The Beholden Age of Television
My ex told me that if I liked the new season of BoJack Horseman, I might actually not have a soul. That sounded a little severe, so I chalked it up to our separation and the fact that I share unfortunate similarities with the self-destructive cartoon horse who leads the acclaimed Netflix series. But the first three episodes passed in something of a blur, streamed with company on a night when we were all too stoned and focused on our tacos to appreciate the dire stakes of post-celebrity life in Hollywood. I recall episodes four and five even less, though Netflix says I watched them, and I have no reason to doubt this. I was eight minutes or so into the sixth episode, which is hijacked by BoJack’s frayed stream of consciousness, when I realized that I’d hit my limit on the show, now idly scrolling through Twitter as it rumbled onward.
There are good reasons to keep watching BoJack, I think. I loved the earlier seasons, of course; I get a kick out of the bracing dialogue and Lisa Hanawalt’s animal character design. Principally, though, I had come to feel like I owed the series something — that I had to keep going, as if I would…
