If I were a writer on this show, which I’m very clearly not as of now, that kid would have been bald as a kneecap by episode two. With many other aspects of this season, it seems as if there could be more to this, but who knows? If Alma actually gets through Red Tide without turning into a Pale Person or some other kind of “punishment” for being the actual worst, much could be left dangling in the well of unfished possibilities. Ursula doesn’t give a crap about much other than the black pills that will, she hopes, provide her with a client roster of cash cows. She doesn’t get to dwell on this deception for long, though, because Ursula (Leslie Grossman) is inexplicably at her bedside holding her baby while sporting a full face of Cruella makeup to highlight that, no, she’s not up to anything good. Don’t tell me you didn’t think “pads” too.īack at their rental in Provincetown, it finally dawns on Doris that Harry and Alma didn’t go back to New York as they said they would. Second, you’re also bad for the environment at this moment on top of it all because instead of wasting all those little cups, you could have just gnawed on the bloody towels like a clump of used pads. Once his son is out of his wife’s womb, Harry absconds to the restroom with a batch of soiled towels soaked with his son’s blood and squeezes them into a series of Dixie cups. At the top of the episode, we see Doris (Lily Rabe) amid a difficult labor, sweating and straining, while her husband, Harry (Finn Wittrock), sits beside her doing some sweating and straining of his own as he tries his best not to suckle off his own baby’s umbilical-cord fragment. This baby isn’t from hell, but it was indeed born into it. If we can dip into the world of Rosemary’s Baby (1968) long enough to draw a comparison, the newborn child at the center of that story was the spawn of actual Satan, while the baby in this show, tentatively named Eli, is the only pure thing worth protecting in a family composed of selfish beasts of their own making. That will start tomorrow night, though, because after watching this pre– Red Tide finale, “Gaslight,” we’ve got some dark hours ahead of us before any manner of peaceful slumber. But, much like our collective begrudging acceptance of a post– Freak Show Jessica Lange–shaped hole in the show, we can decide to choke this down as a necessary evil to advance things along if it will help us sleep better at night. And still, as exciting as it is to experience aįully revitalized show that weaves together baby nibbling, bitchy child vamps, frequent karaoke, and Sarah Paulson with full Tourette’s, it’s a slight bummer to see something of this caliber miss an opportunity to avoid yet another “mom’s nuts” scenario. I have profoundly and enthusiastically sung the praises of American Horror Story since Murder House first aired in 2011, but somewhere between Hotel (2016) and 1984 (2019), the series’s full potential must have lost its grip just enough that this season, especially this episode, crept up to sucker punch me flat on my ass.
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