I thoroughly enjoyed watching Sarah Newlin get her butt kicked by Ms. Suzuki. That fight scene was fantastic. Of course, I’m disappointed that Mrs. Newlin was triumphant, but it did expose the fatal flaw of high heels. I wish I could say, “That’s why I don’t wear heels! HAHAHAHA! I’m so above you all!” It’s not true, though. I don’t wear heels because I have scoliosis. I’d rather wear pumps, but I’d make it a single step before my spine went cursive.
Fairies may put crystal chandeliers in trees and run a night club that plays only Abney Park, but other than that, all they do is flit around, hiding from vampires and pooping light.
“The one with the crazy hair.” I fail to see what’s so crazy about Nicole’s hair. Oh, right. The werewolf who said that is a racist.
I don’t know if Bill bursting into a fireball was done for comedic effect, but it sure as hell worked for me. That was comedy gold. GOLD. Also, everything Rutger Hauer does is awesome.
Bit players are, by their nature, not around for very long. Last week, I did not lament the fact that it looked like one of the zombies who hitched a ride back to life with Sally was going to eat his girlfriend. This week, I miss neither her, him, nor the third wheel in the ghost-to-flesh triumvirate.
Last week, s*** got real. This week, band-aids, garlic tea (barf) and patchouli for everyone! This is not to say there aren’t some cool things going on, just that the immediate reversal on all the real and awful developments from last week (except in Sally’s plotline) is a step backwards. Progression is a thing for other shows.
The way this show puns on famous songs to title its episodes has been cute so far, but for this episode, it has never been more accurate. Before the hour is out, our three heroes have become walking deserts, as inhospitable within as they are without. A baker’s dozen of Chekov’s guns have been juggled […]
I guess Sally isn’t going to get a good return on that exchange of her soul for the rest of her natural life with the Soup Wiccan. Unless, of course, her natural life is going to be spent rotting, thus fulfilling the assumptions of zombie-ism made by everyone who has learned the truth of Sally’s condition.
There ought to be a corollary to Occam’s Razor such that not only is the simplest answer the truth but that the truth is, inevitably, an easier thing to put out there than to keep creating lies for somebody. I wish I could say that Sally learns this at the cost of her immortal soul, but, come on, this is Sally.