Black Mirror, me and hype.
So, I keep catching these adverts that are all spooky and
sinister and intimating psychologically thrilling plotlines. Excellent. Reel me
in.
Great opening – a nice, awkward and real relationship
(albeit with some slightly unhinged but now conveniently dead parents). Fine.
Question: why has the bloke got an Irish accent if he grew
up in England? Even if both his parents had, he wouldn’t. I should know – my
very English son surprises everyone, given that I have a recognisable twang
myself. And by way of the latter, I love to hear a good regional accent, or
better, an actor using their own regional accent in any programme, but can’t
the writer spare one teeny plot point to make it credible?
So, he dies, wifey is distraught, friend recommends weirdo ‘project’
to help. Now here’s where the wee brain goes into hyperdrive. What is the
purpose of the ‘project’? How is it supposed to help – as the friend said it
would?
I’m imaging some sort of 21st century techno
grief counselling: supply you with a shadow of your other half to comfort you
while you process your loss, until you are in a place on that journey where to
recognise them as a shadow is in itself, part of your healing. Then it all ends
and you move on. Great job, excellent service.
No. They had to go and make marshmallow man: a rehydrated
blow-up doll of your loved one. Eeew!
Once you’ve left him there to, em, inflate, hydrate…and when
he’s done it well enough – shag!
Now, I’m working hard on ignoring the fact that blow-up dead
other has returned as a plastic Aspie, and trying really hard to believe he
doesn’t smell sickly sweet – which has to be better than sickly – even so…wanted
to laugh when the sister commended her for moving on (in what must have been
weeks if she failed to notice her pregnant state!)
It gets interesting for a while,
as dummy absorbs and regurgitates more convincing bits of speech and ‘memory’. (Still
not sure if I’m glad there is little video footage of me on the planet or not –
who knows what marshmallow me would be?) And wifey has more to process and struggle
with -and when she takes him to Beachy
Head (why does every location in a movie of the South have access to Beachy
Head?? I’d have jumped Ramsgate or Dover equally, I know Hove and Bogner are a
bit flat…) I finally believe her – and, no, his pretend crying would not have
worked. It should have ended there. She should have made him jump – and if distraught,
jumped herself. That might have meant something.
BIG CRINGE. The ‘epilogue’.
Marshmallow man lives in attic and eats cake – but only on weekends!!!!!
No techno grief counselling
working there then. I fear I expect too much of the future…
