It felt like a miracle: a new show with two whole seasons on Netflix during New York’s blizzard.
Like a few other people I know (my parents and June Thomas), I fell in love with The 100. Now I am not saying The 100 is Outlander good, but . . . have you been yearning for a mashup of BSG, Lord of the Flies, The Hunger Games, Lost and quite a few other shows of various genres?
They’re stuck in space, until a group of teens comes to Earth to see if the post-nuclear air is survivable and . . . you can can probably put together the rest of the plot. This show’s strength is not originality. But in a world of fan fic and endless reboots I am surprised by how rarely people get bricolage right. The 100 is kind of like the new Star Wars in that it reuses all the good stuff and dispenses with the rest.
What to expect:
- A feminist ethic so deeply entrenched in the DNA of the show that it never asks you to congratulate its effort
- hot hot teenage love triangles (if you are a person who is not looking for Dawson’s Creek in space, you should know that after the first 5 episodes it loses some of its YA camp)
- some pretty weak production design (it gets stronger in season 2 and 3 when the budget increased)
- Season 2 loses a little momentum by borrowing from a terrible season of a terrible show–The Governor season of The Walking Dead. But my passion for Season 1 kept me going, and Season 3 is rewarding my patience
- Adult level pathos around issues of leadership, cultural relativism, and trauma