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‘Black Mirror’: Hooked on a Title

Despite its foreboding, dystopian portraits of cutting-edge tech, ‘Black Mirror’ depends on such innovations to exist. Its title advises prudence, however.

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Black Mirror‘s title beautifully condenses what the show is about. Two words are enough to conjure up a mood and inspire visions of what may happen if our digital dreams go awry: implants that store memories for later undiluted recollection, videogames played inside our minds, societies ruled by social media popularity, or people’s consciousnesses turned into smart-building apps.

Each episode begins with a loading screen, a white circle on a black background that metamorphoses into the title. Throughout this brief sequence, a disturbing noise ratchets up into a heartbeat flatline. This sustained tone shatters the glass, inevitably reminding us of the physical screens in front of us. As Charlie Brooker wrote for The Guardian, back in 2011, “The ‘black mirror’ of the title is the one you’ll find on every wall, on every desk, in the palm of every hand: the cold, shiny screen of a TV, a monitor, a smartphone.” Now that the show is on Netflix, it’s readily available on all these “black mirrors,” making us uneasy about the same tools enabling our binge-watching.

For the cold, shiny screens to function as black mirrors, they must be turned off. But even then, or especially then, they survey us from the walls of our living rooms. We’re reflected in their surfaces, trapped in their frames. When we turn them on, our reflections recede behind the light, become indistinct, yet we’re still there – or we used to be.

Mirrors of all sorts have long been seen as objects of magic or – to quote Daffy Duck in “Rabbit Seasoning” – as pronoun trouble. They blur the boundaries between I, he, she, and they, our reflections both us and not us. In his famous short story “Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius,” Jorge Luis Borges writes, “From the remote depths of the corridor, the mirror spied upon us. We discovered (…) that mirrors have something monstrous about them. Then Bioy Casares recalled that one of the heresiarchs of Uqbar had declared that mirrors and copulation are abominable, because they increase the number of men.” Mirrors are not the only objects that “increase the number of men.” Fiction does too. In a later short story, “Borges and I,” the author writes, “The other one, the one called Borges, is the one things happen to.” In his books, in the media, and in the history of Argentine letters, a new version of the author had been born, a version that would outlast his physical manifestation. Borges would often feature as a character in his work, and it’s this “other one” who now continues to speak to us, not his mortal twin.

Just as mirrors reflect and multiply us, so can storytelling, whether we author it or find ourselves drawn to its characters, those who become extensions of us. The monitor in our living room includes our opaque reflection; the show’s protagonists, struggling with technology, remind us of our own troubles. This double likeness – on the physical screen and the fictional narrative – bridges both sides of the mirror. In other words, the show folds the act of watching it into its overall meaning. This was the idea behind season 3’s cheeky Netflix Vista faux-ad, which lampoons our obsession with the streaming service by imagining a future where, thanks to special implants and AR-enabling contact lenses, we’re consuming TV series all day, every day.

Of course, mirrors don’t offer perfect reproductions; something is always slightly askew. Another world, like our own – but twisted – awaits on the other side, as Alice discovered in Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking Glass, or as the protagonists did in Goosebump’s Let’s Get Invisible! In this sense, Brooker’s show inverts our presence – and our present. All the dysfunction hiding beneath our daily habits is brought out into the open. Like the twisted worlds of mirrors, the screened reality is instantly recognizable and unspeakably odd. We’re not looking at what is, but what could be.

The practice of viewing things through a gloomy, cloudy mirror has Biblical resonances. Specifically, in the King James Bible, in 1 Corinthians 13, we read: “For now we see through a glass, darkly.” The word “glass” is a tad ambiguous here, but more modern translations, like the New Revised Standard Version, call it a “mirror.” Admittedly, this one isn’t exactly black. It’s likely made of polished bronze, perhaps a little dim or rusty. And it doesn’t reveal the nightmarish underbelly of our daily habits, as argued above, but rather conceals a full view of divinity, which can only be known “in part” from our terrestrial realm. Nevertheless, we can still recognize faint echoes of Black Mirror’s more secular themes: a mediated existence, a life lived in a shadowy reflection, a replacement reality on a murky surface.

Historical black mirrors, as Arnaud Maillet notes in his book about their significance in Western art, have been used for necromancy and catoptromancy, believed to be a source of errors and illusions, connected to death and transgressiveness. They have also been part of painters’ kits. In the 18th and 19th centuries, picturesque artists, in an effort to recapture the tones of Claude Lorrain’s crepuscular 17th century works, took to using tinted, pocket-size convex mirrors, later labeled “Claude mirrors,” which weren’t always black or the same shape and size, but which usually served to delimit and focus a scene, simplify detail, and bring out desired colors. As Jazmina Barrera writes for Faena Aleph, these “were not famous for reflecting reality as it is; they were famous for improving it.” 19th century art critic John Ruskin was somewhat less impressed, calling it “one of the most pestilent inventions for falsifying Nature and degrading art which was ever put into an artist’s hand.” When employing a black or Claude mirror, artists turned their backs on the portrayed scene and reproduced its reflection. If we were to be uncharitable, we might say, following Ruskin, that this gadget signaled a retreat from truth, an attempt to find inspiration not in nature but in its optical mutation.

This attitude, though, has the drawback of being supremely boring and sanctimonious, at least from a modern perspective. Instead, some artists have found in the Claude mirror a tool that’s still relevant in our digital era. A Dutch studio, headed by designers Jon Stam and Simon de Bakker, recently crafted a time-travelling version of the Claude glass, which consists of an LCD screen with a darkened landscape that users interact with by turning it clockwise and speeding through days and seasons. In this piece, both black mirrors, Brooker’s and Claude’s, become one and the same. A similar point is made in “The Transient Glance: The Claude mirror and the Picturesque,” a research project by scholar Suzanne Matheson and artist Alex McCay, which sought, in part, to liberate the antique instrument “from the museum cabinet and send it back into the world, amusingly at a time in which its relationship to handheld DVC and LCD panel devices is increasingly obvious.” As part of this project, McCay installed a Claude mirror in front of Tintern Abbey in Wales, and webcammed the unfolding imagery. As both collaborators point out on their website, “the Claude mirror transforms the view from what it looks like to how it ought to look. Linking the mirror as we do with contemporary popular culture, tourism, snapshots, web-based security and surveillance technology, exposes the on-going mediation of nature through technologies of vision.”

There’s a two-pronged argument here: an embrace of mediation running alongside a cautionary message. All technologies of vision reveal some things and distort others. The point of the research project is not that we should seek out the Really Real beyond our technological tools, but that we shouldn’t forget that the act of mediation is always there – and that, perhaps, there is no other way to approach nature. That’s the ultimate theme of Black Mirror. Despite its foreboding, dystopian portraits of cutting-edge tech, it depends on such innovations to exist. Rather than vying for a nostalgic return to pre-digital times, it advises prudence. We can’t turn back, but we should be careful moving forward, lest we fall into a trap. And this warning necessarily comes from within our online present, because that’s where the battle is being fought.

Guido Pellegrini was born in Spain. At the age of three, he decided that Europe would not be the only continent to endure him. He traveled to Argentina and spent his childhood there, confusing his classmates with his strange Spanish accent. Several years later, just when he was getting the hang of Argentinean, he set his sights on California, where he would annoy a host of new classmates with his awkward English. In particular, his classmates were stumped on Argentina's actual location, and estimates ranged from Europe to Asia and even Africa. Almost never, however, South America. As Guido became older, he finally began to master the English language, until he became nostalgic for emigration, of all things, and moved again, now back to Argentina, where Guido has continued to confuse and annoy his classmates and acquaintances, who now struggle with his Spanish-Argentine-American hybrid accent and word usage. At any rate, he's technically a journalist with an English major. You know, the worst.

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‘The World According to Jeff Goldblum’ is a Quirky and Oddly Engrossing Worldview of Modern Culture

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Disney Plus launched on November 12th to the general public and with it came ten new pilot episodes for upcoming original shows including Star Wars: The Mandalorian and Pixar In Real Life. Out of all the original television series to debut on opening day, one strikingly stands out from the rest: a quirky National Geographic docuseries featuring Jurassic Park and Thor: Ragnarok actor Jeff Goldblum that was initially going to air on the television channel before switching over to the digital streaming service.

In the mouse’s newest selection of shows for their Netflix Competitor, variety can be the key to the foundation of building something successful and The World According to Jeff Goldblum might just hit the sweet spot for what this service needs, but it is still notably something that would never be labeled as a reason to buy into Disney Plus. With that being said, viewing a regular conversation with Jeff Goldblum has never been so engrossing before than in this odd gem of a series.

Goldblum Versus The World

The pilot episode of the series turns Goldblum into a comedic ethnographer who indulges himself in the culture of shoe collectors and creators. Goldblum slowly dives into his worldview of the purpose and significance of the common day footwear, while looking into how the business operates and the passion behind those who proclaim shoes to the highest extent. The pilot episode focuses on a theme of revelation while jumping from different specialists within the culture such as basketball teams, business owners, creators, and even YouTube personalities.

If you are a fan of the actor then you should already except what you are about to watch. Goldblum has his typical quirky and childish mannerisms that make him iconic, while he goes around interacting with a vast selection of people who are widely educated about the subject matter that each half-hour episode focuses on. Despite seeming like a show that can easily become a bore to watch, it never loses steam and becomes an exceptionally well-executed documentary with a flair of humor and spice of knowledge thanks to Goldblum’s mesmerizing appearance.

From the perspective of becoming an ethnographer, Goldblum surprisingly does a good job interacting with an audience he typically would never engage with. He never misses a beat as he proceeds to ask serious questions and of course, make humor out of certain situations when appropriate. Never once does he provocatively attempt to embarrass a group of people for mindless entertainment or make fools out of them like other docuseries on specific cultures have.

In fact, Goldblum goes the extra mile to participate in sneaker conventions, recreational basketball games, and even professional science laboratory visits- taking on the tasks that a legitimate ethnographer would have to engage in. All of his crazy yet conventional doings ultimately pays off into what ends up building a captivating show that may even attract audiences who do not care about anything that is being discussed. Goldblum’s personality will miraculously keep you hooked on his wild journeys through everyday life as he attempts to explain his stance on common objects while plunging into a perspective of life he has never once stepped into.

Science, Psychology, and Style

This is a National Geographic production though, after all. It is no surprise that this series would be injected with a relentless amount of historical knowledge that is slowly seeping into the core of the show. In the pilot episode, Goldblum combines science, psychology, and of course eccentric style to form a captivating presentation that is quite unlike any other docuseries. For example, in the pilot episode alone Goldblum covers how shoes work, why the category of clothing is so popular among shoe collectors, and the different art styles of footwear found throughout shoe brands.

That being said, for a series revolving around such a simple concept, there is a substantial amount of content to actually talk about and the production value here is unnecessarily high- hitting that Disney expected production value to the point where its astonishingly remarkable how much passion was actually put into this series. From the editing to the cinematography, this is certainly something that was not made without passion. On-screen graphics are always welcomely flashy, lighting is constantly up to pristine quality, and the focus always remains on the title actor.

Goldblum’s consistent upbeat pazazz and high energy makes this series not only entertaining and relaxing to watch for his comedic appearance, but for an enjoyable source of overall education- something that most other docuseries tend to struggle with when multitasking multiple genres.

The Pursuit of Happiness

Is The World According to Jeff Goldblum worthy of being called a reason to purchase Disney Plus? Absolutely not. Is it worth watching on an empty afternoon though? Unsurprisingly yes. This is a fun family series that is not only educational regarding subject-matter but educational to learn more about Jeff Goldblum himself. Without the big-name actor though it would be hard to imagine why anyone would ever want to watch this series.

Goldblum’s presence allows this series to become a notable piece of content available on the streaming service, however, without him, it would be nothing but another typical documentary series with no real focus. It is entertaining until the very end and is keen on ending off on a positive punchline to keep you coming back next time. Simply put, it is another great addition to Disney Plus’s colossal lineup that will seemingly never stop producing high-quality content.

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The Mandalorian’s First Episode is an Impressively Lush, Spaghetti Western-inspired Introduction to its World

The Mandalorian Season 1 Episode One Review: “Chapter One”

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The Mandalorian Chapter One

George Lucas famously took inspiration from Akira Kurosawa’s The Hidden Fortress when first writing his treatment of what was then titled The Star Wars; it’s pretty much why we spend the first twenty minutes of A New Hope with R2-D2 and C3-PO. He also used many of its shot compositions, but ultimately reconstituted the pastiche through a unique, worn science fantasy style into what we collectively recognise as Star Wars: A New Hope. In the ensuing four decades, the Star Wars franchise has looked well beyond Kurosawa for its cinematic language, channeling everything from gangster movies to political thrillers to survival horror to wuxia through its peculiar galactic design.

Now, to the delight of everyone who has ever wanted Star Wars to be a Western since seeing gunslinger Boba Fett, The Mandalorian is here to satisfy under auspices of director Dave Filoni.

That “Chapter One” is a meditative and deliberate character study where nothing extraordinary happens, and yet is still riveting, suggests that The Mandalorian will be a complex and thoughtful offering.

The first episode, titled “Chapter One,” is a tale of two halves, and within those halves are two different Sergio Leone spaghetti westerns. As with that genre, the exposition is minimal; yet, accepting the basic conceit as one does with a Western — in this case, the eponymous Mandalorian (forever the ‘Mando’ with No Name, played by Pedro Pascal) is a gun-toting bounty hunter who goes around chasing renegades — the rest is parsed out. Given the series is so stylistically steeped in that heritage, it is fruitful to analyse The Mandalorian in the context of its spaghetti western influences.

The Mandalorian strides toward town amid a flurry of snow

The opening moments find the Mandalorian checking a transponder on some icy planet amidst a sleet storm, then ambling towards some podunk outpost framed by a wide shot, in much the way Stony the gunman did in the beginning of Once Upon A Time In The West. The subsequent scene, in a bar, reflects Once Upon A Time In The West’s saloon confrontation as well — if not for the actual exchanges, then for the chiaroscuro contrast in the set lighting, the cutting to the other patrons’ reaction to accentuate unease, and the close-ups of all involved. Composer Ludwig Göransson even tries for something akin to the famous aching harmonica, but lower-pitched with woodwinds.

Unlike Cheyenne and Harmonica in Leone’s masterpiece, “Chapter One” sees the Mandalorian break the tension by breaking a few heads, as he quickly comes to collect his target fugitive: a blue-gilled alien named Mythrol (Horatio Sanz), who immediately tries to talk his way out of it. This is one of many naturally-lit, seated conversations that frame the episode, with each successively coaxing a little more emotion from the initially silent Mandalorian. It’s a simple but effective technique, providing expositional context for the uninitiated, introducing the other starring actors, and it ultimately suggests a nuanced character beneath that blank helmet.

The affable-yet-blubbering Mythrol’s juxtaposing role in “Chapter One” efficiently emphasises how imposing the bounty hunter is. For example, Mythrol is a terrified wreck as the Mandalorian clinically dispatches a giant, scaly walrus called Ravinak. His nervous yammering in the face of the Mandalorian’s austere silence aboard the starship makes his request to “evacuate a thorax” far more intimidating. And when Mythrol inevitably tries to plan his escape, the Mandalorian appears like a phantom, mercilessly freezing him in carbonite (but not before Mythrol laments that he won’t be seeing his family by “Life Day”…The Star Wars Holiday Remake, coming to Disney+ this December). To his enemies, this Mandalorian is as much of a frigid void as carbonite.

Werner Herzog talks to The Mandalorian

To his employers, however, he is marginally more talkative. Carl Weathers as Greef Carga, a bounty hunter guild-master and form of bail bondsman, along with Werner Herzog (presumably as “Werner Herzog”), have sparse, largely expositional dialogue, but both immediately create an engaging dynamic with the Mandalorian on the strength of their acting. Weathers especially makes the most of deviously trying to pass off Imperial Credits in the aftermath of the defunct Galactic Empire; the mixture of indignation and exasperation when exclaiming, “They still spend!” is perfect. Werner Herzog essentially just has to intone in his distinctive German accent, but clad in black and surrounded by ex-Stormtrooper bodyguards, it’s no wonder that the Mandalorian is unsettled by his new client’s dubious proposition.

However, the fortune he will be paid in Beskar — the metal alloy used in Mandalorian armour that was ostensibly robbed by the Empire from the Mandalorian homeworld — allows him to ignore the obliquely threatening idea that it is “good to restore the natural order of things after a period of such disarray.”

These conversations are interspersed with brief vignettes of the Mandalorian walking about town ignoring roasted and caged Kowakian monkey-lizards, or through dark alleyways and halls, observed by other mute bounty hunters, which serves to distance him from the liveliness of the society. One gets the feeling that he is less troubled in the desolate plains of foreign planets, or in the cold steel of his spaceship.

Leone’s spaghetti westerns were enriched by a masterful, atmospheric craftsmanship that complemented the profoundly beautiful composition of the cinematography; in that vein, “Chapter One” is very much a pensive tonal piece over anything else, happy to leave much to situational subtext while lingering on that inscrutable helmet.

Only once does the episode pierce through the mask to the man behind it, with disorientating flashbacks to the childhood trauma punctuated by the triggering anvil strikes of a newly minted shoulder plate from the Beskar ingot he received as down-payment.

The Mandalorian walks through to the blacksmith

Each interaction — with his victims, his superiors, his equals — makes the Mandalorian slightly more forthcoming, more human, and less robotic, like the droids he so detests. Credit should be given to Pedro Pascal and his doubles’ physical acting. As the Mandalorian’s emotions come increasingly to the fore, Pascal’s physical demeanour and movements become less constricted, and instead grow more loping and loose. Now that his shoulder plate signet is ceremonially fitted onto his ensemble, it will be interesting to see how the rest of this season explores the broken man occupying the armour, and whether it is a protective halo to suppress his nightmares, or a cage for reawakening humanity.

With humanity comes fallibility, and while the second half of “Chapter One” mirrors the beginning of the first — with a transponder held aloft — here The Mandalorian transitions to its second Leone work, A Fistful of Dollars. Almost immediately after he steps onto the planet’s surface, the Mandalorian nearly has his arm ripped off by a bipedal fish-headed monster called a “Blurrg.” He genuinely becomes “The Mando with No Name,” because Clint Eastwood’s “Stranger” in the Dollars Trilogy couldn’t take a punch either, despite being a fantastic gunman. It’s also possibly the first time a feted, cool, masked Star Wars character anticlimactically getting knocked about hasn’t infinitely diminished the allure; rather, it acts as a reminder of the tenuousness of their line of work. It only took thirty-six years, but Star Wars has finally cracked the “Boba Fett Syndrome.”

The Mandalorian is rescued by Nick Nolte’s pig-faced Kuiil, whose facial hair is alike José Calvo’s helpful innkeeper, Silvanito, in A Fistful of Dollars. Kuiil plays a similar role to Silvanito, feeding and resting the Mandalorian, then guiding him to where the bandits are hiding. There is a shot of the two looking down over a ridge to observe the bandits that echoes Eastwood and Calvo watching the massacre of Mexican soldiers.  

Mando and Kuiil talk about the situation

The closing act of “Chapter One,” as one would expect for a Western, is a shootout (heavily promoted in the previews). Things are complicated, however, by the presence of the unintentionally deadpanning bounty hunter murder-bot, IG-11 (voiced by Taika Waititi), who shoots before he asks questions like whether the Mandalorian is also part of the bounty hunter’s guild. However, the two team up in order to try to kill the bandits and split the reward. In a true sign of growth, the Mandalorian goes from dismissing droid landspeeder taxi drivers at the start of the episode to repeatedly stopping IG-11 from initiating self-destruction. It’s a darkly funny scene, and like most of the episode, is tonally on point amidst gunfire.

In general, the comedic style in “Chapter One” is comparable to the Original Trilogy in its understated and wry sensibility. The comedy is indicative of larger reassuring qualities that the episode possesses: it is atmospherically, thematically, and tonally cogent. This returns us to the discussion at the start of the review, and poses a question: with the variety of genres Star Wars has subsumed, one can reasonably ask, what is Star Wars “supposed” to be? And therefore, does The Mandalorian feel like Star Wars?

Lest this be mistaken for some covert screed about agendas and ruined childhoods, it is an important question, because it is one that Star Wars has been asking itself since at least 1999, when The Phantom Menace first arrived with its diplomatic negotiations and midichlorians. During Dave Filoni’s show-running and development of The Clone Wars and later Rebels, physical and mystical manifestations of The Force were introduced. Rebels even had time-travel! Rogue One had moral turpitude and bleakness.

Relating to comedy, Lawrence Kasdan’s script made The Force Awakens probably the most overtly comical Star Wars film to date. Meanwhile, one of the frequent criticisms levied at the divisive The Last Jedi was that the so-called “gag humour” pushed things too far for Star Wars. So The Mandalorian and “Chapter One” arrives at a crucial, but not unusual moment in helping to set standards for what Star Wars is — or more accurately, illustrating what it could be.

The Mandalorian Chapter One

For that reason, having Dave Filoni direct the first episode of this venture into live-action television was a smart decision. Some shot compositions are deceptively beautiful in their clarity, the mark of a masterful animator who appreciates the importance of artistic staging and creating coherent lines of focus. Furthermore, at this point, Filoni may have contributed more hours to Star Wars canon than George Lucas himself. As Lucas’ padawan, he has a firm grasp of navigating the tonal and shifts within the realm of Star Wars, while still having learnt the core tenets of the series directly from the source.

However, he has frankly executed those ideas with more panache than Lucas managed post-1999. At a time when legions of people are imposing upon the franchise some decades-worth of expectations of what they believe a galaxy far far away should be and represent, The Mandalorian is a nexus of both traditional Star Wars adventure and pushing it towards what fans always imagined the imperfect films to be. That “Chapter One” is a meditative and deliberate character study where nothing extraordinary happens, and yet is still riveting, suggests that The Mandalorian will be a complex and thoughtful offering.

That was a lie about nothing extraordinary happening. There is one revelation at the very end that serves as a brilliant hook for the next episode and has ramifications for Star Wars as a whole. Suffice to say, it brings the Mandalorian’s arc in “Chapter One” to a thematically interesting place that is consistent with his burgeoning humanity. The consequences will surely propel the conflicts for the rest of the season, and it’s the sort of momentous event that gives renewed hope the tumultuous times Star Wars finds itself in won’t be the death of its potential inventiveness as a galaxy-wide lens for exploring compelling concepts.

Other Thoughts/Observations:

The Mandalorian and Greef Carga’s conversation references Star Wars: Underworld, the unproduced live-action series George Lucas had proposed and commissioned purportedly fifty scripts for, and the main reason why he made Clone Wars in the first place — to see if Star Wars was viable on a television budget.

Armourer (Emily Swallow) has an interesting Mandalorian costume that mixes a Viking fur cloak and a cross between a Corinthian and Trojan helmet. Also, watching two Mandalorians sit across from each other, barely speaking with neither removing their helmets, is the sort of awkward visual comedy I hope we see more of amongst these reserved bounty hunters.

Kuiil witheringly chastising the Mandalorian that his ancestors rode “Mythosaurs” and he can barely mount a Blurrg was funny.

Similarly, Brian Posehn’s taxi driver showing up in a spluttering, barely functioning landspeeder was a good joke. They also got a wide-shot landspeeder and screen-wipe in! It’s like poetry!

The CGI for the Blurrgs was generally good, but the combination of the bright daylight and their smooth skin texture made the effect much more obvious than others. Still, we’ve come a long way from staccato creatures incongruously inserted into the Original Trilogy. Also, IG-11 looks so photorealistic!

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Before the Internet

Watchmen Podcast: Breaking Down “If You Don’t Like My Story, Write Your Own”

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Watchmen Podcast If You Don’t Like My Story, Write Your Own

With its fourth episode, titled “If You Don’t Like My Story, Write Your Own,” HBO’s Watchmen examines questions of legacy and inheritance but also leaves the viewers scratching their heads trying to figure out what the series is all about. There are countless jaw-dropping scenes in the fourth episode, but there are also scenes that have didn’t quite work for us. Needless to say, the episode left us somewhat disappointed this week. Tune in and find out why.

Our Watchmen podcast will see Simon Howell and an assortment of guests tackle the entire series (or at least the first season). In this fourth episode, Simon Howell, Kate Rennebohm and Randy Dankievitch, take a deep dive into “If You Don’t Like My Story, Write Your Own” and note some of the more astonishing facts of the episode you might have missed.

And for those of you wondering, in order to keep things simple, we’ve decided to upload each episode to the same feed as our other podcast, Before the Internet.

Listen here on iTunes or listen here on Stitcher. 

You can also catch our show on Pocketcast and on Spotify, or simply listen via the player embedded below.

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