaintive lilt).
The ratings will certainly support that—they’ve been sensational. Fans may start out embracing a show or film franchise with the same vanguard zeal as its creators but partisanship turns into possessiveness and the rebel impulses become conservative once fans become keepers and custodians of the storied temple. But creators have to show the fans who’s boss, being willing to thwart or confound their expectations in order to go either further out or deeper in.
Based on what I see on social media, fans (X-philes) are very happy with Mulder and Scully together again, poking their flashlights into dark rooms to rescue Nancy Drew from abductors unknown. Fans crave comfort food for the eyes to remind them of the pleasures they enjoyed before, in the first blush of enthusiasm. The herky-jerkiness of the first three episodes did neither, establishing only the continuing epiphany that is Gillian Anderson’s votive-candle incandescence.